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Disclaimer: Some of the times given in this article are factually incorrect. That is because it is a memory from ten years ago. Also because the information that was available and disseminated on that day was not always consistent or accurate. So before you begin to conflate normal human forgetfulness with disrespect for what happened, sorry if it ruffled your feathers. But not really.

That is where I was on September 11, 2001. I was 15 years old, and I just started my 10th grade year at the Seed School of Washington, DC. Terrorism was not a word I knew. I used it, generally in regards to my little brother and my father, but I didn’t really know this word. We were not on personal terms. I had seen the word in the cafeteria or in the hall on my way to class. Maybe even sometimes in DuPont Circle on Sunday right before I went into the Ginza shop to dreamily adore overpriced Japanese imports that I still can’t afford. We’d even had pretty good elbow rubs at Oriole’s games waiting to get through the ticket takers and go to our seats. But we had never been formally introduced. That changed.

One of the best men I know is John Ciccone. You can not argue with this guy. Verbally, sure. But you can not look at this man and think “Oh, this guy’s a douche. No thanks.” He is short, a little round, and all kinds of cool. He’s one of those guys that made me more convinced in high school that I should have been a boy so I could wear pinstripe suits, silk ties, and have an incredibly intelligent, tall and beautiful wife. So we were very perplexed when Mr. Ciccone walked into Mrs. Starnes’ English classroom about the same color as a well done egg white. What could possibly shake the unflappable Mr. Ciccone.

Among the ten minutes or so of a very pale and calmly speaking Mr. Ciccone, who probably was pushing up his shoulders to repeat the same thing to another class, it was mentioned that “At approximately 9am this morning, two planes crashed into the twin towers in New York City…Another plane hit the Pentagon…” What was said after or in between that becomes a wash. I don’t have a memory or a time line for that day. I have a general feeling of emptiness. Something was wiped out of me that day. I’m sure Mr. C mentioned that we should stay calm, that news was forthcoming. That our parents were notified and on their way to get us. Or maybe we were told to stay at school because it was safer. I can’t remember. And I would feel foolish asking. Because isn’t that something I was supposed to remember? What I had for breakfast, what I was doing, who I was talking to. I can tell you what i was wearing; my school uniform. What I wore everyday.

Eventually I saw footage of one side of the Pentagon knocked over like the side of a sand fortress. One minute, people are making photocopies, signing forms, going up and down stairs, waiting for elevators, talking on the phone, all this mundane shit. And then maybe you’re walking to another office, or the bathroom, or to get some more staples, or to see if there are donuts in the break room and then suddenly there is a noise you can’t quite place, but you know it’s getting closer and before you can turn to that lady next to you , or that guy you just passed, before you can hopefully comically ask the nearest possible person, “Hey? Do you hear that?” Nothingness. Then fire. Then smoke. Then ash. Then smoldering rubble.

To my knowledge there isn’t footage of the third plane hitting the Pentagon. We knew it was there but it wasn’t exactly a highlight of our cityscape. D.C. doesn’t have tall buildings, so any movie that shows you otherwise is fucking lying. There are no skyscrapers. I don’t even think there’s anything over thirty stories, if that. We are a low building city. We have the Washington monument, the Capitol Building, and the Old Post building if you need to look down on someone. So losing five stories of a five sided building hurt, goddamnit.

There was footage of the towers. The same thirty minutes stuck on repeat. All of our heads became VCRs that day as it was rewound, slowed down, sped up, and replayed. Over and over and over. But I didn’t actually see it. Someone put a tape in my head. I was downloaded with it. But there were people who saw it with their eyes. People who know these images without glass screens or wire or audio. People who felt the whine, the rumble, and the reverberating boom of thousands and thousands of lives falling apart somewhere between their lungs and their hearts. Where I have emptiness in my memory, what do they have? For the people who evacuated in time. For the people who were just about to walk down that hall in the Pentagon but had to go back for a paper, or wanted to use a bathroom before that meeting. What is in your eyes when you close them that will never be on TV?

