Praying to Our Lady of Fifis

This a joke a friend of mine and I have.
Dan Savage refers to your feelings as your "fifis" and since both of us are fairly irreverant and non-religious, we've decided to adopt the good ol' fashioned Catholic system and wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, I have a patron Saint: Our Lady of Fifis.

Unlike our Lady of Eternal Solitude or Endless Sorrows or something, our Lady of Fifis is pretty sassy. She likes to throw feelings at you in the middle of the work day, when you're suposed to be out having a good time, when you change the radio station in your car. She's got something that sets her apart, this not-always-benevolent-mystical-power woman. Sometimes you love 'er, sometimes you loathe 'er. She's a saint, she can take it.

Our Lady of Fifis has not been kind to me of late. She likes to throw me around a bit all the time, but these last two weeks have been more like a dryer on high heat. With, you know, some spikes also in the dryer. With me. Just to stab me. When they can.

So now I find myself with a shockingly typical Sunday night. I had the whole day off, I've gotten a little work done, and I am now looking ahead to the next week and what I need to do to prepare for it. I've done my grocery shopping, I've shaved my legs, I've even cleaned my room. Now I think I just need to take a deep breath and sit quietly for a while. I know that I'll probably be back in the dryer starting tomorrow morning, but tonight I'll just try to sit still.

(And hope that, eventually, she'll elect another poor sinner to pick on.)