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Dear 175-pound, carpenter god-God, Afro-pick-utilizing, banned-from-the-USA Jesus,

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I’m tired. My feet are weary even though you’ve allegedly been carrying me whenever I go to the beach. Though, I’m saying, they don’t look like Birkenstocks in the sand, is all I’m saying.

Royal heathen Kevin Gates is not tired despite having six jobs, but I’ll bet that not one of those jobs is watching CNN or keeping up with national politics, Father God. For if it were, he’d be tired, too. Downright droopy, even.

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Lord, every day is a new thing to protest. Send the saints gift cards for New Balance shoes, Jesus, because folks are going to spend a lot of time standing around yelling. Jesus, be a lozenge for justice for all those individuals who protest one cause, only to look at their smartphones and have to walk somewhere else to protest another. Spritely spirit, it’s been not even two entire weeks, and Lucifer’s trumpeter has created an atmosphere of unrest and disruption, Lord.

I can’t take it no more. The more I watch CNN, the less I want to watch CNN and the more I long for a kitten meme. When I wake up in the morning, taking those precious breaths that you bestow upon my soul and body, Father God, the first thing that I do is open my news app to see what shenanigans may have been committed in the six hours that I slumbered and dreamed of a time when the free world wasn’t being guided by an idiot. Precious Lord, it’s not that I won’t stop, it’s that I can’t stop looking at and reading news to find out just how far into a death spiral this country is heading.

And singular deity of the soul, how are these news sites able to crank out the same story 100 times, forcing me to read for a new angle? There is a negative-information overload, and for some reason, I think that people who can reason are the only ones reading and giving any of the cares, Lord. I turn to Fox News and they’re all smiling and laughing. They’re happy, Lord. How is there so much jubilation, happiness and smiles in your kingdom while at the same doggone time there ain’t nann smile to be found on news channels where folks of color and minorities dwell?

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And another thing, Carpenter Jesus: Can we get a moratorium on Sean Spicer? I can’t stand the man, personally (your father ain’t done with me yet), since he aligned himself with evil. Without any of the conviction of Tupac, he steps out into the crowd and does the worst job of defending the worst nonsense of all time. He’s traipsing outta the house of lies on top of a house of cards, day in and day out. It would be one thing if you could tell he believed in what he was saying, but he clearly does not, Lord. Delivert him. Delivert him.

You know what else is exhausting, Jesus? These folks with unpopular opinions that nobody asked for feeling persecuted for sharing that unpopular opinion that nobody asked for. If you have an unpopular opinion that nobody asked for, it is OK to keep that mess to yourself. Lord, emblazon that scion call atop the forehead of every suffered fool running amok on your plush greens. We don’t care. Stop sharing. Sharing is not always caring, Father.

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Jesus, be a pillow and comforter for the souls of the weary who are out here trying their best to be involved in the process while feeling like the entire process is straight basura. I’ve never paid this much attention to the Cabinet of a president before, Lord, but I also never felt like a Cabinet might somehow come up with an excuse to send everybody who isn’t blond and blue-eyed back to their country of origin.

’Cept, I ain’t got no country of origin, Father God. I haven’t done my ancestry thing yet, and unless the government is going to fund it, I probably won’t. Plus, I don’t trust those things, Jesus. I just don’t. Something seems spicious. You telling me that you can tell me exactly where I came from? How can you prove something that I can’t really dispute, Jesus? Riddle me that, Batman. See, Lord, they got me worried about getting deported to ... to ... I don’t know where, but somewheres.

You know what else tires me out, Jesus? Looking in the faces of people I know voted that nincompoop into office and not being able to speak my mind because I need to stay employed. That is tiring beyond measure. If tired was measurable, it would be a whole measuring cup full. A solid 16 ounces. Not 40 ounces of love, just 16 ounces of “Why, why?” Is it human nature? Lord? Can you hear me now? I know you can hear me. I’ve even got evangelical bluetooth in this piece, Father.

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Lord, grant me the serenity to only watch VH1 or Bravo for a little while and center my soul with some ratchetness that doesn’t threaten to catapult the world into World War III. Also, does the president know that Frederick Douglass is dead? For real for real, Jesus, inquiring minds would like to know. Who let him speak for Black History Month anyway? It would be OK if he didn’t say nada.

Lordt. I just can’t take it no more. I just can’t. I need a nap. A nap of salvation. Mine eyes still see the glory, but they’re bloodshot from paying attention to the world being left for my children.

I’m exhausted, Father God. Field Mob was sick of being lonely, and Mystikal was sick and tired of being sick and tired.

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Well, I’m done, Lord. I need a break. Jesus be a break room with Centric so I can watch Moesha. Oh, and thank you for giving Beyoncé some twins. The black coalition thanks you. And also for giving Barack and Michelle some fun in the sun and a dorky hat for Barack to wear during said fun in the sun.

Namaste. Ase.

Amen.