Dear God:

You have not returned my last few emails to heaven.com. You refuse to answer my calls and keep directing me to call "666" on the landline where I'm placed on hold for hours listening to that creepy tone. I am growing resentful. There are a number of reasons why.
Apparently, you are talking to Tom Cruise and Madonna on a regular basis. It seems You've grown a little star-struck. While I imagine the champagne breakfasts and Yoga with Buddha is relaxing and beneficial for your chakras, I would like to remind You that some of us normal folks could use some help, too.

For example, the other day I could not find a parking spot at the mall and had to park at the sleazy used-car dealership five blocks over. When I returned, laden with packages, four or five salesman had grouped around the car, debating its worth. Someone was kicking the tires.
"Hey!" I yelled. "That's my car!"
I ran down the grassy hill only to trip and slide to a stop on my bum. I did manage to keep the packages aloft.
The salespeople got a chuckle out of this.

Oh, and remember that night in Omaha, God? When it was sleeting and a film of dirty ice had covered an entire Albertson's parking lot? I ran into the store to pick up my Zoloft. I was in a hurry because I had to pee. I ran back out to the car only to witness some guy drag his kid by the legs across the parking lot, the kid's head bouncing off of the freezing asphalt. Remember? And I had to call Child Protective Services? And after all that, I locked my keys in the Bean Machine and wound up peeing in my pants? Yeah. Where were You then?

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate that time when I got to the hospital just in time to have an infected hair follicle removed from my ass before it poisoned and killed me. That was great, and all, but c'mon, God. An ASS hair? Didn't You remember I was 17, and totally embarrassed about my bottom as it was?

And now, my parents are blowing through my inheiritance like ants in a dead cadaver. Can't you PUH-leeze convince them to leave well enough alone? I realize the importance of having knee surgeries, but the matching pair of Rascals? It's just gone too far.

I'm starting to think You made me into the female version of George Costanza. And that's not very funny.