The Anthropologist Formerly Known as Prince

I remember thinking once,

“I’d never want him to produce my music.”

Fool that I was.

I didn’t realize then

that the sound I had mistaken for

messiness and chaos

was actually the character of mankind

caught on tape.

It was,

truly,

anthropology at its finest.

You entangled each one of us

in the snare of your guitar strings;

furiously jotted endless lyrical notes,

and then released us back

into the wild with a song.

You were an incomparable teacher;

you taught us to Gett Off,

what doves sound like when they cry,

and that not everything that glitters is Gold.

At times,

it seemed as though you even

controlled the weather-

it rained Purple;

it snowed in April.

A lesser man would have agonized over

such a petite figure;

but you strutted yours.

Ruffled, tailored, Purpled.

You masqueraded as a sex object,

and no one ever realized you were

preaching the Gospel while you did it.

You told us of a Park

where life won’t be so bad;

it was in our hearts,

but now we can tour the frickin’ place

for a hundred bucks.

I guess it’s just a Sign O’ the Times,

isn’t it?

“The Beautiful Ones you always seem to lose.”

Inspirational? More Like Perspirational

Thanks to Erin and her ass, I’ve been nominated for the Very Inspirational Blogger Award. As I sit here dripping with sweat, (haha, I know you all were thinking I’d be dripping something else) I cannot help but think that just maybe she meant to endow me with the Perspirational Blogger Award. I realize that 80 degrees sounds lovely, but here in Minnesota, 80 degrees is the equivilant of 120 degrees, and causes a permanent river of sweat to flow betwixt my considerable she-mountains. Anyhoo, I digress.

I’ve received enough awards in bloggerville to sufficiently have bored you all with facts concerning moi. So, instead of writing another seven things about me nobody except Art cares about, (haha) I shall list seven people who have inspired me to be… well, me.

1. Maya Angelou.

Maya is not on my list because she has just recently passed. I loved her long before she was spoken of in the past tense. As I read her six biographical books, I realized that perhaps someday, if I have as much courage and pizzazz as she, people might actually want to read my story as well. Though I will never be able to weave words together quite the way that she did.

2. Angelina Jolie.

Incidentally, Angelina’s movie Maleficent released today, after a long wait of almost FOUR years. I’m dragging my Rockstar to it tonight! (YAYAYAYAYAY!!!!!!) Anyhoo, Angelina is beautiful, (I don’t care what any of you say) and she always has been to me. You all know how she is, so I will not go to great lengths to explain my reasons. Suffice to say that she is someone I would love to be friends with. (And maybe more, if she would so have me.)

3. Dolly Parton

Because she’s 127, and is still awesome. If you disagree, you suck.

4. My Auntie.

Because she does so much for everyone else, yet still finds time for herself, and will always listen to anyone who needs her to.

5. My Rockstar.

He inspires me to live up to my potential, even if it is by semi-rudely telling me to quit being lazy. I know he adores me, despite the fact that he refuses to verbally say so, which inspires me to get him to the point where he will say it aloud. Too, he inspires me to wash the dishes, which can never be a bad thing.

6. King David.

If you don’t know who that is, you should read your Bible more often. He inspires me, (even though he is really quite dead) because he wasn’t perfect, yet God still loved him immensely. He is proof that even a fuck-up is worthy of God’s fondness.

7. All the boys in the world. (And some of the girls.)

Even though I have my Rockstar, I do not deny the fact that I adore being adored. These boys (and girls) inspire me to actually shower most days, and to put a little (and sometimes a lot) of effort into how I look, as time-consuming as it is. Too, the smarties of the world who are not moved by just a pretty face inspire me to keep learning, because you just never know when you might run into an attractively-intelligent person you wish to converse with. And many of them don’t give a hoot about the Kardashians.

As for the rest of the rules concerning winning an award, I don’t do that shit. Just click on someone who has commented on my blog, because obviously they are very wise.

XOXO

 

A Letter to My Mother

Since my blog is the reason my parents haven’t talked to me in over half a year, it seems only right that I would post the letter I’ve written to my mother this day.

