disenchantedbunny.

     During my earlier school years, my publicly owned school decided that we should get some Religious Instruction classes for those parents who didn’t throw up at the notion. My parents, being more indifferent to religion than to the non-existent hairs on my pre-pubescent back, didn’t see why this was such a bad idea. So those crazy missionaries came and penetrated our school and undoubtedly countless minds in a ideological rape that we’ve all grown to despise in our godless lives. (Only the Christian story too, of course.)

It was quite an exciting story mind you; this god who now sits up in heaven and talks to us all after he decided to kill himself who wasn’t really him or something something… my parents got to hear me ramble about it for about a day before Good Grief, Charlie Brown stole my attention and the Great Pumpkin began his conversations.

Obviously I left this near-accident relatively unscathed. But one memory of this god-time really stands out in my mind as engagingly symbolic (or prophetic) : sitting on the toilet, reflecting on the story that was told to me earlier, I wondered why I could never hear god talking to me. Ah! The magnificent parent (read: father-figure) of the universe! At that point, I began to wonder who god’s parents were and when his birthday was. In fact, after pushing out that giant shit that kept me occupied in there for some time, I began to worry if anyone else had even bothered to check when god’s birthday was. How offended he must have been!

In show of good spirit I hummed ‘happy birthday’ to god in my head while I wiped my asshole clean. And that was all.