How do you know if you have an alcoholic head?

Well, it might sound something like this:

Dear Lord, it’s me Nina.  Just trying to carry the vision of your will for me into all my affairs.  How may I serve you? By doing the dishes? Again?  I’m so glad my life was spared the torture of alcoholism so that I could have dish pan hands at 5:30 in the morning.

Bless the children…even the ones that slept over this past weekend and destroyed my living room. I have yet to get the silly string out of the dog’s fur, but whatever…she’s old and she’ll probably die soon anyway. Not that I want that Lord.

I guess I’ll head out and go to the spa again to rub schmutz all over rich women’s faces. You have provided no better job despite my enormous talent and genetic disposition for success. I realize you are ‘all-knowing’ but I have tell you, you’re really screwing this up!

Can Chris Hayes from MSNBC give Rachel Maddow her whole Ellen Degeneris meets 21 Jumpstreet look back?  It works so much better on her, and frankly Lord (forgive me for saying it) she’s a better journalist. Aha! I have found gratitude this morning…for quasi decent journalism, and of course, for John Stewart Lord. Thank you for making some of us funny. Why couldn’t I be funny Lord?  Why do I have to be the serious one?

Can anyone save Netflix from Reed Hastings at this point?  Maybe you can, Lord…if you’re not too busy watching over the agricultural scientists responsible for guarding our food supply from invasive species coming across the border (and no, I’m not talking about the immigrants)  They’re so busy being reassigned to Homeland Security that the cantaloupe have contracted Listeria, whatever that is.  Something germified that kills you.

First I ate everything, and then I had to eat everything organic. Now it’s not enough to eat organic, it has to be locally grown and have lived in a state of bliss before being eaten. As if food from the god-damned Garden of Eden is even available in Texas.  I haven’t seen bacon in 27 weeks. I’m ready to shoot a pig myself for Sunday morning breakfast the way it used to be. Help me continue to love your creatures Lord, large and small, and treat them the way you would want them treated. And bless the Dalai Lama, he continues to carry the message.

By the way, I’m not sure the agri-scientists or homeland security have noticed, but Bin Laden is dead. It would have been easier to import the Listeria-laden cantaloupes to Pakistan years ago.  I have sick thoughts and I’m off track. Why do I have such sick thoughts?

If I wasn’t an alcoholic, I would drink every day, but it wouldn’t help with the resentment I have against John Huntsman’s hair. Forgive me.  I’m petty, shallow, obsessively critical. I’ve offered these defects hundreds of times in my 6 & 7…hello? Are you even really there?

I owe a 9…my gravy is lumpy as my sponsor would say. Where is my spiritual blender in this time of need?

Be with JM today as he heads off to campus for a day of intellectually stimulating conversation about the world’s ailments. When the TA is hot and young and blonde may he remember the wife who served him coffee in bed and picked up his boxer shorts off the floor. Fear, mistrust and suspicion. Jealousy, envy and lust (why was I not born blonde?  I’m not fun enough to be blonde?)

Protect us Lord, and protect our children, from Wall Street, the President, the indecision of our now ‘SuperCongress’, and Joe the Plumber (You may not have heard yet…he’s running for office.)

It’s Wednesday, and I feel like shit.  A shower and a cup of coffee might help as well as a few extra hours of sleep and a visit with a friend. Give me the good sense and the discipline to take care of myself this week. That of course will require you removing my penchant for being a martyr. Help the gay people in their global fight to live and love like the rest of us. You of all people know that if someone is willing to spend the rest of their life with another person, the world ‘oughta get out of their way.

One day at a time, each one reach one, and keep it simple.


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