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Pray for the Pure

I went to the bar today, drank two shots, got wasted, and met God. He pulled out a piece of paper akin to a therapy session that I remember from years ago. The difference is, he isn’t insulting me to get results. He actually said nothing. Dead silent as the wind in space. I couldn’t decide whether I should start or sit there staring into his soul or was he staring into mine? I broke down and proceed to plead for forgiveness. He interrupted me, cut me off and resumed the silence. I tried to speak but the glare, like a knife right through my effulgent sins. He could see me; I wish I could. I can only see the reflection I choose to see. I make mine own image, right? I can choose to portray a god, a narcissistic ass with its head in the dirt. Then why do I choose this, the sinner, the broken. Or do I? is there a predestiny to the universe? Far to big concepts for a Tuesday morning. Jokes on me, he kept staring. Staring right through the shield I make, like it never existed. Being “God”, he can do that right? Omnipotence and all that? Can I choose to be omnipotent over my own situation? To answer that I think more shots are in order, but it seems that the bar is dried up. Guess the next drink will be tears of the Pure.