Every weekday morning the sound of Jimi Hendrix’ “Manic Depression” can be heard emanating from my nightstand. When the song begins to play I know that it is six a.m., and it is time to face a long day. I grudgingly get out of bed, and shut off my Jimi Hendrix alarm. I make my way over to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of coffee just before I take a shower. After my five-minute shower I turn on the television to catch a bit of the local news and traffic. I grab some clothes (usually off the floor) and quickly dress. I make my two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, put them in a Ziploc bag and place the sandwiches in a brown paper bag. I pour my coffee into my travel mug, and I get all giddy thinking about the first sip. After all this, I still have five minutes to spare before I head out and make the twenty-minute drive to work. I like to drive slow to work. I don’t believe there is any point to rushing to a place that I hate. I spare my fast-driving skills on the ride back home.
It’s all about personal choices. I choose to wake up and do all the other things not because I want to do it. I do it because I have to do it. We all need to survive. I need to survive, and the way I carry out this is to occupy myself for eight hours a day–five days a week–working for money. The money that I earn goes towards paying for the creäture comforts that I enjoy. The creäture comforts such as cable television, an iPhone, gas, electric, a car, food and an apartment. Sure, there are other ways to live. But I like the way I live. Any extra money that I earn from working left after paying the bills is mine. I am free to do whatever I want with it.
In all of my 39 years of life I have never once had God tell me what to do. He never told me to sleep in. He never told me to call in sick. He never told me to leave five minutes early because I will be involved in a deadly car accident. He never told me what numbers to play in the lottery. He never told me what socks to wear. He never told me to stay away from some of the women I dated. He never told me that I was good. He never told me that I was smart. When I was unemployed for five months he never told me everything was going to be alright. I had to get up each and every morning and force myself to stay positive. I had to get up each and every morning and apply to at least twenty jobs hoping to get one call for an interview. When that call came he never told me what to say to get the job. I had to spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror rehearsing what I would say. I had to dig deep into my past experiences to expect possible questions.
God is not the boss of me. Besides, I read the Bible and that guy was brutal…going around killing people in some really, really, really big flood. That’s not someone I want to hang around with. He’s a big meanie. Then again, that would explain why Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Keith Moon, Jon Bonham, Stevie Ray Vaughn and Kurt Cobain are all dead while the whole cast of MTV’s “Jersey Shore” are all still alive. I guess God wants free music lessons. Maybe he is forming a rock and roll super-group.
But if there really is a God you think you can manage to slip a couple bologna sandwiches in my lunch for me? I’m really sick of eating peanut butter and jelly everyday.