Drunk Text Message To God

Last night I drunk text messaged God
I just wanted to tell him I’d been thinkin’ about him
A lot
And to tell him I’m stalking a church
I meant to write starting a church
No one spells drunk texts right, anyway
Last night I sent out a buttload of embarrassing texts and then copied them to everyone I know
Like “Yo”
Like “Sup”
I was out sinning
Curled in a bed
The room is spinning
It’s all in my head
I can’t get to sleep
And the weight of the world
Is the weight of my sheets

Here’s the great thing about my church:
You can keep your religion ‘cause my church is for those of us who grew up wishing we believed in an afterlife
And for those of us who were so close to god we could practically lean over and make out with her
My church is sick of bloody crusades to the march of drum corps
I’ll start a church that gets pissed off and starts thumb wars
Maybe a church that gets Mondays off for religion reasons
A church that throws phone parties in elevators to learn about praise
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire
We’ll dance as it burns for 8 magical days
That was a Jewish reference
No offense to Gideon bibles but my church goes into hotel rooms and fills up the drawers with chocolate pillow mints
And my church, if you choose to come to Sunday school, you don’t learn about hell
Hell no
You eat Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert shaped potato chips and watch Chapelle’s show
My church had 10 commandments, 5 precepts, and a workplace abuse handbook but we partied hard last week and I think we left them in a restroom at Chuckie Cheese
Now we just go by a picture of a heart that I found on a bar napkin
My church tongue-kissed your mom last night
Um, I’m just kidding
She left 5 red fingers across my face
We hung out with the creator
I think she loves you
She’s beautiful
She’s got ‘daughter’ tattooed on her left bicep
‘Son’ on her right
My church is at the center of the planet and has the most amazing stained-glass windows
The glass is the floor of the ocean
The colors are where you look up and see blue and a manatee
I love manatees
And the forest canopy
Tony Montana comes to my church and forgets he left his cocaine in the car
We play “Stairway to Heaven” on Hendrix’s broken guitar
My church gets fucked up on communion wine
Asks lamp posts to be our Valentine
My church bar hops together
And my church, if you don’t blow yourself to smitherines, you get 17 virgins in a room to yourself
Or you go and play Starfox together
My church got beat up by the skateboard kids for being a rollerblade kid
But rolled to school the next day on one skate and 2 crutches
True to the fight
With a fist in the air
Screaming “fruit Buddhas unite!”
My church can feel it’s pulse in it’s fingertips
Has 3 stomachs because our fear is hard to swallow
But love always has room
My church has a love bladder and always asks to go to the bathroom

There are drawbacks of course:
My church will not resurrect your dead hamster
My church will not play for keeps
Wear Versace
Give out baby Jesus Tomagachi’s
And Tom Cruise thinks my church sucks balls
I’m not Jesus Christ
But I can turn water into Kool-Aid
And I’m not Jim Jones
But my church is like, totally a cult
And everyone drinks the Kool-Aid
And everyone dies!
But for some people the Kool-Aid doesn’t kick in until you’re 105
Surrounded by everyone who matters most to you
Yes, some of us go early, but at my church you have to think about that possibility
‘Cause my church makes you scared
I’m talkin’ like waves of fear
Like you’re lying awake at night
And you pull the blankets up to your neck
And your covers are like a tsunami of fear
And you start hyperventilating
Thinking about how you’re getting older way faster than your dreams are getting accomplished
About how skinny your arms are
About how fat your tummy is
About how much it’s gonna suck to eventually lose the power to think about all the badass stuff we do at our church
Don’t fall asleep yet
Contrary to popular belief, that’s not where dreams get accomplished
The body of Christ is your body
The body of Buddha be your body
Your body be usable
Your body be suitable
Your body beautiful
You don’t need anything different
Keep your broken cell phones
Don’t delete your text messages
You might read those stupid-ass,
Badly spelled rants over on a Sunday morning…
And have a religious experience.

 —George Watsky


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