The worst worst thing about this…For me, the worst worst thing about this was the footage of those who were trapped. Those we could not reach. Those who suffocated and went blind before they were taken. Because for every person who jumped there were a few who couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t call for help. The cameras are trained on the slender windows, and we are watching people forced to suicide. In the background are the low yet bright voices left on answering machines professing love. But what we can not see, what we can not hear right before the towers fall, before they implode into a wound in our brains, before we are all branded with this, are the people trapped inside. The ones we cannot see is the worst worst thing.

But the best thing. The best thing is coming. It’s not fucking Bush sitting with his thumb up his ass. It’s not the record media airtime and coverage. It’s United 93 telling evil men that they will not prevail this day if it takes every life on that plane. The best thing is us. It’s what we are capable of doing in the face of murder and trauma. It’s firemen and police officers pouring in from all over the country. It’s donations and volunteers. It’s the United States’ flag everywhere. EVERYWHERE. It’s erecting a flag on the rubble. A big red, white, and blue band-aid that said we are digging in our heels and we are pulling through this and leaving no one behind. That we are doing whatever it takes.

Sometimes I really hate this country, or at least vast parts of it. Certain groups of people. Certain religious beliefs. Certain cultural practices. I have a seething hatred for them. I will mock them. I will openly disrespect them. And when the appropriate opportunity presents itself, I will use logic to educate them and rub their faces in their own shit if they decide to be willfully ignorant of facts. But bringing physical harm and violence against these people is not a thing I will do. Not even a thing I consider when I am at my most enraged with their inability to treat people like people. Their inability to see truth instead of the mind numbing fiction they spin for themselves. I am not a soldier, nor do I think I am capable of being one. But I have one weapon in my arsenal that is stronger than my hatred, stronger than their hatred. And that is my belief that no matter who I am, and no matter who anyone else is, that we protect our own. If you were born in one of these fifty states. If you have sworn to defend the Constitution from all enemies, foreign and domestic. If you take seriously “E Pluribus Unum”, “We the People”, and “Give me liberty or give me death”. If you believe in all that corny, cheezy, home of the brave and land of the free crap as much as I do, then we raise flags, we turn our faces into the wind, and we choke on the ash together.

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By Sechavar

Disclaimer: I will make fun of the Catholic church in this article. I also do not deny that portions of this article are motivated by my rebellion against my father. I do not give a fuck either way.

I recently read this article that informed me about some super dubious goings on in the Miami Archdiocese. I was pleased to learn that parishoners weren’t putting up with their shit, even though they were definitely the David to the Holy See’s Goliath. Except the original David wins. Blessed are the meek, bitches.

After a long long list of hypocritical behavior, I reached the comments section where I learned that in order to leave the church one simply cannot throw up a peace sign as they exit the premises and never return, just as one cannot simply walk into Mordor. You can’t just give up communion, participation and attendence. You have to formally resign yourself. Like a public figure or something. And I didn’t know this. I doubt my mom knew. It’s possible that my dad knew. Church workings are most definitely his thang.

I left the church when my father left us. Not to get into a “look how awful my parents’ divorce was” because I’ve heard worse than what I went through. Quite simply, my father was the main antagonist when it came to my family unit showing up for spiritual inspection every Sunday morning at 10 am. As well as every night during holy week. And numerous other church functions and feast days. He was a lectern and a sacristan (read scripture to half asleep people and helped to hand out holy Jesus wafers with watered down zinfandel). And with his “insistence” my younger brother and I were altar servers, underwent first holy communion, confirmation, and later I even started to read scripture to half asleep people and hand out Jesus wafers and discount wine. I was actually pretty complicit in it. I liked the sense of purpose it gave me and knowing I was participating in ancient rites being similarly enacted around the world. The dark side was that I certianly felt holier than thou in the face of other Christians because I thought being Catholic was the one true faith and everyone else was wrong, and I was important and special because I took an active role. Obviously, none of this was cancelled out by the fact that I’d made out with another altar server behind the altar during mass on more than one occaision. You see, as long as we didn’t actually have sex it wasn’t a sin!

