He's out all night with 12 scruffy guys doing God knows what. Shady guys with spittle running down their chins.He won't speak to me until he's had his coffee, but he'll stand out back waving his staff at the sky, arguing with his Father about time management and compartmentalizing.
He's the leader of an entire religion which basically has no written rules which would distinguish it from the family down the block. Speaking of which, I'm getting neighborhood complaints about him not cleaning up after our Great Dane. Plus, early morning when he jogs, his flapping sandals wake up the dead.
When a salesman comes to our door, instead of politely declining whatever product he has, my motormouth savior launches into a twenty minute parable, which usually includes beggars and fruit, about as riveting as watching soap scum accumulate.
I wish someone would invent TV.
We don't communicate anymore. He stares off into space, embraces the goats and sheep, never does the dishes. He licks the plate clean--disgusting. That motley group periodically meet to discuss saving souls, but usually wind up playing cards, drinking wine and peeing on my flowers.
You'd think being the Son of God he'd be able to get the plumber to come.
His hair is attractive. I know he uses conditioner, but that's fine with me. We're still solid in the bedroom, but the sprinkling holy water fetish on me afterwards got old fast.
There's the door. Four hours ago I sent him out for bread and spread. Evidently that whole multiplying loaves and fish event was a one time deal in which he shot his load. We could've saved a bundle on groceries.
Wipe your feet! Did you get the margarine? Don't be waving that staff at me!
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