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A Man-Shaped Man

I’m in love with a man I’ve never met. You might think, ‘Well, that’s how the internet can work out.’ I have never spoken to this young man directly, unfortunately. I say young, but he’s not that young. A real youth might call him old, really. He’s perfect, is what he is.

I must first explain that perfection is a myth. There is no such thing and to stretch toward it is to torture one’s self. It’s a narcissist’s contraption to tell everyone, even themselves, that they aren’t good enough. It’s inhuman. The only thing perfect is nature itself. Not even God is perfect; he told me that once.

How else can you explain transgender individuals? Their biological body does not match their gender. It’s a goof up, he says, and he’s really very sorry that each and every one of you go through hell trying to figure out who you really are. That’s what you get for being a Nazi in a former lifetime. Be a very bad boy or girl and you strike out next rebirth. Them’s the rules.

Don’t like it? Be a good person. That’s it. It’s the way you avoid that sort of pain. You might wonder if Adolf Hitler is amongst them, but no. He’s got his own special enlightenment plan. It involves monkeys and cages and then God stops telling me details because I’ll cry for the monkeys. Even if they were Adolf Hitler and his cohorts in a former lifetime. They’re still monkeys.

I’m still learning about all this God stuff, but he says it’s simple: there’s a waiting room to get in (to Heaven/Source) and a waiting room to get out (to Earth/creation). It’s a revolving door, essentially, and we come and go (in a queue) as we please. I do not walk through that door very often, apparently.

I tend to stay in Source and keep everyone company. It’s a whole lot easier without a body to tend to. Of course, I don’t remember any of this myself. I’m sorry to tell an old friend who thinks they met me a century ago: that wasn’t me. It was my twin. Jesus Christ is his most popular name. The name you’d know him by, thanks to that book.

I read your Bible thingy last year. Or I tried to. I have to say, I got bored. I doubt it has been translated correctly since in Exodus alone, Moses’ father-in-law is named both Reuel and Jethro. I’d say it’s time to get someone to do it again. From scratch. Someone who has never read the existing atrocity you call a book of faith. A scientist that knows Hebrew. Someone who is an atheist. That’s God’s recommendation, anyway.

Anyway, now that’s all out of the way. I’m in love. With a man that God has recommended to me and channeled the personality of to me. We laugh all the time, especially over silly things I say randomly. It’s taking time to tease him out of his shell; he’s a shy man, you see. And he doesn’t believe that I’m real.

I’m the one on a spirit quest, striking forth blindly in the dark, and I’m the one who isn’t real, y’all! Let’s not talk about the fact that I’ve laid everything I am on the line. It wasn’t just for love, though. It was to regain my health. To heal myself. Maybe I’m just crazy. Regardless, allow me to describe this person I’ve been led to believe exists and is my future husband.

I’m going to call him Jax. I don’t know his actual name. It’s a name I’ve never heard before, so I can’t know it. I could look it up online, but what’s the fun in that? I want to hear it from him first, to be honest. It’s not an common everyday name if it’s not a name I’ve heard before.

He’s mild-mannered. He’s humble. He works in a deli. He has a lisp. And he laughs unfettered with the heaviness of all reality. He covers his face sometimes in surprise at what I say, or that’s the impression God gives me as we talk from day to day. God pretends the young man is a telepath and that’s how we speak to each other. Except I know now that he is not as aware of me as I am of him.

It’s a shame, too. I’m tired of waiting like some princess in a castle. I live in a drafty castle, I’ll tell you that right now. Also I make a terrible princess. I don’t even paint my nails most of the time. In fact, my man isn’t a big fan of that, it sounds like, so it’s serendipitous.

Of course, how can I know the man I’m in love with if I’ve never met him? Good question. I guess I don’t. He’ll have to prove himself to me, won’t he? I am a cat at a mouse hole.


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