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I wake up bleary and miserable, damp with sweat and other fluids. I send up a silent prayer of thanks that we throw all our sheets down the same chute each week and so no one knows whose bed linens are whose. For now I scrub them as best as I can and then clean myself up for vigils. Despite whatever emitted from me nocturnally, my body is aching for s*x in a way I haven’t felt in years, and I feel nearly fevered with it. All of my thoughts are of things hot and slick and firm, and I’m so f*****g tired, and it’s f*****g raining and so by the time I’m stumbling into the church to the toll of the bell, I’m all wet too.
There’s supposed to be a psalm for everything, but there is no psalm for this, there’s no proverb. A jeremiad maybe, but we’re not reading Jeremiah right now, we’re i
