"God fucking dammit!” I screamed, as the ice cold water from the shower head streamed down my back. “They used up all the hot water again,” I muttered to myself. “God fucking dammit, God. Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

As I sauntered back down the hall to my room, my pinky toe caught on a hole in the carpet, and I slammed head first into the floor, leaving a trail of red, raw rug burn down the side of my right cheek. I rolled over onto my back, stroking my cheek and staring up at the peeling paint on my apartment’s ceiling.

“Why can’t you just let something go right, God?” I pleaded. “God dammit, I’ll do anything.”

I would do anything, too. Nothing in my life has been going well as of late, and these little obstacles in my morning routine aren’t helping my morale. Is it too hard to have a morning with hot water, but without the rug burn? Apparently.

“God dammit, God. Why do you hate me?”

The tears began to fall and I felt my throat start to close up. My face went numb. “Jesus! Not a panic attack, not now. I do not have time,” I thought as I tried to calm myself. I choked back my tears and thought of all the shit, yes shit, that had gone wrong in the past month or so. Death, dying, more dying. Three people—three family members, close family members—all gone in one month. I’m only 17, I’m a senior in high school, I’m supposed to be out living my life, but I’m not. I’m on the floor of my family’s apartment asking God why he hates me so much.

“Dammit God, why do you hate me so much? Do you want me to stay in my bed forever because I’m too scared of what will happen to me if I join the outside world? I mean, really God, Jesus! If I can give myself hypothermia and rug burn all in the same morning, why, why, would I ever want to get out of bed again? Jesus Christ, God, why do you hate me so much? What did I ever do to you? Please, just leave me alone!”

A wise man named Mick Jagger once said, “You can’t always get what you want.” Why can’t I ever get what I want? I started screaming.

“You hear that God? Why can’t I ever get what I want? All you ever do is take from me. Take my family, take my friends, take my hot water, and take the skin off my face. God dammit. When are you going to start giving? Something has got to give, because I can’t handle this anymore!”

God is on my shit list indefinitely…or until He starts turning things around. He took three of my closest family members. He, somehow, made my best friend hate me, He gave me an anxiety disorder, self-esteem issues, and He made my number one college reject me. Until God gets His shit together, I am going to lie on this floor so that He can’t do anything else to ruin my life. Jesus, how much more of this am I supposed to be able to take?

“Dammit, God, I need help, don’t you see?” I beseeched. “You are supposed to help me, and love me, but Jesus, you suck at your job! I know there are starving kids in Africa and the war-torn Middle East, but what about me? I need your help, too!”

Just then my younger sister walked out of her room. I had forgotten she was home. I almost felt bad about making so much noise. She stared at me with judging eyes as I slowly curled myself into fetal position. She lightly kicked my shin so I would look her in the eye.

“You don’t need help,” she said. “You need hope…and faith. God only helps people who help themselves, so get your ass off the floor and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

There’s so much wisdom in children before they hit puberty, before their lives start to suck. She turned around and headed down the hall towards the kitchen.

“Jesus, Emma! You don’t know the first thing about what it’s like when you’re on the brink of adulthood and nothing, I repeat, nothing, will work out!” I yell after her.

“God, Molly, get over it. Stuff happens, but it doesn’t have to ruin you. It won’t unless you let it, and guess what, you’re letting it,” she yells over the clink of her Cheerios hitting the bottom of her cereal bowl.

I sigh and look back up at the ceiling. She’s 12, what does she know? Nothing. That’s what.

Then, suddenly, I replayed the last 20 minutes in my head—everything that had happened, and everything that I had said.

“Damn,” I said. “I’m kind of a bitch to God, no wonder he hates me.”

“You said it, not me,” Emma yelled down the hall with her mouth full of cereal.

I stared back at the ceiling—thinking. What do I do now? I rolled onto my stomach, and then lifted my torso so I was on my knees. Without taking my eyes off the ceiling, I said:

“Jesus, God. I’m sorry. But what do you expect from me? I’m only a kid. I guess I’ll just let you do your job, and let it be. I suppose I could have hope, or maybe even faith, but do you promise to let up on me a little bit? Please? Just a tiny favor while I try to have faith?”

“That’s better,” my sister mumbles into her cereal from the kitchen.

“God fucking dammitt, Emma!” I yelled. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Jesus!” she said, “I was trying to help.”