The day he told me I wanted to pray for him. Wanted to call up God, arrange a meeting, and plead my case. He'd say, "I'll do my best, but I make no promises." Then I'd pound my fist on God's table and say, "Look, Buddy. He's my oldest friend and I don't have many." He'd have no choice but to intervene and fix shit.
Except I don't pray. Not even a little. I don't understand atheists who are proud of their lack of faith. It's awful. I could really use God right now. I could use some help or peace of mind. But I got none. It's just me and him and brain shit and two thousands miles of uncaring space in between. There's nothing romantic about being an atheist.
Instead of praying, I say, "I'll keep my fingers crossed." I doubt it helps. I imagine praying and crossing your fingers have roughly the same effect on brain ailments. The philosophical among you are shouting, "A brutal truth is preferable to a comforting lie," but it doesn't help me sleep.