hated me when I was bad was too close to the concept of shitty parenting. It didn’t make sense to me. God should love everyone, no matter who they were or what they did. I already had my mother who hated me for arbitrary reasons. Why did I need some invisible, all-powerful being hating me too? In a child’s world, parents are gods.
So this youth group leader would assign essays. Yeah, essays. One time I didn’t capitalize the “g” in god and he made a point to correct it in front of the rest of the flock. I told him to fuck off and that anyone who would get that upset about a letter being capitalized was just messed up. I proceeded to let everyone know why there was no “God,” and then I invoked the name of Satan just for shits and giggles.
Helen and I were asked to leave the congregation. I paid for it, but for the most part, it was worth the pain.
To this day, I wrote it with a lower case “g.” Hell, I even thought about it in lower case.
Any deity had to be better than their “God.” The same “God” that gave me to Helen and let me suffer because some chick and her man ate an apple.
When I learned about the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the atheist response to divine creation, he became my deity of choice. The FSM didn’t say he loved everyone and then punish them just because he didn’t like what they did. He didn’t say he loved a person, only to abandon them to a life filled with hate.
I didn’t want to think about that anymore, and forced my mind away from it all. I watched excitedly as Jason plucked a pre-rolled joint from his pack of cigarettes and lit it. He didn’t take long passing it to me and I inhaled deeply, feeling my facial muscles relax just from the first hit.
We were quiet while we passed the joint back and forth, but when he crushed it against the tree, he turned and said, “How was your night with Tom?”
“Boring as hell.”
I turned quickly, lifting my leg over his lap to straddle him. His hands immediately moved to my waist, holding me to him as we kissed. He tasted like sour apple candy and chronic. It was only moments until his mouth was at my neck, lapping and sucking. I hated hickeys, but his hands were doing the most intriguing things to my body, so I let him continue on his bruise-producing quest.
He was pressing against me, his hands gripping my hips.
“We can do it later. We have class,” I reminded him as I straightened up and pulled away, grabbing my backpack and walking back to school.
I was only a few minutes late to class and came up with some lame excuse as I ducked past the teacher. Taking my seat next to Rusty Dalton, I let my mind wander until the teacher started passing out all the materials we’d need for our assignment. I was in a good mood, so I started to tease Rusty Dalton about how he’d have to talk to me now. Then he proceeded to do the entire soil exercise himself. I didn’t mean what I said in a bad or insulting way, but he looked like he was going to throw up or cry, or have some kind of a breakdown, so I let him know that he didn’t have talk to me unless he wanted to.
Being high, I was chatty, so I started talking to him about how good I was with flowers and making things pretty or whatever. At one point he opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but before he could really get anything out, Chris Anderson turned around and made fun of him, again. Chris was a prick, so I flung my sharpened pencil at him.
In P.E., I slammed another basketball in his face and then batted my eyelashes until he couldn’t stay pissed at me. I wondered how long it would take until I had to do more than flirt to cover up my violent tendencies toward him.
Again, Jason was waiting for me out front and I had expected him to make good on my promise of banging him after school, but we didn’t go to his house. He went to mine instead. “I thought…”
He shook his head dismissively. “I have a thing tonight, so maybe tomorrow.”
“A
So this youth group leader would assign essays. Yeah, essays. One time I didn’t capitalize the “g” in god and he made a point to correct it in front of the rest of the flock. I told him to fuck off and that anyone who would get that upset about a letter being capitalized was just messed up. I proceeded to let everyone know why there was no “God,” and then I invoked the name of Satan just for shits and giggles.
Helen and I were asked to leave the congregation. I paid for it, but for the most part, it was worth the pain.
To this day, I wrote it with a lower case “g.” Hell, I even thought about it in lower case.
Any deity had to be better than their “God.” The same “God” that gave me to Helen and let me suffer because some chick and her man ate an apple.
When I learned about the Flying Spaghetti Monster, the atheist response to divine creation, he became my deity of choice. The FSM didn’t say he loved everyone and then punish them just because he didn’t like what they did. He didn’t say he loved a person, only to abandon them to a life filled with hate.
I didn’t want to think about that anymore, and forced my mind away from it all. I watched excitedly as Jason plucked a pre-rolled joint from his pack of cigarettes and lit it. He didn’t take long passing it to me and I inhaled deeply, feeling my facial muscles relax just from the first hit.
We were quiet while we passed the joint back and forth, but when he crushed it against the tree, he turned and said, “How was your night with Tom?”
“Boring as hell.”
I turned quickly, lifting my leg over his lap to straddle him. His hands immediately moved to my waist, holding me to him as we kissed. He tasted like sour apple candy and chronic. It was only moments until his mouth was at my neck, lapping and sucking. I hated hickeys, but his hands were doing the most intriguing things to my body, so I let him continue on his bruise-producing quest.
He was pressing against me, his hands gripping my hips.
“We can do it later. We have class,” I reminded him as I straightened up and pulled away, grabbing my backpack and walking back to school.
I was only a few minutes late to class and came up with some lame excuse as I ducked past the teacher. Taking my seat next to Rusty Dalton, I let my mind wander until the teacher started passing out all the materials we’d need for our assignment. I was in a good mood, so I started to tease Rusty Dalton about how he’d have to talk to me now. Then he proceeded to do the entire soil exercise himself. I didn’t mean what I said in a bad or insulting way, but he looked like he was going to throw up or cry, or have some kind of a breakdown, so I let him know that he didn’t have talk to me unless he wanted to.
Being high, I was chatty, so I started talking to him about how good I was with flowers and making things pretty or whatever. At one point he opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but before he could really get anything out, Chris Anderson turned around and made fun of him, again. Chris was a prick, so I flung my sharpened pencil at him.
In P.E., I slammed another basketball in his face and then batted my eyelashes until he couldn’t stay pissed at me. I wondered how long it would take until I had to do more than flirt to cover up my violent tendencies toward him.
Again, Jason was waiting for me out front and I had expected him to make good on my promise of banging him after school, but we didn’t go to his house. He went to mine instead. “I thought…”
He shook his head dismissively. “I have a thing tonight, so maybe tomorrow.”
“A
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