On Wretchedness and an odd dream about God

Well, damn it, even my own mother has one of these, so I guess it is about time I get one. Not that anyone should care, but sometimes we have to humor ourselves. I've always kept a miserable diary, no discipline, no discipline, no discipline. I start out well, it's true--long, thoughtful entries of inner searching and discovery--for about three days. If you were only to see the piles of journals and notebooks that have all of ten pages filled out, then you would know what an undisciplined wretch I am. And I'm supposed to be the aspiring writer? So maybe I must just accept that I am a modern nit-wit who is so lost in the age of affluence and technology that I must keep a diary online. It hurts me to say that...it really does. But who knows, most likely my innability to keep a journal is a inpenatrable flaw that cannot be cured, and so I will not be suprised if my own blog site becomes static in a few days.
So what...lets talk about God. Last night I dreamed that God called me up on the telephone and told me he had hit a deer out on 123 and needed me to come down and shoot it and put it out of it's misery. And I said "God, I'm all the way up here in New York, call my parents. They'll come help." So God says, "What you have done unto the least of these, you have done unto me." Well, what can I say to that. So I catch a plane from Albany to Greenville and drive a rental car all the way to the Issaqueena Trail Exit where a green Dodge Ram is pulled over and in the bed there is this dead deer. So then I go to the drivers side, scared out of my mind, because, hey, it isn't every day you get to talk to God. But as I get closer, God looks more and more like my Uncle Tommy (I won't even go into the perfect IRONY there). So here's Uncle Tommy God looking at me and he says "Maura, where's your gun?" and I say, "Where in God's name am I supposed to get a gun?" and he says "Everybody has a gun" and I say "No they don't," and we argue for a while over that, and I'm just saying a little prayer to myself so that he doesn't bring up Palestine, because I hate talking about Palestine with religious nuts. But then I realize that we don't need a gun because the deer is obviously dead already, but just to make sure I go back and check and the truck is piled high with deer carcasses (just like the Roofers' white truck that I once saw carrying dead deer on our street as a child). And then I get into the truck with God who I am absolutely sure is my uncle Tommy and I tell him that he needs to take me to my voice lessons, except I am lying because he's really taking me to therapy because I know that Tommy would disapprove of therapy. And I wake up because I have to go to Film class (which I hate).