To Mom,
I know it has been a long time since we’ve talked, but honestly, I haven’t known what to say. The last time we spoke, you were concerned about my mental health, but would take no responsibility for the reason I am the way I am. I read the letter you sent me, and Aunt Bonnie and Gramma have mentioned just a few things you guys have discussed in conversation concerning me, and I realize a lot of my feelings toward you and dad are because of things that happened long ago, but they did happen, and helped to shape who I am, whether you want to admit or not.
I know that you planned me. I know that you both gave me everything you could as I was growing up. You showed me how to have faith in God, and I always do and will,  despite the fact that dad thinks I’m “fallen so far from the Lord.” Believe me, my faith is the only thing that kept me from killing myself when I was a teenager, or doing something worse.
I appreciate that you loved me so growing up, and did what you thought was best for me, which is why I refrained from telling you both about my blog. I respected you enough to shield you from the things that would have caused you pain or sadness, but I realize now that not being straightforward with you wasn’t honest, so I will be honest in this letter.
I know that you and dad both felt you made mistakes with the past relationships you had. Which is maybe why it was that your three older children felt mistreated or unloved. I can understand why my sister would have been jealous of me, because I know the pressures felt by being the “good child”. I understand why you felt you had to keep me distanced from my brother, though I don’t agree with it. I am blessed to have a brother who loves me so unconditionally, because his is a love I have never felt from another human in my life. He really is my best friend, and I understand his depression.
I have no children of my own, and that’s an whole other issue, but I know that a child is supposed to be the MOST important thing in a person’s life, other than God. That doesn’t mean you have to agree with the way they live their lives, or approve of them in any way, but I know that you are supposed to love your child(ren) unto the ends of the earth and back, and in such a way that they feel loved, and feel good enough, and feel that they can tell you anything.
I know I was a child long ago, and the things that happened then shouldn’t be of any consequence now, but I think of my childhood every day. You tell me I was planned, but clearly you and dad did not discuss my raising to the extent that you discussed my existence, because I remember many many times when dad disciplined me with pieces of wood that splintered and broke with the force of his rage, while you pretended he was not taking his anger out on me instead of you. I remember when you both found condoms in my room, and dad literally threw them in my face and told me that “no one would ever want me again” since I was no longer a virgin. I don’t have to have a kid to know I would never, ever stand by and allow anyone to say such a thing to my child, even if it was my husband, and even if I did agree with him.
I mentioned that I contemplated suicide when I was a teen. Perhaps depression is a hereditary thing, and maybe I have it, but I can tell you that ever night when I thought about it, it was because I wasn’t allowed to do much as a teen. I don’t mean being allowed to go out and party and kiss boys and get into trouble; dad was sooo concerned about the state of my virginity that he took me out of school, and wouldn’t allow me to stay at my friend’s house because she had a brother who had friends. I will tell you, you two raised me well enough to guard my body from those who would defile it until I was definitely old enough to know the consequences of my decisions. In fact, when dad was so worried about my sex life, I was innocent enough to tell Jeremy I might never want to have sex. I was with him for a year and a half before we ever had a physical relationship, and that was after I had already left home. (I know you both think I dated him before that, but you are so wrong.) This is what I have learned: sex does not make a person who they are, and virginity or the lack thereof should not make another person treat that person like a non-human. Dad has treated me that way.
That was long ago, and you’re right- it doesn’t matter now. But I have learned that while I can forgive someone for such things, I see no reason to include such people in my life. You are my mother, and I will always love you, and I understand that you think dad is the love of your life. Maybe he is, but I know from experience that he does not treat you like a queen as a husband should, and does not treat you like his most precious gift, which you are. Do you want to know why he and I don’t get along? Because I am just as stubborn as he is, and I refuse to accept the way he treats you. He demeans you in front of people, and there is no call for that, because you are the sweetest woman I have ever known. You deserve to be near your family if you want to be, and you deserve respect from your husband. If you think you have that, then as I said before- I am glad for you. But I see the way he treats you when you both come to visit, which is why I no longer wanted to have contact with him years ago.
I love. Love is everything to me, and love given to me is reciprocated ten-thousandfold. I love my extended family, because they have shown me love always, even when they might not have agreed with me, and have always hoped that I achieve my dreams. Dad, my father, has never even been interested in what my dreams were, unless they had everything to do with God. Dreams and goals can still include God without having to be such things as missionaries and pastor’s wives. God has given me a talent for writing, and music, and painting; what I do with it is my choice, which is also something God has given to me, as he has to us all.
I love this world that God has placed me in, and I love the gay people who are in it, because God created them too, and made so many of them amazingly flamboyant and beautiful. I love all kinds of music, because God gave men the ability to write such things. I love my beloved, my Rockstar, because he is a good father and he has the talent that God gave him to be able to play the guitar without knowing how to read music, and has given him the passion and the patience to deal with and try to understand my fucked-up self, even though he doesn’t understand my sadness at all. I love that God placed me in a church that is my family’s church, and put so many people there that appreciate my talent, even if it is a church that dad doesn’t approve of for no reason at all. I have received more love from the Methodist Church in 7 years than I ever received in every Baptist church we attended as I was growing up. There is no evil in that.
Concerning my blog: when I started it, I knew not what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wanted to hone my writing skills. Through the comments and the readers I’ve received since I’ve had it, I have been able to understand myself better, and I my confidence in my talent has grown considerably. I know not that if I ever finish writing any of the many books I have started writing, people will read them, and enjoy doing so. I am more honest in my blog about my experiences than I ever have been in real life, and that has made me be more honest in real life. Sometimes, though, the truth does hurt, as I’m sure most of this letter does. This too, is not an evil thing.
I am going to stop writing this letter now, because I have said enough, I think. I am sorry if I have cause you heartache in the past months, and I hope you can forgive me. I love you, mommy, and I just want you to accept me, flaws and all.
Love, Sparkle

