Dear Lord,

Do crabs know they're walking sideways?

Will I ever swim in an infinity pool? Or tap a tambourine rhythmically against my hip while wearing (preferably white patent leather) go-go boots? When will I get "discovered?" Are the answers to the go-go boot/discovery questions related?

Is it a sin to throw out a take-out container that's Too Good To Throw Away? And before I forget, thanks for sauerkraut balls.

Not an action item on your part, but since we’re here and everything … sometimes I feel like my whole house is tilted (or maybe I’m the one that’s tilted).

But, um, Lord? Looking at the New Revelation Baptist here, I am apparently not alone with the tilting house problem.

Why, Lord, does my right underarm perspire more than my left underarm? And if you could get folks to cut down on using the phrase, this becomes especially important as we age, I'd appreciate that (I’m talking in general, not necessarily about the underarm thing). Also, do you have any idea—any idea at all—why I'm supposed to put a bread bag clip in my wallet?

What do you think of this? I put one of those little purple funeral flags on my car and never stop for a red light again. Would that work?

On second thought, never mind.

Are we getting close to the part where the meek inherit the earth? I’m not sure how my status will change when this one finally goes through, but I’d like to stay on top of the issue just the same.

Any possible way we classify Reese’s cups as salad? And how about bringing back Screaming Yellow Zonkers?

Lord, you are obligated to like me even if I’m an atheist because you’re the Lord, right?

Right?

Author sporting inquisitive expression.

Matthew McConaughey? Yes. Steve Bannon? No. Rudy Guiliani? That’s on you. (While I do not understand my designations of “yes,” “no,” and “that’s on you,” I feel they are accurate because sometimes a person just needs to go with their gut instinct. You know what I mean—you are, after all, the Lord.)

Lord, you've got a lot of tight asses down here worrying way too much about their money. I’m talking a lot of tight asses and you might want to do something about that. No rush, but I wouldn't let it go too long if I were you.

Please do not tell anyone about my obsession with men with facial hair, the little problem I had that one night in Fort Lauderdale, or that the weight listed on my driver's license is ... well ... you know.

Dream Whip. Love the stuff. Not sure who to credit though, you or the guy in the red suit with the pitchfork.

Lord, what the hell is martinizing? Will my glasses ever be clean? Where are my slippers? Why is everything stupid?

And you know, Lord, I am still waiting for Godot. Should I just go home?

I’m pretty sure you’ve got that Hefner guy bumbling around in one of your afterlife departments. You don’t need to get involved with the backstory on a granular level, Lord (as if you don’t know it anyway), but just to settle a score, maybe have Hef wriggle into an impossibly tight vintage bunny outfit (complete with the ears, cuffs, pointy heels, fluffy tail and — perhaps most importantly — the name tag on the hip: Hugh).

Then have ol' Hughie scamper off to that Playboy Club in the afterworld where he’ll carry a cork and resin tray laden with tumblers of scotch and serve them à la the infamous "bunny dip" to men who look a whole lot like Harvey Weinstein and Bill O'Reilly. He’ll also need to light any cigars or cigarettes when they motion for him.

I'm not talking eternity or anything crazy like that, Lord. Maybe just a hundred years or so.

Also, if you had me slated for an alien abduction, I suppose now's as good a time as any.

Love, Erin

ps: Nice job on the sunrise.