My insides are in a constant state of debate(anarchy really). Let me illustrate that. If a vein in my arm is pumping one side of an argument, the capillary next to it is trying it’s damnedest to throttle the heck out of that poor bugger’s opinion.
Trying to live a life without God is like going to a cocktail party with a rip in your dress, or shoes with uneven heels. It’s like having to eat Nandos food for a week. It’s like waking up and finding your book collection teeming with mutant cockroaches, that are sawing through precious pages by the second. Mortification, despair, discomfort and rage respectively.
It’s waking up every day and being kissed by guilt and self-loathing for every single thing that you’ve done wrong, every freaking mistake you’ve been stupid enough to make-and I don’t mean those petty cat-pissy misdemeanors like stealing from your father’s liquor stash or telling a practical stranger your best friend’s secrets.
I mean those thundering bastards that kill parts of your spirit, infuse you with a horrible ennui, sap your will to be a better person and superglue a saddle of remorse to your back. Those ones that cause your heart to BOOM whenever they come within thinking distance, the ones you might find yourself uncontrollably blubbing about while seated on a speaker next to DJ TUMZ.
I’m telling you, man. It’s not pretty trying to go about things alone.
However, the decision’s a bitch. Y’know, Implementing the decision you’ve made to revisit your relationship with the head Sky Spirit. First of all you start to feel the need for change.You’re all of a sudden uncomfortable with cursing and are constantly trying to invent new word combinations to use in the place of the wonderfully apt but discomfiting trio- shit, hell and fuck. This is not an easy thing if your mouth has been filthy so long, it’s as messy as the average ugandan kidney. Nandos! Louis! and Tizz! Just don’t cut it as replacements.
Secondly, your weedstash demands attention. The fat herb sticks grin at you, waggle their eyebrows and ask, ‘what now?’ Kush, this is wasup. I’m not going to flush you. I’m not a philistine. You’re going to be used, every single stick because in my personalized covenant with the SKY CAT, kush is the ish :).
Third in line is your bombastic collection of fishnets. Fishnets, get ready to meet a couple of new dress tops. That’s the solution. Longer dress-tops! Hee.
Now if like me, your heroes are all either agnostic or atheist, things can get shitty. I don’t want to ascribe to a creed that has sent Douglas Adams to hell. What the tizz, man. If like me, some parts of your Bible seem awfully ridiculous and some of your pastor’s opinions make you want to walk up to him and spit on his forehead, you’re in a muddle alright.
Somewhere along the path to adulthood, at about 17, something convinced us that decadence was cool. That the more shockingly bad we were, the smarter, nicer, more desirable we’d be in the eyes of whoever we were trying to impress at the time. To be fair, this held good for a while.
The problem with decadence is that it’s…dirt, whichever way you look at it. In the end, its grime and the human’s instinctive reaction to dirt is to maybe wallow in it for a bit; then to exclaim, ‘Shit, man. Pheeeeuw. What is that smell? Can’t be me, can it? Nooo!’ Then to cringe, barf a little and finally, to clean it up.
Lady sinister is sick to death of trying in her feeble human way to ignore the shit stains on her life-canvas. It’s not necessary to wade through a dirt filled existence when you can solicit the help of a bigger force and be blessed with relief and peace of mind.
So, baby steps. First, forgiveness (which is coming along very nicely). Next, the invention of expletives that are better suited to this new way that I’m trying very hard to be.