Dear God's Helpers (a.k.a. the men in dark suits who keep showing up at my front door),

I realize you have a job to do and it's evidently to salvage the itty bitty soul contained in my tired old body. I know you're dressed in your finest Sunday best and you've worn the best Brut cologne in order to just make my acquaintance. And, I entirely appreciate the fact you put Dippity Doo in your hair and polished your shiny leather shoes with the best Windex had to offer. However, prior to us establishing a sincere relationship, I think there are a few things you should know....

As a day sleeper, I find it exceedingly difficult to entice Mr. Sandman into my lonely bedroom for a quick saucy spin into a comatose state. When you decide to pay me weekly visits and knock loudly at my front door, it's just a tad bit upsetting...as this causes my dogs to bark and then Zeke the rooster to crow his disapproval. My critters are obviously party animals and I guess they just don't find your lack of holiday celebrations and birthday acknowledgments acceptable.

Also, I really fear for your safety as your unannounced visits may coincide with our weekly ritualistic animal sacrifices. Once I have my hooded robe on and my hatchet a goin', it's hard to say who will get the brunt of it and I'd hate to lop off an ear or even a hand. Plus, I'd hate to splatter blood on your nice little suitcases. They look so clean and sparkly.

And finally, while I appreciate your earnest demeanor and the way you refuse to leave my front porch even when you see me through my dining room window scowling, wearing my pajamas and yesterday's make-up - you seriously need to reevaluate your visits. I hate using the f-word in such a loud way but your beady little eyes and joker like grin, peering through my window, freaked me out a tad. My bad.

In conclusion, I think it would be best if we ended our faux relationship and you moved onto someone else who might have an open ear to your deep thoughts on religion and life. I just don't think between the blaring 2 Live Crew music that routinely screams outta my stereo and my children who are normally naked and caked in mud, our budding affair is gonna be too successful.

Please, please, please do not make your weekly visit to my home. Don't knock on my door until the rooster crows and the dogs bark. And certainly, do not peak in my windows as I might be waving, but it will more than likely only be with one angry finger. Do not try to save me or worry for my soul - I know where I'm going and I've packed plenty of sunscreen and marshmallows. I might even send you a fireproof postcard.

With no love or affection,

Sandi the Angry Heathen