It wasn’t until my mom kicked my dad out for being an overbearing, emotionallly terrorizing and abusive wanna-be patriarch, only to have him move back to California after a failed attempt at enrolling my half-brother (by the baby sitter he banged while my mother was pregnant with my aforementioned brother) at my high school and quitting his job so he wouldn’t have to pay child support, that I learned what it was like to wake up late on Sundays and not feel guilty about it. Without the presence of my father to make me hate myself at home instead of just in public like a normal developing teenager, I started to come to terms with who I really was and realized you only feel like being yourself is wrong when you’re surrounded by people constantly reminding you that it’s worng.

My mom still goes to church because she enjoys it and I think that’s a healthy spiritual outlet, attending a service you enjoy and feel that you benefit from it in some way. For my brother and I, it started out as “Fuck yeah, no more church!” and then slowly we came to realize it’s a good thing we weren’t going anymore because it fostered resentment and more cognitive disonance than a teenager should be made to swallow when they’re already feeling like the world is against them just because they have acne or still wear three year old sports bras. But my mom never “made” us go like our father had. She never threatened punishment or displayed violent disapproval. She certainly prodded us, though. I think “Jesus gave his life, the least you can give is one hour a week,” was one of her favorite quips. But her version of spiritual responsibility was mild and reasonable compared to my father’s, who hit my brother in the face once for not being ready for church when he came to collect us during the months between being kicked out and heading heading, back to cali cali.

One time, I was home in DC from Princeton and my mother wanted me to go with her to the Basilica for the Ash Wednesday mass. I went. I sat quietly. I smiled at the babies facing the back of the church while their mothers faced the altar, absentmindedly bouncing them over their shoulders to keep them quiet. I read through some of the literature. That’s probably what I miss the most. All that epic language. But I remained seated when it was time to receive ashes and again when it was time for communion. As a bisexual, pro-choice, pre-marrital sex havin’ heathen like myself, I felt it would be wrong of me to participate in this most sacred though ubiquitous of rites. That if I was going to be out and proud that I most certainly had to respect the church by leaving it alone and dismissing my self from its indulgences. My mother returned to the pew for a second time, peaceful and meditative, a smear of black ash on her chocolate brown forehead and knelt for her post communion prayer. Some people headed straight for the massive doors after their consumption of the transfigured flesh.

When the service was over we left and spoke amicably and I was doing my best to make my mother believe that I still very much had a personal relationship with my interpretation of god. She protested that I should have at least received ashes. I told her it wasn’t necessary and before I could object she’d swiped her thumb over her forehead and was rubbing the ash over my eyebrows. It was playful and silly and so we both laughed while I started to rub it off. But later, while I’m not in the least upset about this particular happenstance, it does remind me of the lengths others are willing to go to impose their faith on you. How in Catholic communities, your body is never your own, so of course they feel they should have say in regulating it.

This, in addition to abstinence only education, rejection of LGBTQ people, or any person, who has an active sex life not sanctioned by marrige for the purpose of pro-creation, and the aforementioned devastatingly ingrained history and culture of hypocrisy, moved me to leave the church. But apparently I never really left! Catholocism is the gift that keeps on giving. Like fruit cake.

You can’t just stop going. You need to sign an  ACTUS FORMALIS DEFECTIONIS AB ECCLESIA CATHOLICA. Until you do, you’re counted as a member of the Catholic Church. I read that and immediately thought “Oh, shit, I’m an unwilling and ignorant statistic!” So, now I need to get my name off that list for good. It’s a small victory, but I feel like it’s the right thing to do.

The process seems simple enough. It’s a form you can get from your local parish and you fill it out and –Voila!– you are an apostate. But here’s the kicker, the church that has my baptismal records is St. Mark’s of Venice, CA. The church where my sister and I were baptized and the church my father and grandfather still attend.

