God asked me, are you done suffering my boy? I answered no, scraping my foot childishly on the floor, referring to my time constantly, and peculiarly, being stolen from me by greed. My suffering, being of biblical proportions, I expected some sort of praise, but got a sigh in return. I despaired a little more. God left the room [bad word]  pinning a phone number in case of emergencies to the stuffed mammoth. Quoting Einstein, only a life lived for others is a life worth living, as he closed the door behind him with a final remark - you're not Jesus you know. I found it a tad pretentious as I made another nespresso for [bad word] knowing God was in the next room smoking his pipe. I trimmed my beard in a Judea fashion and went on with my business. Who would have thought being [bad word] would involve so much paper-work?