Edward Lorn's Blog, page 112

Ruminating On: Jason

I have shared so much with you. So, why now, do I hesitate. What of real horror? What of real pain and suffering? Do you know of what I speak? Have you felt loss so real it feels surreal. Have you cried until the well has run dry and then realized there’s still blood left to be shed? I have. Come, take a walk with me.

Dates and time are of little consequence here. I will tell you that this happened long enough for the sting to have dulled, but not long enough to be forgotten… To be forgotten? I’m sure that day will never come.

Late one evening, while I was cooking dinner, my wife began complaining of a pain in her lower abdomen. You don’t know my wife, so let me explain: She never complains. No matter how bad the pain gets, she takes it like a champ and moves right along. Rarely will she even take a single Tylenol to help waylay her discomfort. So, that night, I knew with a deep sense of dread that something was wrong. I just didn’t know what.

Chelle—in case you don’t know my wife’s name—has a very real hatred for hospitals. Especially emergency rooms. After dealing with an alcoholic father for most of her life, who’s had multiple meetings with death’s doorstep, ERs and Chelle mix like oil and water. But, this time, she didn’t even try to fight me. Once again, that sense of impending doom throttled me. I found it hard to breathe.

The good news came first. The staff rushed her in, asked her the standard trauma questions, then immediately gave her a piss quiz. Guess what? We were pregnant. A night that seemed to be going in a terrible direction suddenly didn’t seem so bad. We were elated. I was going to be a father again. At the time, Autumn was a year old, and I couldn’t think of anything better than giving her a brother to grow up with. Yes, I knew in my heart it was a boy, just like I knew Autumn would be a girl. Years later, when my son, Chris, was born, I called his sex, too. I’m good like that.

A nice young woman came in to take Chelle to ultrasound. Giddy with the possibility of another child, but still hurting too much to fully enjoy it, Chelle lay upon a cold, plastic-cushioned table and gripped my hand in hers. She watched me, not the monitor. I will always remember the look on her face. That smile said, “we’re pregnant,” but her eye’s told a different side of the story: “And something’s wrong.” The ultrasound took longer than it should have. We’d just been through this a year ago with Autumn. It’s a pretty speedy process, really. These techs know where to look. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Chelle and I were in that little ultrasound room for an eternity. Time passed languidly. Clocks stopped. Seemed Father Time knew something we did not.

My wife and I were pregnant for fifteen minutes. That’s how long we knew before we found out that our son would never see the world, nor would we ever see him. They called it “ectopic.” They called it a “tubal.” They could have just said something went fucking wrong for all the sense those other words meant to me. In plain speak, my son was killing my wife. And we’d have to kill him to save her. I know that sounds harsh, but I’m a straight-up, honest dude, and that’s how I saw it. There are no niceties here, no pandering. Feel my pain, or stop reading.

We cried. Oh, for the love of everything in this goddamn world, did we cry. But even that, was stolen from us; our time together cut short by the necessity of surgery. They needed to cut my unborn child from his mother. And I was made to wait while it happened.

I will forever be indebted and grateful to my mother for showing up. She cared for Autumn while I waded through shit I didn’t have the stones to deal with. I left my mother alone with Autumn in the waiting room and went outside for a smoke. What I remember most is a trash can; one of the sort that’s concrete on the outside, covered in that exterior to hide the unsightly tin receptacle on the inside. That’s what hospitals are good at; hiding the ugly; pay no attention to what happens behind the curtain. Fuck you, oh lazy, uncaring Wizard of Oz.

I felt hopeless and helpless, alone for the first time in many years. I couldn’t be with Chelle, I couldn’t save my son, I couldn’t even be around my daughter because she reminded me of success in the midst of failure. Some random guy came walking up to me and asked me for a smoke. I told him to fuck off. He looked at me, wised to the fact that I was not going to take a rebuttable lightly, and moved along. I’m sure I would have killed him had he said anything more. Then, where would I be? But in a situation like that, you don’t think, you only react. Life meant little to me at that point, and his was miniscule in comparison to what I was losing.

At some point in time, I realized I was punching that concrete trash can with everything I had. And I mean, I was leaning into every swing, bloodying my knuckles up something proper. I’m surprised I didn’t break my hand. I looked at that blood, my blood, and thought about Jason. I’d named him at some point; though, as with my assault on the trash receptacle, I don’t recall when.