I’m asking for the form via email:

Hi!
My name is Sophia…, born…
I was baptized at St. Mark’s between 1986 and 1990. I can’t remember as I was very young.
I decided to discontinue Catholic practices around the age of 16, except on the behalf of family, but it wasn’t until today that I knew I had to actively terminate my membership with the church through formal means and learned that there is a form I must fill out and submit to the proper authorities.
Please let me know where I can find this form and to whom or where I must return it upon completion.
I am hoping you may have it available as a PDF or word document that you can attach in response to this email. If not, I can pay the offices a visit if necessary.
I am contacting you as opposed to another parish because I’m assuming you would still have access to my baptismal records and therefore it would be easiest for you to confirm my membership before it can be terminated. I apologize if this is incorrect.
Thank you for your time and help and pelase inform me if there’s anything you need me to do on my part!
-Sophia

I’m hoping it’s a PDF. But if I have to go up there, I will.

I’ll keep you posted?

And one more thing. Last time. I promise…Jesus wafers. Okay, I’m done.

 

 

 

 

By Sechavar

Deathly Hollows II is here. The fact that it’s coupled with Carmeggedon sucks for us West coasters, and that may affect it’s earnings out here for it’s opening week, but damn it, it’s a risk the economy is willing to take!

There are two parts to this premiere just like there are two parts to the Deathly Hallows. For anyone around my age, who grew up with HP & Co., our childhood is officially over. You will go into the theatre and sate yourself on the last dregs of your youth and emerge from the cold dark an adult. As a generation, perhaps we’ve been able to hold onto the magic just a little bit longer than those before us, but it’s time to give it up.

I remember going to the midnight release of the last book (omg, that was in like 2007 I am so old…lulz, not really but still…) and upon receiving my prepaid copy I tore into the text with ferocity, feeling my old high school book eating self emerge for a feast. But before I did, I took the time to write on the inside cover, “The end of an era. The end of a girlhood.” But that was just a precursor. But this time, right now, in a matter of hours? It’s really, actually, seriously, no kidding, over. We are there.

The other side of this is the meme-culture response to this long awaited event. It’s kind of hard to be sad faced when you’ve got all these great performances and crafts to celebrate what will certainly go down as one of the most intense, well received, and long lived franchises in our lifetimes. While HP will always have a special place in my heart, I admit I’m curious to see what our subsequent generations will come up with. If I have kids, what will their franchise be? I’m sure Pokemon will still be around (and yes, I’m guilty of having been into that), but it will probably never have the depth and richness of culture that one will find in Rowling’s well crafted world (which is why I left Pokemon). I mean, Pokemon doesn’t have a fictional book called “Pokemon: A History” or “Training Through The Ages”. But there are some similarities. So, basically, not to be the consumer whore that I am, but what’s next? What will fill the vacuum in the fanverse?

Until then, I’ve decided to compile some tidbits that we can share, a bit o’ fairy dust to blow about before it’s over, over, over…

A Harry Potter Parody of Rebecca Black’s “Friday” and EVERYTHING on this page…except Nyan Cat. Sorry, not much I can do about that.

What happens when you replace Beyonce’s “Halo” with “Hallows“?

HP Pick up lines vs. Dirty Harry.

Oh, Ron… But seriously, Loleia Rodriguez has a treasure trove of re-imagined HP-ness.

PopEater.com has a nice stack of videos.

Harry Potter FTW

And some historical context for us nerds:

International Parodies

J.K. Rowling and the Road to Hogwarts

HP Wiki

Harry Potter

1997-2011

Fourteen years later, and all was well.

By Sophia

You’ve got to read about the SlutWalks that have been happening across the country. Whether you like the moniker or not, it does make us, as a society, look at the ways we view women who dress and/or act provocatively and question what it really means to be a feminist and to be sexually liberated.

What I found most striking were the student dialogues in which “there’s always a but”, referring to the fact that while most people agree that no woman deserves to be raped, we should still look down on and askance at those women who dress provocatively because they are “asking for it”. The idea that there is an unspoken agreement on a line of what’s “sexy” and socially acceptable for a woman to wear and crossing that line into what’s “slutty” and garners “the wrong kind of attention”.

