So, Jesus, Tampax Lied; My Period is So Not Happy
Dear Lord Sweet Baby King Jesus,
I’m not the type to ask for supernatural assistance every time my neighbor’s great aunt stubs her toe, but, today, I have a request.
Just because I’m not a big supplicator doesn’t mean that I’m not up-to-speed on shit. I know, for instance, that, according to Mark 5, verses 25-34, your impressive miracle repertoire includes, shall we say, the ability to dry up the red sea. Get it? Anyway, I know that, on every other occasion on which we have spoken in the past few years (omitting all the times I was like, “PLEASE JESUS PLEASE PLEASE PLEEEASE DON’T LET THEM CALL OUT THE DRUG DOGS”), I’ve asked for pretty much the opposite of this, but, this time, I’m going to have to ask you to work a Mark 5:24-36 on me. Like, stat, because, even though Shark Week just started today, it already feels like Shark ETERNITY.
I’m not very particular about the method by which you go about alleviating my menstrual misery. Even early onset of menopause, for instance, would be totes acceptable. There’s only one exception I’m going to have to ask you to make: whatever you do, don’t conjure up a pregnancy in order to call off this month’s period. I know you pride yourself in your sense of humor, and that this is just the kind of thing you’d find hilaaarious, but, trust me, it would really be kinda tacky. Besides, you need to save all your fertility spells for Beyonce.
If you choose to do me a solid here (and I think you should, because, per the aforementioned passage in the Gospel According to Mark, you dig impure women), I so promise that I will consider going to church. Really! Just not until the cramps have fully abated. A girl can only endure so much torture in one day.
So, good luck, and don’t fuck it up, or whatever your followers tend to end a prayer with, Amen.
Done by Timmo at Deuce Tattoo.
SOMEBODY GOT THIS and I want to party with them.
I Was Free (Don’t Worry, It Was Brief)
It’s been a quiet day in Blogland, my loves, and, I won’t lie, that might be because my brain has already taken the long, fattening and regrettably-irreversible trip to Thanksgivingtown. I’m not trying to say that I’m “that kind of girl,” but dangle a four-day weekend in front of me, and I become kind of unfocused and suggestible. But only when stuffing and pie are involved - and not the sexy kind. Sorry, boys/girls. Actually, I’m only sorry to the girls. The boys can kiss my stuffing-enhanced ass.
Anyway, tonight, B went to visit his bestroked (I made that word up and it is rawrtastic, which is another word I made up that isn’t quite as good.) half-sister in the hospital, and, miracle of miracles, Mr. G joined him. I mean, this thing went from a Great, Thanks for Dumping the Baby On Me to OMGI’MFREEEE in about .3 seconds. And, as I just finished informing Barry, 3 is pretty much Jesus/God/The Holy Spirit/Whatever Other Names That Camp is Down With’s (Yahweh, you know, whatevs) favorite number.
There’s only one word that can describe the blissful two hours I spent purely, completely, and another useless synonym for 100% (THERE IT IS) alone. As usual, the only perfect word happens to be one of my favorites: magical.
Graham’s rubber duckie didn’t even know what to think. That’s how real this shit became. I’m sorry; I know that “became” is a total adulteration of “got,” as in, “SHIT GOT REAL,” but, I’m sorry. My first allegiance is to grammar, not single-wide-trailer-cultural significance, no matter how real. I do have a degree, after all.
I mean, I’m pretty sure this photo wasn’t even necessary (you knew the whole lying in bed with alcohol thing was coming, after all), but, yes. There was beer.
Now that my partner is home and snoring beside me, irritation has overridden the urge to recount, I’m compelled to bid you all goodnight. So, goodnight, loves. There will be more bitchings tomorrow.
Chick tracks were all the rage, don’t you know, while I was young.
Probably because they’re hilarious.
I SHARED PLEASE RAPTURE ME JEEBUSSS
HYFR. Come into muh hearts, Honey Boo Boo Child.
I went to church and didn’t burst into flames
I’m not much of a churchgoer, but, since everyone who lives in my house except me attends, it was only a matter of time before I caved and went to a service.
I think that, at least the past 3 times I’ve gone to church, the speaker made statements that were just blatantly not based in reality. I’m not even talking about the improbability of a talking snake here. I’m talking contemporary events. At an Easter service at one church, the pastor told us that the reality of Jesus’ existence is made indisputably evident by the existence of martyers. People don’t just give up their lives for something that’s not real, do they? Maybe not, but, if you’re going to maintain that theory, you’d better find a way to reconcile your religious beliefs with several strains of the Muslim faith. Otherwise, they’re just strapping bombs to themselves and dying for nothing, and then where does that leave your theory?
Let’s go back to last night. From the pulpit, the pastor makes the statement that Darwin renounced his theory of evolution and converted to Christianity on his deathbed, so JESUS MUST BE REAL. This is pretty much the axis of the entire sermon, which would have been pretty poignant, if it were true. But it’s not. Even this Christian website refutes it.
Believe it or not, I’m not a completely godless devilbitch. I believe in a higher power. I even believe in Jesus. But do I think Christianity has a leg up on any other religion in terms of historical accuracy and tangible proof of the existence of its claims? Hell, no. I think spirituality is a personal, faith-based experience, confirmed by intuition in the believers’ own mind and heart. I seriously doubt that there are many conversions to Christianity - or any religion - based on even the most well-meaning of attempts to prove that God is real. People come to God at their own time, in their own way. Trying to rush that process by providing shaky, anecdotal “proof” hurts more than it helps. If you really believe that God reveals himself to everyone, then trust him to do his thing.
I really wish I didn’t always walk into church full of cynicism and prepared to fact-check, but, like cleaning house and drinking non-alcoholic beverages, it’s a necessary evil. I understand why B wants to go to church, and why he wants to expose our son to the culture surrounding it. It’s cool. He can teach Li’l G about Jesus on Sunday mornings; I’ll teach him how to use Google after church.