I dreamt while fully aware, while fully conscious. This was no daydream, but a stark visual. Jason looked like me; had my cheeks, my brown hair and short cupid’s bow. Chelle’s attributes stopped with his eye lashes, so long and lavish that I just hoped he wouldn’t be picked on. I held his hand during our walk together to his first day of kindergarten. I pushed him while he pedaled his first bike, taking to it like a pro on the first try. We studied math problems, wrote English papers, and discussed a certain girl he might ask to go steady with him. I watched him grab the tassel on his cap and swing it to the opposite side, graduating with honors. College lead to a job he loved and a family he cherished. Grandkids surrounded me, laughing and playing, enjoying my company, while Jason and his wife sat smiling at the kitchen table.

I threw up all over my shoes.

I saw the same visions when Autumn was born. They set her under the heat, cleaned her up, and finally let me in to greet my new baby. I reached down into the warmer and without hesitation, she grabbed my finger. The floodgates opened and I was reduced to a whimpering mess. We had created this beautiful, wondrous child. God was real.

Then, God died. Jason would never know me, would never get the chance that Autumn had been given. I didn’t hate my daughter, in fact, my love for her is what kept me pressing forward after everything was said and done. But I’d lost a piece of myself somewhere in that damnable hospital, with its cold walls and unconcerned paint scheme. Somewhere, deep within the bowels of that institution, resided a monster I meant to slay. Only I couldn’t find him. So I went back to reality and fought myself instead.

Over the years, I’ve come to ask many questions. What of God? What of a soul? Could Jason’s ethereal presence have been forwarded into Chris’ body? Could Chris be the child I was meant to have so many years back? What if he is? Moreover, what if he isn’t? You know what? It doesn’t matter. I loved Jason, though I never got the chance to know him and in the same breath, I love Autumn and Chris.

What I have come to terms with, is this: Life moves on, with or without you. So, what of horror? I can tell you I’ve dealt it on occasion, and somehow, I always win. What of pain and suffering? We all go through it and it always helps to share. Why now? Because I finally have the words to do my lost child justice.

There is hope in loss. There is light in the darkness. But there comes a time when we all must say our farewells.

Daddy loves you, Jason. Goodbye.

 

 

 

Ziggy Found Dead!

This just in! In a shocking turn of events, the body of comic strip legend, Ziggy, has been found. Early reports state he was drowned, then decapitated. More news is still coming in from local officials, but a picture was leaked to the internet that is quite disturbing. Parents, you may want to avert your children’s eyes. He will be sorely missed. Dilbert, Marmaduke and the Peanuts gang are all being held for questioning.

Friends of Ziggy had this to say: http://www.gocomics.com/ziggy/

In other news, Calvin, of Calvin and Hobbes, admits to heroin addiction, says Hobbes isn’t real. News at ten.

The Beginning.

Day One: 400lbs

For those of you that have read today’s blog over at Ruminating On. I have some updates:

First: Over the course of the past two weeks, I have only had two glasses of soda (down from a two-liter a day) and have replaced every other beverage with water. I did this to prove to myself that I could do “healthy” if I wanted to. I do have a cup of coffee on occasion with cream and sugar, but usually it’s Green or Earl Grey tea. I will start weening myself off all caffeine in another two weeks.

Second: I just finished my first in-home yoga session using a beginners chart I found online until my videos get here. These were VERY basic positions, but my muscles are burning. I should have known this would happen given my inactivity over the course of the past five years. Still, I’m so relaxed. Physically, I would liken this to drinking tequila without the drunk part. I feel warm, fuzzy, content.

Third: I’m not on a diet. I will continue eating as per usual. I feeling if I tackle everything at once, I am bound to fail. Once I lay off the caffeine, I plan on cutting salt from my diet. Then, on to watching my carb and calorie intake.

I will keep everyone updated on my successes and my failures, alike.

E.

Ruminating On: Losing a Backstreet Boy

I have literally become far too comfortable in my own skin. I’m skipping the literary side of things today to share a new personal mission of mine. We can talk about writing and the world some other day. Today, I want to talk about me.