And the truth is I’m guilty of this too. I’ve totally looked at another female in a certain kind of dress, shoes, make up, breast exposure, ass exposure, tightness of clothing and thought to myself, “OMG, does she know what she’s doing?”  But regardless of how much of her body is exposed, how she flirts, or how drunk she gets, she still doesn’t deserve ANY of the “wrong kind of attention”. The truth is I, and plenty of other people, need to stop believing and perpetuating the idea that a woman is “inviting” bad behavior from men when she dresses or acts a certain way. Or from me. ( I need to stop whistling at the girls on their bicycles whose thongs ride up and become visible to the general population. Seriously.) I think there’s a quote in the article that aptly states “Stop telling me how to dress and start telling men not to rape.” It’s actually really that simple. The real issue at hand here, that men AND women are not addressing, is that by looking down on women who dress provocatively is perpetuating male privilege. And we’ve all heard that stuff.

  • Boys will be boys
  • He can’t help it
  • Guys think with their dicks
  • He was drunk
  • Of course a guy would do X, Y, or Z
  • He’s just saying that
  • He didn’t mean it
  • He’s a guy

This is bad! This is really bad! When we excuse this behavior we are saying two things that aren’t true and are detrimental to both the intellects of men and women:

1- Someone other than the man himself is responsible for his behavior.

2-No matter how educated or well raised a man is, his default nature is a predatory one.

And both of these things are bullshit. I think about the good men in my life and this is an insult to them. I think about the women I know and they are in no way responsible for when they’re male counter parts or significant others are assholes. An individual, regardless of their gender, orientation, or genitalia, unless psychologically impaired, is ALWAYS responsible for their own behavior. And demeaning that responsibility, or adding to it, based on the aforementioned criteria is not treating everyone as equals.

Now, I don’t want to write this and not address the the word “Slut”. Women have mixed feelings about this word. According to the article, younger women are more likely to embrace it and rework the force of the word into something to be reckoned with, and older women are not interested in reclaiming it for the purposes of activism because of its connotation. Valid points, both very respectable opinions. But let’s take the word at face value. (I can’t resist this cheeziest of essay moves…)

Dictionary.com reads:

