a prayer. (you'll like this one because you're in it).

This is all possible.
It is possible that this rather tight knit group of bloggers that has been together for a few months now, that they don’t really exist. That one person is writing all these blogs, downloading and scanning a few pics to make them more realistic. To suggest real human beings, when in fact they are just stolen faces.
It is possible.
That there is no Larry, Melissa, Holly, or Jilleyn. No Radio Humper. No Odd Child No Leva Malone or Kung Pow/Adrain. No JEricMiller. No Cersten or Kriwki Girl.
It is not unequivocally impossible.

It is possible that:
There is some savant kid writing all of this from his parents’ basement.
Or:
One of these bloggers is real, and the inventor of the rest.

Made up people commenting on other made up peoples' made up blogs, having programmed interactions.
It is possible that this little blogger world is the creation of one mind and that mind gods it all.

Maybe it’s Holly or Jilleyn, who know each other like, well, sisters, but maybe one of them or the other, maybe she’s behind it. She’s created all the rest of us, and the other, she doesn’t even know it. She believes in Larry and JEricMiller and Melissa.
Or maybe it IS Melissa, whose blog suffered a martyr’s death but about which we hear whisperings of resurrection. Maybe she’s behind it.
Or maybe it is Larry (notmyrealname) Jones, and all the rest, they are just facets he sees of himself.
Cersten? Kwirki? Odd Child?
Who?

In any case, it can’t be J Eric Miller.
I told you from the start I was made up.
What I want to know is: which one of you did it?
I woke up at five this morning and I want to know who wrote that into my existence. Couldn't you let me sleep?
The truth is, I’m not one hundred percent happy with how you’ve been blogging me.
The truth is, I’d like you to fix some things.
All right? Do I need to say please?
Start with this: make my brain well.
I want an easy mind. And I don’t want to have to go through a lot of work to get there. Don’t write me into counseling. Just fix it. Snap your fingers. Give me an epiphany. Blog it. Type it out.
Ok?
Give me that entry.
Ok?

And I want a soul that’s clean.
I don’t want you to write me through the myth of baptism or something like that. Just do it, wash me. Give me that entry. Type: I know I am good. Blog that for me.
And hurry up with that one, would you?

And add three inches to my height and, say, twenty five pounds to my weight. We’re talking about muscle, here, ok? And don’t make me go to the gym to maintain it. Just freeze me in that body. I’ve got other physical complaints. So what I’m asking, is that you be my surgeon. Can this please be my extreme makeover day, but without all the blood and stuff?
Just write it.
Just blog it.
It’s just a fucking entry. It’s just words. Would you do that?There’s so much I want.
And it is so easy for you.
Whoever you are. That kid in the basement writing me up. Or Radio Humper. Or Leva Malone.
Whoever you are, listen to me.
Please.
I want other things.
Listen.
All right, here’s what I want. I’m going to give you five days from Sunday to fix it.
I want:
I want the Garden.
I want the Eve.
I want the Vegetarian Paradise.
The wolf and the lamb.
My own heart at ease.

Am I asking for much?