Healing Machine for Amy
For the regret of wasting your adolescence on a god you now know doesn’t exist.
It looks like a Magic 8 Ball, but the only question it knows how to answer is whether or not something is God.
You start simple. “The Christian God?” you ask, and shake the black globe.
“NOT GOD,” it says.
You go through all the other major religions. “NOT GOD. NOT GOD. NOT GOD.”
You try some other stuff: “My big toe.”
“GOD.”
“The smell of gumbo cooking.”
“GOD.”
“Alligators.”
“GOD.”
“All the stupid shit I used to do when I was younger to be a good Christian.”
The machine is confused. “GOD,” it says, then flips to “NOT GOD,” and back to God again, settling there.
“Okay,” you say, “what about God, plain and simple.”
“NOT GOD,” says the machine.
“What about the anxiety that I will suddenly get a paper cut on my eyeball.”
“GOD,” says the machine.
“What about the shame of being unmotivated to better myself.”
“GOD.”
"The fear of realizing, too late, that I’m doing it all wrong.”
“GOD."
“Dancing.”
“GOD.”
“The Grand Canyon.”
The answer screen flips over, as if the machine is rolling its eyes. “GOD,” it says.
You’re sick of its sass. You throw the black globe at the wall in frustration, expecting it to bounce. Instead, it shatters into a million pieces like glitter, its black shine splitting into every color on the spectrum. You run the vacuum over the stupid thing, sucking up everything but the one piece that doesn’t fit.
“This shit is pointless,” you say.
“GOD,” it replies.