slut-

-noun

1. a dirty, slovenly woman.
2. an immoral or dissolute woman; prostitute.
Even if a woman qualifies as all these things, if she says “No.” to someone’s sexual advances…It. Still. Means. No. And I don’t care what the failing-at-doing-your-damn-job-administrators or the frat boys at Yale think, touching a person against their will is illegal and straight up fucking wrong.
Let’s take the word in it’s more common usage, say, a person who tends to have sex with multiple people at different or simultaneous times for reasons ranging from simple enjoyment of sex to serious self esteem issues, and employs risque modes of dress and behavior with which to attract potential sexual partners. This person may be female or male. This person may or may not have strict standards for sexual partners, hell they may not have any all. They may not be practicing safe sex. They may expose themselves to dangerous people and environments, having questionable judgment. They may be a frumpily dressed English major with two student jobs in a long distance committed poly amorous relationship trying to get through her senior year at a challenging institution just looking for ways to unwind after a hard day’s work who always insists on condoms, proof of being clean from STDs, takes her birth control everyday, who asks random interesting and/or good looking guys at parties if they want to go back to her room on a regular basis on the condition that they submit to the above terms and are single or also in a sexually open relationship of some kind. For funsies. Any of these people, any combination of these people, is still allowed to tell you “No” and you better fucking listen.
Lastly, I want to address, well dress. Women have a LOT of fashion to choose from, not to mention that it’s more socially acceptable for women to don menswear than vice versa, leaving us ladies with, well, all the fashion (cue evil laugh). I can wear pants, skirts, vests, turtle necks, stockings, corsets, bow ties, neck ties, cuff links, chains, leather, lace, silk, satin, cotton, leggings, heels, slippers, oxfords, bikinis, or nothing at all in some places, and it’s all good, baby. And I can wear any of those things for any reason.
I feel gross, I haven’t showered today, jeans and sweatshirt and pull my hair back.
I feel good today, it’s sunny, it’s Friday, I’m going to wear a skirt and a v-neck tee and maybe some fun patterned Ray-bans.
I’m going out with my boyfriend, I’m going to wear a low-cut dress and strappy sandals, and line my eyes and put my lip gloss on in the car so he can watch me do seductive things with my mouth in the sun visor mirror.
I am going out with my girls tonight and we are going to be the center of attention, so I want to wear my tight short black dress, my platform pumps, gold eye shadow, the big gold hoops with my name on them, lots of mascara, and no bra.
It is laundry day and I have absolutely nothing clean to wear except this old prom dress. So I will dress it down with this grey blazer and hope people don’t think I’ve lost my marbles.
I would never deny that women, and men, are guilty of wearing things specifically because they want other people to notice them or because we’re trying to communicate things with our clothes, though sometimes what they’re trying to communicate alludes me (and I am so going to hell for that). Sometimes we do it with no intention at all. I wore short shorts the other day while I did some errands because it was really hot and I wanted some more color on my legs so I wouldn’t have to nair them again for a while. And then when I was outside walking, minding my own business I got some hollers and honking from men driving past in their cars and I was like Wha-? Oh. Right. Shorts. But regardless of what we wear and why we wear it, people can look, shout, and honk all they want, but they don’t have permission to touch your ass just because it’s in view. Besides, rapists don’t care what their victim is wearing. It doesn’t’ matter if it’s anal floss or a burqa. They care about opportunity. Even more creepy, women are most likely to be sexually assaulted by someone they know more so than by a stranger checking them out. Although “non-stranger” isn’t specifically defined. Just because I know your name, you bought me a drink, and we’re dancing together doesn’t make you a “non-stranger” to me…
The last thing I want to point out is that I, personally, sometimes want to dress very provocatively, just cause I want to. Cause I think it would be fun or cool. But I admit I’m afraid to because I’m afraid of the attention it could draw. I can deal with car horns and “Hey mama!”s. But I don’t want a guy standing abnormally close to me, breathing down my neck going “Ay, girl, you look good.” Cause that is, well, gross.
I was in Vegas for Memorial Day weekend, and, well, Vegas is actually the place I would dress like that because that style is so pervasive there that it’s ubiquitous. I consider it the place to go if I want to get my feet wet wearing a tiny dress and stilettos in public for the first time. However, I saw something that was difficult for me to watch and that was a large woman in a VERY short dress, short enough that, well, I would rather refer to the dress as a really nice shirt that she chose not to wear with pants. But even then, regardless of what I thought or felt about her choice of attire, it doesn’t make her any less of a person and it doesn’t give anyone the right to accost her or touch her. And going off that, I shouldn’t feel like I can’t wear a mini skirt unless I’m out in a group. No one should be afraid to wear what they like, makes them comfortable, or makes them feel nice about themselves because they think it will incite lascivious or derogatory proclamations from the general population.
So, if you’re still reading this what I want you to take away from this post is that no one deserves to be raped, regardless of what they’re wearing, how they’re acting, or who they’re with. Even if they are a slut.

By Sophia

I know this is late, but hear me out.

As a Sci-Fi fan, I can’t help but be drawn to this concept. A day, seemingly like any other, but maybe your wife isn’t there when you call, or your children seem to have left unnaturally early for school. The news booth with the quiet old man is empty. There are suddenly no homeless people at your bus stop. What the hell is going on?

Or maybe you’re one of the chosen, and you wake up not in your bed, but surrounded by light, a feeling of eternal peace and contentment glowing in your heart.

Revelations is my favorite part of the Bible. Hands down. You’ve got mythological beasts completely covered in eyes, the Four Horsemen, angels blowing trumpets, breaking seals, wiping out one third of this and one third of that like it’s nothing. It’s the most bad ass version of end times, in my opinion. Granted I would piss myself if this ever really happened, but I can’t help but wonder.

