An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)

The person sitting in front of me—this person who is enjoying a luke-warm cup of Earl Grey (with a generous squirt of honey, but passing on the lemon wedge), while our barista sets down a marbled sliced of cheesecake—isn’t what I imagined. Though, I can’t say what I imagined. Or who, for that matter.

“Expecting a long, wisely old beard and a toga?” the person asks, reading my mind. It takes some getting used to, I admit. However, it isn’t very long before this person—what gender pronoun can I even use here?—continues, “Neither and both. Considering the consensus of the religiously”—air quotes—“astute in this country, you may call me him. But no capital ‘H.’ I hate that shit.”

After a sip of his tea, he adds, “Call me God, Logos, or Prometheus. Any name will do, actually. Given the opportunity, which I’ve had several times in the past, I’d call myself Lloyd. Can you imagine that, though? Going to church—if you went to church that is—and reciting, ‘All praise be to Lloyd, who all things obey?’”

Lloyd, God, Logos, Prometheus stands no taller than five-six in platform boots. His frame is feminine and thin, with slight muscular undertones which is visible beneath the skin-tight, long sleeve shirt he wears underneath a blazer. He is garbed in black with facial piercings, resembling a person who listens to the lyrical genius of Dani Filth than Amy Grant. He takes a ginger forkful of the marbled cheesecake in front of him, and makes a face when the taste registers on his tongue.

“The things you people put into your bodies,” he says taking a drink. “I’m sure Luci is going to get the rap for this one, as well.”

“Who?” I ask.

“As in Fer. Lucifer,” he laughs. “Satan. The Morning Star.”

“So he’s real, too?”

“Oh, you’d better believe he’s real, too.” He stink-eyes the cheesecake, makes a move for it, before retracting back into the lean of the sofa chair he occupies. “He’s not too bad,” he continues, “Satan. Gets a bad rap for what’s written in the second half of that book. He’s a pussy cat, really.”

“So original sin, Job, and all the end times?”

“I’ll give you Job, but he was only doing what I hired him for,” he answers. “When I found ol’ Luci, he was stuck in some middle management job over the Betelgeuse sector…” He pauses and looks me over, smirking. “Yes, Heaven is all encompassing the entire universe, not just the earth as some of you”—air quotes—“astute religious leaders believe. When I designed the big bang, I had this plan to spread out as far as possible and create as much as possible, but I couldn’t be everywhere—yeah, I said it—so I started up a franchise and hired a bunch of angels to do my bidding in the other sectors.”

“So is ours the center of the universe?”

“Of course, not. We’ll get there shortly, however,” he takes a drink of his Earl Grey and makes for the marbled cheesecake once again. After a grimace and forced swallow, he opines, “That’s me awful.” Continue reading “An Interview with God (A Rough Draft)”


“The automatic gauze of your memories”

by: Evita

“I’ve made you get the pass list for a reason,” I tell him. “The balls in your court. It’s up to you how you play it.” The whole time I’m thinking how the fuck I got myself into this mess…again. Didn’t I learn never to take anyone under my wing?

Of course, I’m half telling the truth. My main reason for having him get the pass list is sheer laziness. I couldn’t care less if he ever gets the nerve to speak to S. Still, I think he has some redeeming qualities. Until…


“I used to beat up guys like him in high school,” he tells me. I gauge whether he’s telling me what I want to hear, as if every “straight” guy hates his homosexual counterpart. Unfortunately for him, I’m far from a straight guy. So far that there is no label for me…except the one thrust upon me.

He’s speaking about R, one of the bartenders. A few days ago, he stood around, speaking with R when things turn to the topic romance – I’m not sure, I wasn’t there. He asked, “So what are you into, man?” to which R replies, “You just answered yourself.” What follows – and this is only speculation – is the graphic details of R’s homosexuality.

Now, it’s no big secret that R’s gay. For some odd reason, my unfortunate sidekick didn’t know. “What did you want? A neon sign?” I ask him when he confides in me. “R’s as gay as they come.”

“I thought I had a new friend,” he tells me.

“Why can’t you be friends with him?”

“What if girls think the wrong thing?”

“You’re gonna be friends with him, not make out with him.”

M, who’d been a silent participant in my misery, speaks up, “I had a couple of gay friends. There’s nothing wrong.”

“I had a couple myself,” I say. “They all went away. I don’t blame them. If I were gay, I’d leave this place, too.”

Later, he asks, “I wonder if [R’s] an embarrassment to his family?”


“Because they had a boy.”

“Well, they still have a boy.” After a beat, “You really have to lose this backward ideology, my friend. Girls love gay guys. And those who don’t, well, I don’t know how to help you talk to them because they’re vapid bitches and I don’t deal with vapid bitches.”

“I have a cousin who likes both things,” he says – I suppose to his defense. “And you know what I mean by both things.”

“Yes,” I sigh. “I do.”


I don’t partake in it. Hetero, Homo, Bi and Pansexuals all disturb me to no limit. The latter blurring the line between genders – “Genders are for fags,” as one Tumblr-ite said it. But what’s in a label? Nothing but shit, really. Sexual orientations are for suckers, I say.

Reminiscent of something else

We’re not going through this tunnel together without coming stronger on the other side. We can fight or we can take flight. The adrenaline will kick in. The pain of our former selves will fade. Now, take my hand and jump.

Even after all this

“I don’t believe in sexuality,” I tell him and I let him take that to mean whatever he wants. I don’t tell him the years of ridicule. The bullying. The name calling. The self-hatred of being different from the majority. I want to punch him. I want to smack this guy down and give up on everything. There is no hope for a man stuck in his boyish ways.

I want to add, “I think being an embarrassment to yourself by hiding who you are is much worse than being an embarrassment to your family.” I want to tell him there’s nothing wrong about being gay. I want to reeducate him. It’s just not worth my time.


There is a statement that goes here. It’s meant for you to tread upon. For you to find your way into my heart. Into my past.

Uniquely perfect

Why do we love each other so much? Because we complete each other.