An Easter Story

Matthew 27

Now upon sunrise on the Sabbath, two days hereafter the crucifixion of Jesus of Galilee, did his apostles meet in the temple to discuss all they had seen. And there did Peter tell the apostles of the events on Calvary saying He has been sacrificed. With mine eyes I have seen Him mocked and hanging. This has been done by sinful men. Nails through his hands and feet and atop His divine head, a crown of thorns. And lies he now in a sepulchre, cold and without company. Peter then did wail and beat his chest, and did lament the great pain of His Lord.

And so did the apostles gather unto him, and Andrew, one among them, did depart from the crowd to console Peter, saying Jellybean? And when Peter had taken the colorful bean, and had saw that it was strawberry, he spoke quickly and with great joy, saying Lo! These are delicious. Reveal unto me where you hath discovered them, so that I might go and partake of handfuls many.

And Andrew said unto Peter, Come, for in my great wisdom I have hidden such beans aplenty in eggs of every color, and if ye seek them, you shall be rewarded on earth and in Heaven with untold treats of every size and flavor. Then Peter went away from them, believing he hath seen one such egg atop the temple doorjam.

So sayeth the Lord.

A Day In The Life Of An NPR Junkie

6:00AM: Woke up in a cold sweat. Dreamt last night I was listening to Diane Rehm interview Madeleine Albright regarding her inaction on Rwanda. It was so vivid I could almost smell the organic whole-leaf white tea they were drinking--but in the cruel light of day, I realize no such interview exists. My soul fills with emptiness.

8:00AM: Only two hours later, and I have already bought two This American Life episodes and a Talk of the Nation from my local online dealer. If I’m lucky, this will get me to lunch. I think back to the days when I could wait an entire week in between doses of TAL, the days before I discovered the downloadable archives on Audible.com... Now I’m nothing but another well-informed addict with a $2.45-a-day habit.

8:02:AM: My whole body’s on fire with the need for compelling stories from ordinary people that have been organized by theme. DOWNLOAD FASTER, YOU PIECES OF SHIT.

8:03AM: Ira Glass’ soothing voice hits my ears. I lie down and go into a deep trance. The $0.67 was totally worth it. This anecdote about the trials of raising an autistic teenager is some good shit.

9:00AM: Arrive at work an hour early. Couldn't wait any longer for that sweet, sweet transit listening.

12:00PM: Tried to talk to my roommate about this totally insane All Things Considered, but she just couldn’t understand. No one can.

1:15PM: I listen to three quick NPR shuffle podcasts before realizing I haven’t showered in four days.

2:30PM: Morning Edition, Fresh Air, News and Notes… I was going to save them for the weekend, but I’ve got a good upper-middle-class, self-congratulatory liberal buzz going on and there’s no stopping now.

11:30PM: The last nine hours are a blur. Woke up covered in piss and emboldened with a new-found passion for under-funded refugee programs in Eastern Europe. I can’t keep going like this. I’ve got to stop altogether, for my own good. And I will... right after this piece on rebuilding New Orleans’ shattered justice system.

Things I Will Never Have To Say To The Dog I Will Soon Buy

“I know you say you love me, but I’ve been noticing you pulling away recently.”


“I think it’s time we moved in together.”


“Have you fallen out off love with me?”


“You seemed stressed out. Why won’t you talk to me about it?”


“I don’t want you to act happy to see me. I want you to be happy to see me.”


“I feel like we’re not emotionally connecting anymore.”


“Why do you keep hurting me when all I want to do is love you?”

What's The Deal With Therapists? Am I Right?

I've decided to go to a therapist. I know this must come as a huge shock, being that I live in New York, am in my twenties, and have decided to make a career out of making people laugh at my expense--and yet, it is true.

I sort of feel dirty trying to find one, however. It's like seeking out a prostitute: you need one, but it's not like you can ask your friends for a referral.

Going to a therapist is like seeing a prostitute in many ways, I guess. At least, it's the kind of prostitution that, as a woman, I can get on board with. It’s like paying someone to be your friend, but you get all the best parts of the friendship, and none of the hassle. I am, at this moment, salivating over the idea that I can walk into a room, immediately start bitching about my problems, have someone who not only listens intently without speaking, but gives me good advice and doesn’t judge me for anything I say, and then when I’m done, I can just stand up and walk away. I don’t even have to care if they have any problems they want to tell me about. (I’m not paying you to speak, toots.)

I mentioned this very thought to my roommate, who reminded me that therapists can’t totally replace friends, because you can’t call them up whenever you want or run into them just walking around.

Which is why it is my plan to begin seeing so many therapists in Manhattan that I end up bumping into them on the street, so that—after the appropriate “What a surprise!” pleasanty—I can launch into a full-scale discussion of my Daddy issues.

I think the neuroses in this blog post alone could constitute my first four sessions.