Liam is talking about some girl he knows as we sit in the park near his house. It’s some time past whenever and we’re both smashed. In the dark, he’s trying to roll a joint. He’s relying purely on instinct. His mind is elsewhere. On this girl and her beliefs.

“And I couldn’t argue with her. I mean, how cool is that? She knows God exists, that’s enough. Just as sure as she is though, I know that he doesn’t exist. We both live in completely different worlds in the same space. Just by what we know, our realities are morphed. The truth is irrelevant. All that matters to us is what we know. Our perceptions are our universe. And if we know something, it can never be taken away. By anyone.

I’ve been listening and sinking deeper into thought which is the exact opposite of what I intended when I set off emptying a bottle of Vodka and partied with friends. The only reason I tolerate company is because their noise blocks out my mind. I like thinking, but sometimes it gets too much. I drink to escape, just like the cliché angsty teenager type I try to convince myself I’m not.

“Next time you speak to her, ask her if she fins it at all dirty that God can see her at all times.” I say, attempting to lighten the mood.

“What?” Liam replied, fidgeting with the joint. He’s making a mess of it.

“Well, don’t those religious types believe that God can see all?” I ask rhetorically. Drunken and obnoxious, I don’t care how misinformed and ignorant I am about religion. Nothing could deter me from making fun of it now.

“And if they do believe that,” I continue, “doesn’t that make God the worst peeping tom in history?”

“Dude…” is all Liam can muster. As my gaze is fixed on his fingers working in slow motion on our drugs, I imagine he is shaking his head. Poor Liam. Too intelligent for his own good. I’m relatively dumb and I can’t handle the multitude of thoughts that buzz within my head. The pain that clever people must go through likely would make mine seem inconsequential.

“And don’t those types also say that God is inside every one of us?”

“Oh no.” Liam mutters, seeing forward in time to the punch-line which he knows is disgusting.

“Wouldn’t that make him the greatest serial rapist of all time?” I ask and actually want my friend to answer. He doesn’t. The way I can’t be bothered with his intelligence is the same as he feels about my belligerence. Usually I’ll make fun of anything, especially when I’m drunk. Liam isn’t the kind to always enjoy my depraved sense of humour.

And he’s terrible at rolling joints when drunk.

Silently sitting, our minds are probably wandering through completely different worlds. What I’m thinking is that Liam should hurry up and finish. Just so I don’t have to think anymore.