Client Privilege

In the beginning…

You might wonder what makes me any more special than Candy or Blake or any other Dial-A-Whore you might find on the back side of the local entertainment pages next to the ads for sperm banks and penis enlargement pills. To be honest, Candy is gorgeous, and the dickheads down at Winston’s refer to Blake as the “Hoover” when they know she’s not around to kick them in the balls. But have they ever been the Angel of Lust? Think about it- take every carnal desire you’ve ever had, every animalistic sensual hunger, and multiply it times a thousand , or ten million, or a billion, and you wouldn’t even have begun to scratch the surface of the chaste shell of God that’s encasing an eternity of wanton emotions. He gave you those yearnings on purpose; He created me on purpose. Everyone knows God doesn’t make mistakes. Maybe He just realized all that passionate voracity blinds people to almost everything else, so He told a few disciples and prophets it would be best to tell people to restrain themselves a little. Who knows.

Clearly, Charlie didn’t get the memo.

Charlie’s my most loyal customer. You’d think he was in his twenties, if you based his age on the amount of money he’s paid me in the last few years. Luckily, his twenty-two year old libido is matched up to his fifty-two year old perfectly- practiced gift for fucking. I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t do him for free.

He was here earlier. Normally, I don’t accept clients at my own place, but Charlie, well, he’s Charlie. Of course, he couldn’t teach me anything I wasn’t already designed to know, but after I knew Charlie for awhile, I kinda started wondering if Charlie wasn’t God’s male duplicate of me. Or maybe he’s just sexed his way through enough women that he’s got nothing else to learn. Thus his captivation with me.

When he gave his habitual rhythmic knock on my door, I was applying my Urban Decay lipstick in F-Bomb (my favorite). He opened the door without waiting for me to reply, and leaned against it after he closed it, just watching me. It’s my job to unnerve people, and I’m still not sure how Charlie can do it, but I watched him watching me in my mirror, and his intense ice-blue stare made me on edge enough that my lipstick slid right off my bottom lip.

“Fuck!” I whispered under my breath, hoping Charlie hadn’t seen, but knowing he had.

Before I had a chance to wipe it off, Charlie pushed his tall body off of the door and he strolled over to where I was standing. He said not a word, but continued to watch me in the mirror. His eyes never left mine as I felt the soft pad of his thumb trace my jawline before running along the outline of my lip, wiping the red stain away. Even with my peacock blue, five-inch heels on, he was a good nine inches taller than me, and I watched in the mirror as his hand slid from my face, down my neck, and under the neckline of my silk dress. Before his hand even touched my left breast, I felt it all the way south of my belly button, and I couldn’t stop the sound that escaped my rouged lips.

Ok, so let me explain a little bit about Charlie. He’s been married, numerous times, in fact, has enough money that he never has to work, and gets off on getting women off. A lot of guys don’t give one shit about whether their woman is turned on before they stick their dick in them, and couldn’t care less whether she orgasms or not, and probably wouldn’t be able to tell either way. Charlie is not one of those guys. I’m convinced he wouldn’t even be able to get a hard-on unless the woman he intended to fuck was dripping wet. Don’t ask me why he pays for sex, because even after all these years, he won’t tell me.