I know that if all that stuff is true, then there’s no way we can know when. So Camping should have never even gotten started. But then my brain goes into overdrive and comes up with the craziest theories and I begin to wonder if I’m functionally insane. Which I probably am.

WHAT IF-

The Mayans and the Aztecs figured it out, completely by accident because they just woke up being bad ass. “Yeah, gonna build some pyramids that correlate with the stars and shit using only stone, basic mortar, and my own two hands. Oh, and my massive genius. BRB. ”

“Cool, man. I’m going to calculate the end of the earth today and then carve it into a giant stone wheel. See you later at the human sacrifice?”

And God, who had already planned everything and told people, No you can’t know! Cause I’m God! Rabble rabble rabble! Was mad pissed so he made the Mayans disappear, but forgot to destroy all their sculptures and stone texts, and then people started digging and got Popul Vuh-ed up on that ish. Completely insane, I know. Full of holes. The ramblings of a mad idiot.

WHAT IF-

There will be a rapture? No, you’re right that word isn’t in the Bible. Seriously, no where. However, there is a part where the faithful are marked with the name of God on their heads, taken up into heaven, given pimp new robes, and provide the holy soundtrack to the apocalypse. The left over population gets marked with the sign of the beast, can’t buy or sell without it, and live in torturous, murderous wastelands while Satan and his kin party for the last time. So I’m thinking: Social Security Numbers, Barcodes, Microchips, Credit Ratings?! How are they following me??!!! But again, speculative. Unlikely. What happens if someone refused to be marked, even on pain of death? Would rather cut their hand off than live with the mark? Do they get pimp new robes?

WHAT IF-

This whole thing is more like the Hindu and Buddhist interpretations where the end is not final, but a rebirth. And Shiva has to come do his sexy dance (Have you seen the hips on that guy?) once more to purge the world of sin and sickness. Do we get to start over? Do we remember it? Or does another, new species of beings get to start it all over? Are they as good looking as us?

Now, I will confess, so there is no speculation, that I used to be Catholic. I have even begun calling myself “Post-Catholic”, because whatever you are when you’re done being Catholic, but you’re not interested in taking anything else up, that would be me. But regardless of my upbringing and the things I’ve been brainwashed with and hard-wired to believe, my logical brain has no problem accepting that humans and all life are a glorious accident. Some stuff esploded, hydrogen, oxygen, salts, and carbon got hit by lightening and monocellular life was like, “Wha? Who? Where am I? Ok, let’s do this…” Although the original Disney’s Fantasia has a much more beautiful interpretation of this. (OMG, Disney was down with the theory of evolution? Oh snap!)

I know that as humans, while our origins are based in chance, we have a responsibility to take care of each other and protect our world so we can live on it and enjoy it for as long as possible. That we must make the most of this life before we slip into sleep forever, dream dreams we will never recall to another, and have the secret passages of our neurons lit by sparks a final time. All we can hope for is a life dedicated to those who will live after us, and a painless and peaceful death.

But the spirit in me can’t help but wonder if there really is something else. Something unseen, unheard, that whispers through our history’s shadows waiting for an appointed time to reveal itself and direct us to the utopia we cannot achieve on our own, even if it means many of us must be cast aside for the greater good. And as my left and right brains fight over this, they both agree that even with logic and our accepted scientific theories, what then persuades the human mind to conceive of, to hunger for, something more than this?

I guess it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I’d get in anyway. I’ve totally coveted my neighbor’s wife, dishonored my mother and father, taken the lord’s name in vain on several occasions, stolen, borne false witness to escape an ass whoopin’, told the Sabbath to go fuck itself, and hoped that I’d get laid before I ever thought about meeting God. And all that before the age of fifteen. But for anyone who makes it to heaven, it better be flippin’ sweet. Otherwise, I will totally laugh at your stupid little harp and halo while I’m burning in eternal fire.