You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better. ~ Anne Lamott
My atheism is not predicated on hate, anger, or a disagreement with the Judeo-Christian version of God. He and I are not at odds. To me, he is a myth which I am not at war with. And before you suggest I am on the "dark side", please know I do not spend my free time sitting in a pentagram, channelling evil.
I searched for years and could not find any real tangible evidence for "his" existence that did not require me to suspend beliefs that I knew to be right and true in order to embrace those myths championed in the bible that extol his virtues and existence. Yes, myth. Read about Horus and Mithra, for a start, and you if you are honest with yourself, you will begin to see parallels that make that whole bible thing look like history's best work of plagiarism.
Now, if you have real, tangible proof that can be evidenced in reality and tested by empirical science, show me and I may actually change my mind. Do not point to me and say god made me. My parents having sex without using birth control made me.
Until that time, if that time ever occurs, please do not act like you are a better person than I am or that you have keys to some magical kingdom that makes you more entitled than the rest of us. I do not need a book full of what I consider to be fairy tales to be a good person. You consistently break vows and promises you make to "him". You sin. Just like the rest of us.
Whenever you elevate yourself upon your self-made pedestal remember this, you look like a fool and we all know that you have shaped your beliefs to be entirely altogether too congenial and convenient in order to absolve yourself of any real responsibility for your actions or accountability for the harm you cause.
Exactly who is the liar?
No one can force you to drink a keg of beer for dinner.
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My bangs are not the only thing that is ruining my life.
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He wants me to have hate sex with him. But I don't hate him.
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She tells me that worse things have happened. Yes, they have. But why is this thing happening?
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While it may not be for me to understand and it may just be something I have to do, I would like it to make a bit of sense while I'm doing it.
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Fermer la douche.
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I have arrived in the blog sphere. I finally received my first bit of hate mail.
FINALLY!
Oh ya, jumpy claps everyone!
99.9999% of you have been kind and gracious in the emails you have sent. OK, a few of you have criticized the grammar but here's the thing about that... this isn't Shakespeare nor have I ever claimed it is. Its a one-sided conversation (unless you email me) and certainly not the syntax or grammar I use in the other two projects I'm working on.
That other fraction of a percentage, the haterade percentage, solely belongs to "Julia Taylor" of Digeus, Inc. fame. I'm pretty sure Julia is actually a Julius. A sweaty, bearded Julius who's fingers are orange from eating Cheetos. I'll bet Julius' breath smells of Dr. Pepper and cigars. But not the cool Cuban cigars. No, no. Nay, nay. I'm talking those girly raspberry flavoured cigarillos.
I could be wrong. It happens.
The following is what transgressed between "Julia Taylor" and I. "She" still hasn't got back to me on arranging a play date. Am. Crushed. (Click to enlarge. When the picture appears, click again to enlarge, read, giggle, enjoy!)
By the way, the sketchy handwriting is mine. I couldn't help being a smart ass. It is my nature.