When he heard that sound, his fingertips squeezed my nipple, and my eyes slid shut, relishing the tingle that was running down my body. I leaned back against him, his toned body taking my weight easily, and ran my hand up his tailored pants, rubbing his cock through the fabric. As I did so, his hand enveloped my breast, squeezing just hard enough that it hurt. Another little squeal escaped me, and his grip tightened even more. My eyelids flew open, and my gaze met his in the mirror; his eyes had never left my face. His breath was on my neck, on my ear, and sent little shivers of pleasure across my skin. I looked into his eyes as he ran his free hand up my leg and under my skirt, and I noticed his dimpled smirk when he realized I wasn’t wearing any panties. His face in the mirror looked like a young man’s- a young man with a dirty secret- as his experienced fingers explored my most intimate places, as he discovered what his fingers and his eyes and his breath on me had done. I was encircled in his grip, and couldn’t move as he moved his fingertips achingly slow  in and out of me, in and out, in, and then out before bringing them up and sliding them between my F-Bomb-ed lips. He watched as I tasted the salty musk of myself, and broke his trance-like stare when I ran my tongue over and around his fingertips, and then sucked ever so gently.

June 11th and 12th, 1994

Last week, nineteen years ago.

I spent the night at Kelly’s last night, and I met Becca. She’s really nice. We went swimming in the Rum River today. We had fun. Then Mom and Dad came, picked me up, and we went to Kevin O’Connor’s (my second-cousin) open house. I saw Jesse (Kevin’s brother). He’s soooo cute. And when he talked, his voice was really deep. I told Kelly I’d ask Cory if he likes her.

June 12th.

We went to church and then went to Cornerstone (a newly begun church at the time). Cory wasn’t there! 😦 Oh, well. I got to stay home alone tonight. Mom said Kelly could come over one time this week. Kelly called me tonight and asked me if I would go to camp this year. I said I wanted to, and dad said I could. Yea. We can get tan, lose weight, get lots of candy, and meet cute boys! Awesome! Too bad Cory or Ethan aren’t going to be there. Oh well. We’ll still have fun.

As you note my plans for camp, you can see that I haven’t really changed since I was 12. Huh.

We’re All Mad Here

I received a visit from the people who bore me this morning. While normal family gatherings are complete with hugs and mashed potatoes and maybe a beer or two, this one seemed like more of a covert encroachment.

I may not have yet mentioned that a few weeks ago, I decided to in not such impolite words tell my parents to fuck off. I admit, I was not raised to so forcibly express my emotions to my elders, (the whole, respect thy mother and thy father thing) but I had decided that since my parents didn’t have the balls enough to tell my half-sister they no longer wished to know her, I would show them mine and tell them I no longer wished to know them. After all, don’t we all get to blame our parents for our fucked up lives at one point or another? In actuality, I didn’t blame them for a thing, because really, if they hadn’t been the way they had, I wouldn’t have turned out as delightfully disturbed and amazing as some of you all think I am.

Anyhoo, I was in my car for a moment when I saw their desert-colored Chevy and mini camper circling me in the work parking lot as one would imagine a shark would circle. They parked, and I took in a deep breath to prepare myself for the onslaught of “we love you”s, and “we pray for you every day”. I was not to be disappointed.

After receiving a hug from my upset mother while receiving a pitying look from my father for my eternal soul, they asked what it was that had happened to cause the riff I had specifically created between us. I told them that they have three other children, none of whom want to see them, and though I had not exactly been rude about it, I agreed with their decisions. My parents then went on to say that my siblings chose the lives they live, and that it was not my parents job to fix them- to which I silently wondered why I myself was not allowed such luxury.

Then, my mom announced that they had been informed by a family member of a certain blog I had created- a blog of such filth and pollution that it could hardly be named. After asking why I would call myself “the bookstore whore” (because they so closely read and interpreted my insane ramblings), my mother asked if I was, in fact, possessing of multiple personalities- because the sweet little church girl I was FIFTEEN YEARS AGO was nowhere apparent in the last 2 of 446 posts I’ve written. I nodded, admitting that yes, there is no way possible that I could be possessing of only ONE personality- one of a girl who was raised in church and then left out in the real world to make her way.

