does that imply a physical location of a heaven containing physical basketballs?”
“Who makes the basketballs in question? Are there less fortunate souls in heaven who work in a celestial basketball factory so that I can play?”
“Or did an omnipotent God create the basketballs out of the vacuum of space?”
“Is this heaven in some kind of unobservable universe where the laws of physics don’t apply,
and if so, why in the hell would I be playing basketball when I could be flying
or reading or looking at beautiful people or something else I actually enjoy?”
It’s almost as if the way you imagine my dead self says more about you than it says about either the person I was or the whatever I am now.”
His parents called around noon to say the funeral would be in five days, on Saturday.
I pictured a church packed with people who thought he liked basketball, and I wanted to puke,
but I knew I had to go, since I was speaking and everything.
When I hung up, I went back to reading his wall: “Just heard that Gus Waters died after a lengthy battle with cancer.
Rest in peace, buddy.” I knew these people were genuinely sad, and that I wasn’t really mad at them.
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