That’s why I left my bike in the rack near St. Patrick’s Cathedral and went inside. Even though I’m Jewish and St. Patrick’s has a troubled history with New York’s LGBTQ community, it’s my favorite place in the city, and not just because it’s strategically located between Tiffany’s and Saks, although I do believe that’s a sign of God’s admiration for high-end retail. I love St. Patrick’s because, like me, it’s silly and theatrical, with its spires and buttresses and tapestries, but it’s also the home of so many people’s most deeply felt longings; St. Patrick’s is a form of sumptuously Gothic therapy. I head to St. Patrick’s because it’s inspiring and peaceful, which allows me to talk to God about what I really want my life to be, not as a negotiation, hovering somewhere between prayer and bribery, but as a conversation, as a clearinghouse for my heart.

The cathedral was lightly populated with Swedish backpackers, elderly widows and a handful of scarily tough Jersey housewives, most likely here to confess machine-gunning a rival in a Stop & Shop produce aisle. I sat in a rear pew and scoped out the area for cute priests—it happens, and there’s even a yearly, unauthorized Vatican calendar of the most pious dreamboats. For gay guys in New York, cruising is a formality, like checking your phone, your breath or your coat at a Theater District restaurant. I shut my eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath, as if speaking to God was a classic yoga pose. I quieted my mind to vanquish anxiety and eBay bids and thoughts of how St. Patrick’s could be such a great setting for a murder mystery, a rom-com finale or a blasphemous motorcycle chase.

Dear God, I began, and I didn’t worry if I was talking to myself or if God existed or what religion he favored, or if “he” was even an acceptable pronoun, or if it should be capitalized. I was talking to God because, like so many other people, I needed to, and that need makes God real.

I don’t want to just keep going without a purpose, to work or the apartment or anywhere else. I don’t want to keep my head down and manage my expectations and my 401(k) and call that growing up. I don’t want to only feel safe. I don’t want to keep obsessing over Callum and what I did wrong and whether I still hate him and wondering if we’ll ever get back together, because that sort of chatter bores everyone at cocktail parties, so imagine what it does to God; God is the universe’s best listener, but that’s no reason to nag Him and make Him hand you Buddha’s business card as He heads for the door, muttering, “Gotta get up early, nice to meet you.”