“Well, maybe you need some help; maybe you need to talk to someone.” They had chosen that moment to announce that this was an intervention- the time to save me from my fucked-up and histrionic self, the time to rescue me from my back-slidden ride into eternal damnation. My father alternated between trying to hold his tongue and sporadically bursting out with reassurances that God loves me and the like. My mother broke the news that all my aunts and cousins are “deeply concerned” about me, because I am living a life of apparent derangement with my Rockstar (a title at which my dad scoffed condescendingly at) and working as a Pizza Slut while playing piano on Sundays at my Auntie’s church, and writing about it for “the WHOLE world to read!” (They seem to think that I am up for any naughty deeds with any man who asks, despite the fact that I mention my Rockstar and our relationship on nearly every post. I do not deny that I am up for anything, but as far as with who- I choose my Rockstar until he chooses otherwise.)

I began to realize at that moment that while my parents are maybe partially right to be concerned over my supposed lunacy, that the fact that we were having such a conversation in the parking lot of a mall in the blustering wind while I was supposed to be working was, in fact, madness incarnate. I announced that there was no need to further our discussion, for the crazy don’t know they are crazy, and will forever argue with a person that their opinions are correct.

I do not know what will happen from now on, but I have been assured by the people who see me on a daily basis that, while I am quite kooky in my own way, I have a long way to go before I am tranquelized and made to wear a straight-jacket as my fashion statement.

As for multiple personalities, I don’t think I’ve had one yet that people haven’t found charming.

 

As The People Sleep

The downside to working

the night shift:

The only people awake when you get off

are drunks, insomniacs, vampires,

and you.

Sleep would come

Unbidden,

If I bothered to lie down for a short second,

but being left alone for the weekend,

and wound up from unsatisfying work

leaves me awakened and

buzzed on exhaustion.

So I

partake in Alone Time Behavior.

Bad teen comedies are my guilty pleasure,

and I wonder inanely if your newly done

self pedicure looks as good as the girl’s on

the T.V.

Before you know it,

it’s 4 AM,

and you’ve got less than three hours before you

have to pretend

you’re a Church Person.

Just enough time to

masturbate.

 

Inside the Sparkle Studio

I had forgotten all about James Lipton and his adorable lip-less self (does anyone else find it ironic that a man with “lip” in his name lacks them?) until I turned on the boob tube today and saw him hammering his questions home to a yucky and completely unattractive George Clooney. (Yes, you all have found perhaps the only woman in the world who would not sleep with George just to say she slept with George.)

I reminisced about the times I daydreamed about sitting across from James Lipton’s spectacled self just to have him pick my brain and find out exactly how and why I became my fabulously famous self. (Clearly, this daydream still exists.) And so I decided to put all your curiosities to rest and answer the famed Inside the Actor’s Studio questionnaire. (Mainly because by the time I’m sitting across from dear sweet James, he will probably be long dead, and I shall have forgotten what my original answers were due to my old age, and shall have to fashion new and exciting answers.)

 1. What is your favorite word?

Scintillate- I learned this word in my 6th grade vocabulary class-perhaps the only thing I retained from my school days other than the first verse of Oh captain, my Captain. Scintillate- the definition is “to glisten or sparkle”. Don’t tell me you’re surprised.

2. What is your least favorite word?

Moist. Ugh. Just typing it makes me gag just a little. Also, “slice”- it gives me shivers when people say it. Sadly, once people find that out, they run after me screeching at the top of their lungs “Slice! Slice! Slice! Slice!”

3. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?

If I am to answer with something that turns me on in all three ways, I will say undoubtedly- books. Every book I read turns on my creativity, whether it is because it gives me ideas, or because I think to myself that I may be able to do better than the author. Emotionally, because a well-written book can make you sob uncontrollably, laugh hysterically, or make you want to fuck the living daylights out of someone. A badly written book will piss you off bad enough that you may want to strangle the author, or the publisher who would allow such trash to be published. Spiritually, because a book may bring you closer to God, or further away that you ever imagined you could be.

Attention also turns me on. It makes me happy, and sparks my creativity enough to make me try to be whoever it is the person giving me attention is looking for.

4. What turns you off?

Laziness. And unnecessary cruelty.

5. What is your favorite curse word?

Fuck. Because it can be so mean or so nice. Fuck you or fuck me. People can make their own decision about which one I will say to them.

6. What sound or noise do you love?

Someone asking me for a hug.

7. What sound or noise do you hate?

Belching. And people chewing- open-mouthed or closed.

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Almost anything, but superhero sounds the best.

9. What profession would you not like to do?

Pooper pumper. Whether it be one of those guys who sucks the shit outta the sewer, or the doctor who administers the colonoscopy tube.

10. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the      Pearly Gates?

“Hey, everybody, we don’t have to worry anymore; Sparkle’s finally here!”

Versatility

Versatile:

adjective

def:

1. capable of or adapted for turning easily from one to another of various tasks, fields of endeavor, etc.: a versatile writer.

2. having or capable of many uses: a versatile tool.

3. attached at or near the middle so as to swing freely, as an anther.

4. turning either forward or backward: a versatile toe.

5. variable or changeable, as in feeling, purpose, or policy: versatile moods.

If you haven’t figured out by now, the lovely Dust and Soul has nominated me for the Versatile Blogger Award. As I adore being recognized (and talking about myself), I have cause to wanna give her a big ol’ Sparklebumps Booby Squish.

Since I have been the recipient of this award on several occasions, I decided to look up the definition. If you look above, these definitions perfectly describe me-

1.I most certainly turn easily from one to another of various tasks, fields of endeavor, etc. Which may explain why I have never finished one thing in my entire life, including my many books I’ve begun to write.

2.I AM capable of many uses, but I am most adept at uses of the sexual nature…

3.I swing freely on the park swing on a weekly basis,  but I not quite certain that’s what that definition meant.

4.Turning either forward or backward…. hmmm. Cowgirl or Reverse Cowgirl, anyone? I suppose missionary or doggy-style work too.

5.Variable is my middle name. Emotional is perhaps the synonym used more often for me.

According to the rules, I am supposed to mention the nominator of me- I luvs ya, Dust and Soul!

Then I am to list 7 things about myself…

1. I seem to think that the windows in my vehicle are magical enough to block outside drivers’ sight of me. In other words, if you confront me about jamming out to Metallica while alternately texting and applying Siren Red lipstick, I will deny, deny, deny.

2. I believe the world DOES revolve around me, at least some of the time. You just have to be standing next to me to notice it.

3. I secretly repudiate women with longer legs than I. While my little dwarf-sized gams are agreeably curvy, I think they will never be described as “sexy”.

4. I walk around naked in my apartment when no one is home. Unfortunately, I forget the neighbors are probably home and looking out their windows.

5. I believe I could comfortably live as Amish- provided I get a free pass to have sex.

6. I got out of dissecting a baby pig in 9th grade Biology by telling my science teacher it was against my beliefs to be part in the murder and dismemberment of the innocent.

7. Despite having worked overtime for most of my working life, I am incredibly lazy.

 #7 is the reason I’m going to fudge the last rule.

I’m supposed to nominate 15 fellow bloggers who are versatile and amazing, but as you can see from #7, I’m a lazy bitch. So, I urge you to click on Dust and Soul’s links, because I checked them out to see what kind of company I was included in, and I must say that I am completely humbled, for they are all better writers than I. However, I probably have bigger boobs. 🙂

Gimme A Hug, You Atheist!

I suppose it may seem strange that a born-again Christian and a professed Atheist can not only work side by side quite amiably, but can actually carry on a religion-based discussion without ripping each other’s throats out. However, in my world, this happens on a daily basis.

I was intrigued by the foreign-seeming tattoos my newest hiree sported on his forearm yesterday, and so asked immediately what they meant. He acted somewhat reluctant to tell me, and gave some bullshit explanation for me to tell my other employees if any of them should ask, before he told me that one was the symbol for an Atheist, and the other a symbol for Humanist. I nodded amiably, stuck out my hand, and said in my own Sparkly manner, “Hello, Atheist! I’m a Christian!”

No, I did not continue our conversation by spouting of the fiery lake many Christians believe he is headed to, nor did I invite him to church in an attempt to save his immortal soul. Instead, I asked him what made him have a belief in nothing, only to find out he was raised very like I was.

He spoke of a time when he was an angry youth, and how his parents did not understand him, and how, because of his military experiences, he no longer believed as he once did. I spoke of a time when I was a narrow-minded teen, and how my parents did not understand me, and how, because of my life experiences, I am now an open-minded individual that believes people can make their own decisions about their faith. He believes in humans; I believe most humans are assholes that should be destroyed. For two people with very different point of views, it’s amazing how very alike we are.

Incidentally, today I stopped at work to post the schedule after church, and my coworker asked if I had any churchy advise for her and my other work babies. I told her that God loves everybody, and that hugs make people feel welcome. Jesus hung out with whores and thieves, and never once thought he was too cool for them. Too bad my dad never remembers that part of the Bible.