I was born fat. There’s a picture of me that was taken shortly after my parents left the hospital in which I’m wearing overalls with a red shirt underneath. I looked like Porky the Pig. I know, all babies are chubby, but I was a little bigger than most. As I grew up, the weight remained. Constant bullying through my school years should have been motivation enough to lose the weight, but all those harsh words did was drive me deeper into the fridge. Tears and calories are true companions. Once the horrors of my educational institutions were behind me, I joined the working world. Jobs had hard times finding uniforms for me and I was even fired once for not being able to tuck my shirt in because my belly was too large. I finally found a job in healthcare as a nurse’s assistant. Scrubs are amazing, rather like sweats. They camouflage the rolls, smooth you out, and make you feel like a solid being instead of a mass of gelatinous tissue and cellulite. Also, nurses are some of the kindest people in the world. Rarely will you find a healthcare professional that is apt to poke fun at your obesity. I thought I had found a home. Years later, that job changed my life forever. We were coding a patient, trying to save his life, but no one would help me get the CPR board under him. Two-hundred-and-seventy-five pounds of dead weight I lifted with no thought of my own well being. They slid the board under him and laid him back down on the bed. Then, I collapsed. It’s called Quanta Equinus (that could be spelled horribly wrong, so I apologize in advance, but that’s the phonetic spelling, anyway) and it’s effects include: loss of bowel and bladder control, numbness and paralysis in one or both of your legs, along with a feeling that your feet are constantly on fire. I blew out the L4 and L5 discs in my spine. When L5 ruptured, it pinched the S1 nerve root and that was all she wrote. I couldn’t walk without assistance for four months. Workman’s comp argued that there was nothing wrong with me that PT couldn’t help. My condition worsened and no one would believe I was in pain. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. Since they couldn’t feel, or see, the location of my pain, it simply didn’t exist to them. Without the knowledge of my workman’s comp middle man, I had a MRI done. And like magic, everyone wanted to help. I was appointed a date for surgery and finally found some relief. So as not to bore you with BS middle years, I have had two other surgeries since my injury in 2005, both emergent because my ability to walk had once again been threatened.

I tell you all that to tell you this. One of the biggest reasons for my recurrent back issues is the substantial weight pulling down on me. My stomach is a person in and of itself. If I lost the tummy, I quite possibly would lose a Backstreet Boy. So, why haven’t I done this? I’m big enough, so why not have surgery, or some other drastic process to rid myself of my self-imposed rotundness? I’m not scared, if that’s what you think. I simply haven’t cared. There in lies the problem that I intend to correct. I started this blog telling you that I, quite literally, have become too comfortable in my own skin. There has been a movement for the acceptance of fat people in our society. “Let them do what they want. They’re only hurting themselves,” couldn’t be more true and I have no problem with that statement. The issue I have is the defense of obesity for the sake of empathy. No one close to me wants to be the bully, no one wants to tell me I’m a fat-fuck that needs to lay off the Twinkies. This has both helped and hurt me. I have convinced myself that I am fine the way I am. People like me for who I am, not my size, and that comforts me. My wife fell for the huge being that I am, and that will always be one of the million reasons I love her with all of my being. Though she does not bring it up unless I’m already talking about it, I know she’s concerned, as is my seven-year-old daughter. But the fact remains, no one pushes me on the subject. I’ve become so brainwashed by my own complacency that when someone does mention my weight I either ignore it, or agree and move on.

It. Does. Not. Compute.

Well, it’s time to reformat my hard drive and install new software.

I don’t want your sympathy, your acceptance, your disregard for my health because it’s my health and not yours. If you don’t feel like making fun of me, or driving the fact that I could lose 50% of my weight and still be a big dude down my throat, I get it. But I can no longer hear things like, “It’s what’s on the inside that counts,” and “As long as you’re happy, who cares?” because those things are killing me. My back can’t take it anymore and I’m sure my heart would concur, as well. I need a slap in the face. I believe I’ve just given myself one, but I could falter on my journey. I do not do this for vanity or an ego boost. My wife isn’t going anywhere and, as most of you already know, I think pretty damn highly of myself. I’m not fishing for words of encouragement or a shoulder to cry on. I do not feel bad for myself. Instead, I feel like a fucking idiot for letting it get this out of control. I need to be able to play with my children. I need to be able to walk fifty yards to the mailbox without getting winded. I need to be here for the long haul. And above all this, I would like to see my dick again.

