To God

Dear God (or Fate, or Vishnu, or The Holy Whateverinator),
I'd like to say thanks. I ask, and boy do you deliver! Sure, the package isn't appropriate nor is the time, place, or price of postage, but that's all a technicality to you, isn't it? I mean really. Who writes this stuff? I could churn out a better soap opera in a coma with half my head missing. The good half too! In the future, I'd like you to leave me out of afterschool specials, dramas, and generally anything of a negative consistency altogether. It's comedies or bust from here on out Mister! I mean, you're not even paying me for syndication, much less the original role. It's rude and bad business. You Sir, are an A-Grade JERK! J-E-R-Q-W! JERK! And it's that I'm bitter. I'm actually feeling rather better. I'm just a tad tee-ed that you saw fit to fill my Senior year with irony instead of jolly, good, intoxicated fun like everyone else. Except Ellen, she only gets college applications. But everybody else gets better! Alright, I know, I know, I've got it good. I ought to be thankful I have it this good. It could be worse to a much larger degree than I can imagine. But I can still complain, can't I? Yes, I can. For I am and I have yet to be smitten. So, to sum things up, when I ask for something either deliver it specifically to my expectations or don't at all. And if you do, let me get some compensation. $$$, fame, power, influence, the betterment of all mankind even. Something. Thank you for your time.
-Dylan

(Ok, I was tired of being serious and needed some irreverence at the expense of Your Lord and Creator. Always keep sight of the humor throughout the drama. Even if there's none to be seen.)