I did very much enjoy. This was two dollars well spent. But now it needs to end. The bard is tired and deserves his rest.

You, you, think you could be god?

There was a certain child.

And

like most children,

he was to choose

an occupation

as quickly

as possible.

He was to develop

at the soonest possible opportunity

a hyper-specific skill

and stick to it the rest of his life.

But the first time a wise elder asked him

“what do you want to be when you grow up?”

He replied,

with all sincerity,

God.

Needless to say, they found this outrageous.

Even absurd.

The little boy was clearly insane.

You can't be God, they said.

That job is already taken.

And the retirement plan is too sweet.

And the job is even sweeter.

Besides the fringe benefits of eternal worship

and almost-universal fear,

you got absolute power and unbridled authority, (unlike those pretenders to the ultimate throne, who were overthrown.)

Apply to be god? Who would interview you?

Would god interview you for the position of god?

Why don't you apply to be John Stamos?

Or Richie Valens?

Why would god give up such a sweet gig

that only he was qualified for? They asked the boy.

I just think I could do a better job. He'd say.

You?

You?

You think you

could do a better job

of being god

than god?

He was selected for the position

for obvious and eternal reasons.

He knew the right people

and did the right things.

He was flashy, but serious.

Merciful, yet brutal.

And you

think you

have the ability

to turn a woman into salt?

Or vauge story into binding, infallible doctrine?

You are small.

You are weak.

Nobody will listen to you.

You can't bench press

or run fast

or catch things.

Your glasses always fall down

and your head scans the ground.

And you,

you,

think you

could be god?

He learned better after that.

He learned much better.

He knew the adults around him

got to their positions

by knowing the truth.

After all, that's why they were adults.

Casino

Vile wretched hole on the river. Why won't you...why won't you...why won't you let me look. Anywhere. At. All. These spinning wheels and spinning screens and spinning lights and spinning me. Around and around like the giant paddle propelling me up an escalator and down another. A minotaur could eat me now. I wouldn't be surprised. But no horror that in-your-face is coming in this place. I see all and nothing at once and the power is overwhelming. I see nothing but the acid glare of the one armed bandit and the elites standing in line for one more pull. Or push. This is 2008. You won't break a physical sweat here.

Abandon all dignity. It's not necessary but it helps.

Around this same floor? Or is it a different one. All I here is the cascading walls of sound. I have never known the hell of autism until I came to this place.

I wish I could look at someone but my attention is missing in action. I wish I could talk to someone but the only conversations involve transactions.

Please, god. I didn't know you were there until I saw your hell. Please, god. Let me breath in this bathroom stall. Faking it is the most real thing here. Let me look at this graffiti until I can be me. Just let me have quiet and focus. Even the most conservative version will do.

But this bathroom. How? How is it just as obnoxious as everything else? The honeycomb floor of this hive jars me as much as anything.

They're bumbling around and I'm bumbling around. Do they know where there going? Is there any amount of order here? Am I following or leading? Leaving or staying?

I found some haven at a slot machine. It's spinning less than everything else. And my eyes become pools on a parking lot. Drying.