Too much honesty? Oh well. E will be E, after all.

Don’t wish me luck. I need certainty, not happenstance.

This is part of how I plan on making my change. Click HERE for more info. And no, they are not paying me.

LYF,

E.

Where Did All The Monsters Go?

Where Did All The Monsters Go?

By Jack Wallen

Read this. No Excuses. Go On.

Fall Remains

Author’s Note: This is a continuation of sorts, a “sequel” if you will. Please read “Summer Long” by David Antrobus before reading this story. You can find it HERE:

Thank you, and enjoy.

E.

Fall. And fall he would; a rock into a pond. His passing would be marked by the ebb and flow of the tide. He held no false pretense of what his death would mean. When he hit the water, there would be no butterfly effect, no small ripples ever growing to a tsunami somewhere in a far off land. Splash, he’d land, and the liquid dunes would soon fade, like a heart monitor signaling the fading of a broken muscle. Beep. Peak. Beep. Flatten. And so it would go, until that line was nothing more than static neon segmenting the blackest of worlds.

Loss rides high on the wings of regret, and a bird looking for food will soon descend. Come the cold embrace of a wintery love after the fall; he would be no more. Seasons could not change without the death of the one before it. Those waves he rushed towards would envelope him like a mother soothing a child. Endings were made for stories, and his was already told.

That poor girl on the park bench beckoned, figuratively. She would go on, he had no doubt. Happiness would either make itself known, or she would eventually come to know fall with all its stunning endings. She was of no consequence now. All that was left was the bridge behind him, a cold railing pressing against his back like a corpses’ palm.

Periphery images, cones of light thrown by passing cars, came and went. Would there be a final light at the end? he wondered. One so miniscule and bereft of warmth that he would turn away from it and seek to find a source of heat. Would he travel down, down, down, `til he struck bedrock and blasted his image upon the stone like a man standing between a wall and the disbursement of an atom bombs’ payload? His crumbling facade turned to a shadowy reminder, a charcoal relief etched on brick.

Life had stolen everything from him, and now, he chose to steal life from himself. Dragging the water below, they would find a man sated for the first time in his existence, for he had finally accomplished something. He’d won. Rigor would set his smile and that rictus would serve as the epitaph – the sheer necessity – of his passing. They would ask, “What of this Cheshire’s grin? What of this man?” And time would answer, “Nothing. Not any more.”

As a child, he’d hoped. Adulthood had come and offered nothing but bleak reality. Forget the flowers, where had all the innocence gone? Cradle’s fell with a cacophony that shattered eardrums and faith alike with a thundering finality. Growing up had been like striking every branch on the way down, as if he had traversed a line of men that wailed on him with yardsticks. Being born at the highest point of that tree had lent him a view of a far off horizon, one where the sun set and advent night bled into the world like ink being mopped up by cotton. The evolution from dusk to full-fledged evening came with the promise of morning. His existence proved that what actually came was mourning.

The girl on the park bench had reminded him of Winter, how she’d come on frosty but left with a spring about her. But if he were to see Winter again, he must end. And so the cycle would remain unbroken, undeterred by seasons come and gone, a vagrant begging for change when he could no longer offer.

The sun dove head first into the waters before him. He gave that celestial body a perfect ten, for the waters remained undisturbed. The sky blended blues with yellows; the first speakings of twilight’s approach whispered in his ears.

“Hey, Partner? Whatcha doin out there?” That voice, unfamiliar and unexpected, died in his ears, meant nothing to him.

“I think he means to jump, Stan!”

“Stay in the car. Call the cops. Hey! Hey, Partner!”

That smile the divers would find, crept across his face. Partner, what an apt name. The absense of a partner spurred this decision in the first place, so to die a Partner seemed pleasant.

“Don’t do it. Come on, now! Step back!”

The wind picked up and carried the onlooker’s voice away. Air, still warm, still holding fast to a fleeing summer, rushed by him until finally he was poured over ice and set to chill.

