God spoke to me in a dream one night. I'd breathed him in through smoke walking past the doorway of a New York bar as two young ladies hotboxed cigarettes, shivering in the winter air. By the time I'd gotten to my apartment, he'd made a comfortable home of my lungs and walked barefoot around the tiles of my brain as I drifted off to sleep. "Neil," he said, "come sit upon my lap." And I did. For, who was I to question God? His legs were stubbly, like he had just shaved them a couple days ago and his rough beard tickled the top of my head every time he spoke. God read to me from a large picture book, his booming voice echoing the words inside my comparably smaller ears. It was the story of my life and it read like bad poetry scribbled on a bathroom wall. I wanted to ask him why, but before I could, he answered, "You try too hard at all the wrong things. You've taken your love and divided it into pieces so small that no one can see it for the gift it is." I couldn't help but agree. But, of course he was right. He was God. "Will it get any better?" I asked. He just kissed me on the cheek and set me down on the ground gently. "Everything happens for a reason," he said. "Your story is hastily written, awkwardly paced, and a little melodramtic. But what I like best about it is the ending. Then again," God said, winking, "I've always been a sucker for the happy ones."