We Know God

People in this country know God.

They Know what he wants, they Know what he doesn't want, and they Know where he lives.

They Know that He wants their basketball teams to win. He wants their daughters to make prom queen. He wants their marriages to succeed and their temptations to fail.

They Know that He doesn't want passion for anything but Him. They know he is a jealous God who does not care for rival lusts and desires. They know he does noy want us to have tattoos or piercings, for those are for heathens and the despairing sons of Cain. They know that--while He does want love to exist--it should only exist in very limited, very contextually relevant circumstances.

They know that He lives in the hearts of the most pious, and repels Himself from the damned and unholy-if-not-well-intentioned. They know He lives among us yet above us, aloof but succumbing to the wants and needs and whines of man. They know He lives solely to serve us and to allow us to pass judgement on the weak.

The people here live in God's country, and I pity Him for that.

Why I Hate Books

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with literature, and actual, physical books in general.

Ever since I was little, the book store was simultaneously the best and worst place in the world. You don't set a diabetic fat kid loose in a candy store, and you don't let me loose in a book store. First of all, I'll spend ALL my money. All of it. Secondly, it's a maddening experience for me. The choices whisper at me from row upon row of thick, heavy paper and flimsy paperback bindings. The books leer down at me in an arrogance unrivaled in my mind--knowing I would sooner go insane than know the piece I bought was the right one, that there was not a better one--more--out there for me.

When you finally make your decision--when you finally adopt your paper and ink child--you (hopefully and dismally) become absorbed in the piece. You adopt the writer's profile, their thoughts, their way of life and speech. You struggle to not speak in the voice of the tweaked teenager in Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived In The Castle, you concoct clever yet simple plans and dream of stars alive a la Tristran Thorn from Gaiman's Stardust (and cringe each. And every time. You read his name). 

They become a part of you, you know. Whether you like it or not, people are capable of osmosis. Whatever you read, you become. Forget what you eat--or, rather, you eat books. At least I do. Sometimes they're dry, sometimes unpleasant, but more often, they are savory and exciting, dancing in the mind like citrus on the tongue. The best ones linger, singing your thoughts like the Ghost pepper. You wash it down with glass upon glass of milk, page upon page of some softer, less grabbing material, but the burn stays, sometimes scarring your very way of thinking forever. There is nothing you can do to escape this fantastic experience, save possibly shutting yourself off from the written word entirely--and what kind of an individual would do that?

And that, is why I hate books.

I'm really just not feeling very loved or appreciated right now

And I think I'm not quite sure how to handle that. Not an uncommon feeling in my life, by any means, but still an unpleasant one.

I'm not sure how to handle that.