Deaf and broken, he sank, the pain like an alarm clock set to stun. Someone had replaced his bones with shattered glass, the fools! Slowly, excruciatingly, he began to rise once more, back up into the world he wanted so bad to be gone from, to that place where Winter had yet to return, and it seemed, he would remain.

Rhymes with Orange

To my daughter, Autumn…

In a sea of green lives Orange the Tree

Never discouraged with bright colored leaves

“Orange!”

He bellows on high, “Orange, am I!”

While Greens are content to pass the time by.

“Orange!”

Be it Summer or Fall, to be seen by all,

He flexes his branches and commences to call,

“Orange!”

Even at night, the tree’s such a sight

That the stars in the sky envy his might.

“Orange!”

“Quiet that noise,” an Oak employs

A tactic for the racket that Orange enjoys

“Orange!”

“For the color you share, we do not care.

While we sleep, not a peep do we want to hear!”

“Orange!”

But Orange ignores what the Oak implores

And continues to roar as Greens slumbered and snored.

“Orange!”

Oak woke with a yawn as the new day dawned

And looking ’round saw that Orange had gone.

“Orange?”

Uprooted, he’d fled, to the north he’d tread

Orange did search for a Maple named Red

“Orange!”

Now up in the cold, Orange grows old

Saplings gather ’round as his story is told.

“Orange!”

In that sea of green, Orange fought to be seen.

To become unique, you must only believe!

“Orange!”

(Author’s Note: Once upon a time, while traveling through Vermont, my wife noticed a tree that stood out in the distance. Everywhere you looked, there were trees with green foliage. But there, in the middle, was an orange anomaly, big and bold. We joked about how he strained to be noticed. So much so that he’d changed before the season had. I’ve always admired that tree for wanting to be unique. This poem is a tribute to him, dedicated to my own sapling…”ORANGE!”)

Hand Prints

Look on these walls. Do you see?

You sip your coffee, both hands wrapped around the mug as if praying. Certain as ever, you look up and do not see him sitting across from you. The tears fill your eyes as your heart breaks for third time that morning. It seems like forever since you saw him last; forever since you smelled his cologne or touched the stubble along his cheek. In reality, it’s only been a week.

Getting up from your chair, you run your hand along the wall of the hallway as you move down to your bedroom. The mattress sits alone, unused. You haven’t been able to sleep in here since he left you. It seems cold even with the heat on. Running your fingers over the sheets, you notice the hand print on the bed cover. A perfect outline of a palm and thumb have been pressed down into the mattress disturbing the sheets. You pull the sheet tight and the remnant disappears.

“I’m sorry,” you say to him. Not knowing if he can really hear you, and not truly caring. It just needs to be said.

Going about your day, you pull the grocery list off of the fridge back in the kitchen and read the contents. You haven’t been hungry since he’s been gone, but you need to eat; you have got to eat something. The eggs and bread and milk that accompany the other items on the list have spoiled. They’re rotten, covered in mold and have become rancid. You crumple the paper and throw it in the bin.

Nothing will ever taste the same, feel right or smell familiar again. Not in the way they used to when he was around. You know this with a certainty; a finality that begs you to breakdown and cry in a corner. But you’ve already shed so many tears. Gallons of those salty reminders, a year or more worth of weeping done in just seven long days.

You put your coffee cup in the sink and decide it’s time you showered. How long has it been? you ask yourself as you shake your head. Time has seemed to of disappeared. It has lost interest just as you have and is a forgotten thing; discarded just like you.

Running the water, your hands are too numb to actually feel the temperature of the jet. You take off your dirty clothes (another thing that hasn’t changed in seven days) and kick them into a corner of the bathroom. Stepping under the stream, you watch the pale skin of your breasts turn pink under the hot water. Still, you cannot feel it, and ignore the darkening of your flesh. Let it burn, you think, maybe you’ll feel something eventually.

Washing seems a silly idea, a non-point; moot and ridiculous. Why should you clean yourself? There is no one left here for you. No one is going to replace that empty, hollow spot in your chest that he has left. There is, after all, no one to impress. Leaving the wash cloth hanging over the bath spout, you just stand there letting the jet of water push divots into your flesh.

