I’d like to start off by thanking you for always being there for me. Even though you’re invisible, intangible and otherwise offer no empirical evidence toward your existence, I’m grateful every day for the hope that you instill deep inside me. It’s hard to get by day-to-day, but I know that as long as you’re there, I can have hope that everything will improve. In spite of all contrary evidence, I know that if I believe hard enough in you, everything will work out for the better.
I’d also like to ask you to watch over those thankless, wretched few who do not know you. Again, I know that though the lack of any evidence indicating your existence is but a small hurdle for a true believer in your Gnome-ness, but apparently, “reacting to the imaginary voices in your head that only you can hear and insist on vocally reiterating” is not socially acceptable behavior. Please, grant me the patience to cooperate with these people, and if it is your will, grant them the ability to accept your Gnome-ness into their hearts.
Actually, while we’re on that subject, let’s talk a little more about those heathens. Can I be completely frank and state that I don’t get how they don’t know you? Like, this should be the easiest thing in the world, as far as I can figure. If they would just open their hearts to you, they’d feel the warmth and comfort of your metaphysical beard. It’s just a little act on their part, and I don’t understand how it’s so difficult. I keep trying to bring you up in conversation and bring people to know you, but they’re all like, “Dude, you’re insane. There’s no gnome,” or “You’re being kinda weird. Why do you keep talking to me about gnomes?”, or even, “It’s three in the morning! If you don’t get off my lawn right now I’m calling the cops!” It’s so hard to be faithful to you when I’m surrounded by people who won’t even open up to the possibility of there being an invisible, all-powerful gnome-man living under the freeway.
Now, I know that you’re an omniscient, all-loving, eldritch abomination, so I won’t be coy; there are certain things about you that scare the ever-loving bejeezus out of me. It is hard for me to get around your vacant, all-seeing gaze which seems to glare with hatred into the very depths of my soul, but I know you mean well. I’m also a bit wigged out at how all the advice you tell me either involves acts of public indecency or petty theft, but I know that you work in mysterious ways. I suppose I just wish that you’d be more direct with me, but I’m in no position to complain, I reckon. Plus, if that’s your will, I guess whatever you says goes, right? Even if it does sound completely reckless or contrary to all good sense.
Anyway, thanks for taking some time out of your busy schedule of plotting world domination through the underground conspiratorial network that is Taco Bell. It really means a lot to me.
Disclaimer: This is a work of satire. Satire. Please don’t hate me.
