Freddy likes to resist what the world brings. You might think this is thinking in the present moment, but it’s not. He resists everything the world brings – Not necessarily all of the good things but he is never conscious of the good things. Just now, the ripples in the pavement are tearing through his body. He has a nice car, but he is not grateful for that. He could be driving a real wreck without shocks and feel every tiny shrivel and crack in the concrete, but his car is fairly smooth. So it’s not that he notices the immediacy or the currency of the bumps, but he thinks of the idiots who paved the road not more than five years ago and how inadequate their work was. He thinks about taxes and how these government contracts are always huge. Where are the results?

His brain hums with the vibrations as he regrets working. Poor Freddy. The bumper sticker on the maroon, dried-blood Toyota with dents all over says, “Eat, Sleep, Jim,” and he wonders if there was a purposeful misspelling of gym. How gross is that. He wonders if he had a girlfriend one day, would she ride around with a label that said, “Eat, Sleep, Freddy.” He loves that feeling that comes along with the imagination – Imagine being so important to a woman. Impossible. He thinks about an entire life consisting of eat, sleep, and gym, and thinks this is what he deserves. If he robbed a bank, he could get that life for a good 20 years. Minus robbing the bank, who is it who would bring his meals? Surely it would be his girlfriend who rates him right up there with sleeping, but it should be, “Eat, Sleep, Sex with Freddy,” now that is outrageously wrong and cool. Freddy tries to think realistically, tries to think of his present capabilities, and he could do this without a girlfriend – He could sleep under a bridge, beg for food, and go to the park and exercise on the playground equipment. Now that is real, but he would have to give up the comfortable car he is in, with absolutely lovely air conditioning. He would also lose the absolutely asinine grind of these bumps jiggling his brain and making him remember what a loser he is. He wants to do what Dr. Theresa says and just be. Just close his eyes and be, ignoring everything, but he’d wreck the fucking car.

He tried closing his eyes this morning when he woke up and went right to the couch. Like all of his other attempts, he was going to be a meditation star, but a hateful stare from yesterday at the grocery store in the international aisle from the lady with the bizarre flamingo hat flopping around as she picked up her taco sauce made him open his eyes within a second or two, and if you looked at him, you would think someone just stuck him with a cattle prod. So he tried to pray. He tries hard at prayer. Prayer should not be so hard, but Freddy makes it hard. Freddy got on his knees and rested his elbows on his soft leather couch, squeezed his eyes shut and prayed, “Please, God, please, God, please help me, God, please, God help me be a good person, god,” and he remembered that you are not supposed to pray for God’s help because then that would imply that you are not perfect. They tell Freddy that God does not make junk, but his personal history points to a far different conclusion.