To your left, through the rising mist of the spray, in the steam on the glass, is another hand print. You know it’s him again. His index finger was just as long as his middle finger and you two spent several nights in bed commenting on it. It was like the gap in his front teeth and the mole below his right eye. They were him, his errors, the things that made him him and made you love him.

You fell in love with his beauty; stayed for the flaws.

With a trembling hand, you wipe away the hand print and finish your shower.

You would not let him do this to you. He could not play games like this. Being gone, meant he was gone. Period. Nothing would change that. Not a thousand hand prints, not a million touches in the dark; not even a flat palm on your back that said everything was going to be alright.

Nothing could replace him, and you weren’t going to let him keep reminding you.

Walking into the bedroom, you dry yourself off. Suddenly your knees feel weak and you must sit on the edge of the bed. The towel that’s wrapped around you comes undone and falls away. Your left breast lifts a little and you feel a thumb on your nipple, pressing. You watch your skin indent as a finger moves down the middle of your chest. The trail comes to your bell button and you shudder. Your flesh rises in bumps and you feel that need–that wanton need–that fire.

Then, just like him, it is gone.

You shake your head, trying to clear it, and your wet hair splashes cold droplets on your bare thighs. Slowly you reach down and grab the towel.

You do not realize it, but your are trembling. Staring at the back of your shaking hand, you decide to let the towel lay.

“I’m sorry,” you say for the second time that morning. You don’t know if you’re telling him, or yourself. Could you forgive him for leaving you; moreover, could he forgive you for making him.

You hear the screams of rage, the fire in your veins, the misused passion in your own eyes as you grab the sides of the mirror in bathroom and bash your head against the glass. It shatters, falls in the sink, and stares up at you accusingly. You regard the broken pieces of yourself with contempt. Several sets of eyes seek some kind of reaction, some semblance of regret. Those stares prompt you and you must make them go away.

You cut.

Laying on the floor of the bathroom, you cry, salt mixing with copper at the corners of your mouth. A wan smile spreads across your face and you reach for the wall. Placing your bloody palm against the flowered print, you pull it away. You stare at that hand print, your own hand print, and you now this is right.

As if in agreement, a second crimson hand print appears.

Love remains. Among other things.

Write Edward Lorn’s Biography!

How well do you think you know me? Or, better yet, how well can you exaggerate? Give me you most outrageous biography. I don’t care if everything in it is factual, but if it isn’t it better be funny or witty or both. Have fun in the comment section.

I posted this on Facebook and Twitter as well, so if you commented there, there’s no need to comment here.

Keep it clean, as I will be using this on Facebook, Twitter, Amazon and every other place you can find me.

I can’t wait to learn more about myself

E.

Ruminating On: Religion and Politics

Ah, religion and politics, the two things you shouldn’t talk about among friends. So why is it that we seem so drawn to do just that? If we know that our views may butt heads and risk tarnishing our relationships, why are we so adamant about being heard? The simple answer is because we all would like to believe our opinions are the good and just ones. The harder answer to accept is that we all know, at our base levels, that we might be wrong. I will be going over factual information as I see it. In other words, my opinion. Your thoughts should go into the comment section below. I listen. I read every comment I receive and respond 99% of the time. If you’re comment is nothing more than, “Great post, E,” or “You’re a darn fool, E.,” don’t expect a reply because all I can say is either “Thanks,” or “I told you so.” Give me something to respond to; I beggah’ya!

