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So, actually bothering to post.
Saturday while I was cleaning Doyle's cage some Mormons came by. They were creepy, a couple college-age-ish women with identical wide white smiles that didn't reach their eyes. After I made the mistake of opening the door for them, they tried most valiantly to get me to let them in so we could all have a nice talk about how if a man "translates" "magical golden plates" from inside a hat, then you should believe it all. (I am admittedly getting my understanding of Mormon history in this case from South Park. For my purposes, humor is more the point than accuracy.) One of them asked if I was sure I didn't need any help or know anyone else who needed help. After I got them to leave, I said to myself and the empty apartment, "Oh, I certainly need help. But not the type you could give me." Christian-type religion ain't what I need. Not with Chris having been a fellow heathen nonbeliever type. You can keep your "loving" creator that doles out neverending torture to those who dare to not agree with one of a huge number of mutually contradictory really honestly true truths. Thanks anyway.
( This gets rambly and depressy so here is a cut to shield you from the worst of it if you like. )
Last week at one point a poster-perfect emo kid got on the bus when I was ridin' it. Black hoodie, tight black jeans, black sneakers, probably-dyed black shaggy hair styled so it was over his eye on one side. I felt like asking him to compare notes with me. You may have the look, emo kid, but I bet I've got the level of angst and lovelorn whining down cold.
Saturday while I was cleaning Doyle's cage some Mormons came by. They were creepy, a couple college-age-ish women with identical wide white smiles that didn't reach their eyes. After I made the mistake of opening the door for them, they tried most valiantly to get me to let them in so we could all have a nice talk about how if a man "translates" "magical golden plates" from inside a hat, then you should believe it all. (I am admittedly getting my understanding of Mormon history in this case from South Park. For my purposes, humor is more the point than accuracy.) One of them asked if I was sure I didn't need any help or know anyone else who needed help. After I got them to leave, I said to myself and the empty apartment, "Oh, I certainly need help. But not the type you could give me." Christian-type religion ain't what I need. Not with Chris having been a fellow heathen nonbeliever type. You can keep your "loving" creator that doles out neverending torture to those who dare to not agree with one of a huge number of mutually contradictory really honestly true truths. Thanks anyway.
( This gets rambly and depressy so here is a cut to shield you from the worst of it if you like. )
Last week at one point a poster-perfect emo kid got on the bus when I was ridin' it. Black hoodie, tight black jeans, black sneakers, probably-dyed black shaggy hair styled so it was over his eye on one side. I felt like asking him to compare notes with me. You may have the look, emo kid, but I bet I've got the level of angst and lovelorn whining down cold.
