porn, super porn
2004-07-28 | 9:47 p.m.

Until I was fourteen, I was tall and gawky and hopelessly, helplessly in love with jesus. I attended church regularly, I sang at the top of my lungs, I slipped the hymnal into my backpack so that I could get some extra practice in during the week. I conveniently had my own balcony on the third floor of our house, which I used, with god's permission, to spy on my neighbors; after observing and recording their various flaws and fancies, I plucked verses from the bible that seemed especially applicable to their situation, wrote them on paper, and slipped them into mailboxes on my way to school.

When I turned fourteen, my mother gave me two books, ishmael and the story of b, both by Daniel Quinn, which effectively ended my love affair with religion. My mother was not at all interested in their subject matter; someone had simply recommended them at the bookstore, perfect reading for a fourteen year old, and my mother hastily agreed. god was, presumably, hovering somewhere nearby at the time, helpless, hapless? swipe, swipe went the credit card, and with that purchase my fate was impermeable. the words in the bible didn't sound their special magic after that; the bible seemed like a tireless progression of god messing things up and sorting things out. There are still aspects of christianity that I am admirable of, yet the christian claptrap, and the noise, and the depressing, whitewashed clapboard hovels of protestantism, they depress me endlessly. christianity is... bereft, adrift, an answer or an excuse, a demand on an empty sky.

"my god, how things are still so so so fucking so-so," my friend anthony said.

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