We’ll start with religious text because this is where I’m going to lose you as a reader if you’re easily offended by beliefs and views that do not coincide with your own. Pick your text of choice; be it Bible, Koran, Book of Mormon, whatever, just pick one. They’re all the same to me. That is, they are all the word of your chosen deity as perceived by man. Assuming your god, or gods, are the real and true thing, they are not the ones who wrote the book that guides you. Man did. “But, E., my god(s) directed Man to do so!” Okay, once again, let’s say that is true. But who translated it? I have a King James Version of the bible sitting in front of me. There is actually a disclaimer within the first few pages that states those who transcribed this version may or may not share your own personal beliefs. The publisher did this for the same reason television networks add the statement, “The views of this “so and so” may not be the views of this “blah de blah.” to all infomercials. They’re covering their own rear-ends in case something hits the fan legally, or, in most cases, someone does something the viewers will not agree with. Now, if you’re text is thousands of years old, you certainly do not hold the original document in your hand. If the original text even still exists somewhere, its probably in a museum, out of your reach. Sure, your god(s) may be infallible, but Man is not. We are creatures of error. This is why, no matter what religion you believe in (but especially with the Christian bible) there are so many different ways of viewing the same stanzas. Because of this, thoughts are based on allegorical writings that may not have meant anything, much less the concrete belief structure you have set into place surrounding metaphors and similes. Could a burning bush be a copse of red and orange Fall vegetation? Yes. Could someone have lit their pubic hair on fire? Maybe not, but you can always assume. I know if I caught my crotch ablaze, I’d hear the voice of God, too. Here comes the argument that I’ve been building to. The Bible is the greatest selling book of all time because it inspires hope, teaches of a hereafter, of meaning. That’s all religion is, my friends, a comfortable place in which to reside before you take your final breath. As far back as Man can be traced, we’ve believed in something bigger than ourselves, because in not believing we see our existence as minimal, or completely useless. Religion spurs hostile debate because no one knows the real answers and nobody wants to believe we all just simply turn to dust. Christians argue with Christians all the time. You have many extremes (The Westboro Baptist Church is one that comes to mind) that believe God can’t stand us hairless apes, yet they’re reading the same bible as the ones that preach love and kindness and forgiveness. How can one God be all these things? Because people choose to believe He can. And nothing stirs a good debate like belief. One last thing about religion. Ever play the game of Telephone. You stand in a line and a person at one end whispers into the ear of the person beside them, then that person passes the message along to the next, and so on until it reaches the other end. The last time I played this game, the starter message was, “A man in a car drove to Toledo.” There were seven of us in line. By the time the message reached the last person it had become, “A mantra drove a torpedo.” That is the best possible analogy for religion that I have found. By the time the message reaches the end, it will be far different and will make much less sense because human beings were involved.

If any of you are left, we’ll now turn to politics. Who created politics and why? Once again, Man, Man, Man, and also, Man, ad infinitum or nauseum if you have a weak constitution. But why? Why does Man seem to need a government body? Ah-ha! Because, once again, we need to believe in something greater than ourselves. In a way, politics might have been created to bring us all together. Of course we all know that’s far from the case nine times out of ten, but I firmly believe whoever created the idea of government had the best of human intentions in mind. Politics is just as touchy a subject as religion for many of the same reasons. Beliefs and fallibility. Everyone wants to believe that their views are correct, when in fact they’re just blind to what makes them wrong. We humans have an insane talent for looking the other direction when someone challenges our beliefs. We don’t want to hear any clear, concise debates proving us to be in error. What would happen if we all just thought for ourselves, kept to ourselves and minded our own business! We will never find out because of politics. All politics boils down to is this: The crowd feels that their throng is not being treated right and would like change, so they put someone in place to enact said change. Well, there’s always a group that will disagree. Because we’re humans, and that’s what humans do. We. Fucking. Argue. We’ve been brainwashed into thinking that if our belief structure and our governing bodies were to just disappear (see reference: Anarchy) that society would just fall apart. Why? Are we all a bunch of rapey, murdery, robbing thugs that can’t act civilized without some sort of theological reason for living or some set of court mandated rules? Because that’s what we’re assuming. We theorize that, without religion and politics, our better judgment would vanish overnight and all would fall to chaos. I, for one, have a stronger faith in humanity. We’re all frightened of change and revolution and being only just ourselves. I know we’ll always look to religion and politics for answers – I’m not so jaded that I believe we should all just throw away our indoctrination - but maybe, if we could stop being so terrified of proving ourselves wrong, we could find the change we all want.

Belief in yourself is strong; it builds passion and new ideas and creativity and lust for life. Religion is what we seek because this all ends. Politics is what we hold onto while we’re still alive to save us from ourselves. One another is what we reach for when times get bad. Mistakes are how we learn. Being wrong is a splendid thing because we chose to take a chance. Never stop questioning. Never settle. Don’t believe everything you read. And more importantly, don’t share your politics or your religion unless you’re ready to be challenged.

In summation: I don’t want less government or religion because people seem to need both equally. I would only like for you all to see that you’re going to be wrong, on both accounts, because in either matter, facts rarely come into play.

E.