Instructions for women on how to give a urine sample:
1. Sit as far back on the toilet as you can.
2. Using two fingers, part the labia. Keep the labia parted until the sample is collected.
3. Using moist towelettes, wipe from front to back several times to ensure a clean catch.
4. Urinate a small amount into the toilet. Without breaking the stream, place the specimen cup into the stream to collect the sample.
5. Replace specimen lid and secure tightly.
What really happens
1. Sit on the toilet, sighing a lot and wishing you were anywhere else.
2. Read instructions and laugh.
3. Open one of those wet nap thingys and sorta wipe it around down there.
4. Come at it from a multitude of uncomfortable angles. Look at the instructions again and scoot your ass back on the toilet. Realize this makes no difference at all and just get the damn cup in there. Mutter a lot; things like, "Are you fucking kidding me?" and "This is ridiculous."
5. Seriously consider placing cup on the floor and squatting over it.
6. Silently wish you were a dude, just for right now.
7. Ok, now...piss all over your hand. That's right, allllll over it. Really get it nice and covered in pee.
8. As you pee on your hand, move the cup around, attempting to figure out where the best placement is as it seems that someone has installed a sprinkler down there.
9. Pull the cup out. Realize that you've managed to get about 1/2 an inch of urine actually in the cup.
10. Say something like, "Oh goddamit" and be totally grossed out, as there is pee everywhere.
11. After finishing your business, you must now basically clean the bathroom. There is urine on the seat and the floor.
12. Attempt to clean the outside of the specimen cup but get mad and decide you don't care. They're just lab technicians.
13. Place cup in that little revolving door and spin it around. Listen for just a minute to see if they talk about your pee-covered cup.
14. Leave and never tell anyone about this.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Ooooooooh Sir....Oh Sir.
Every now and then, I reach a new level of crazy when it comes to ignorance. What happens next is I start writing letters.
In 1987, Oprah did her show live from Williamson, West Virginia. The community was up in arms because a gay HIV+ man had jumped into a swimming pool. He didn't jump in and masturbate or jump in with his partner and have anal sex. He didn't jump in and open up his veins, screaming, "Now all y'all got this fuckin' disease!" He simply jumped in the pool.
YES, I understand that in 1987, HIV/AIDS was new and people were scared. But the reaction of the community was more than over-the-top. So much so that Oprah Winfrey took herself to perhaps one of the scariest places for any kind of outsider and filmed an incredibly revealing show that highlighted the hatred, ignorance and out-of-control mob mentality. This so-called "Christian community" had zero compassion that day for a young man who had come home basically to die. Many people that day said horrible things to Mike and horrendous things about gays and people living with HIV. Oprah invited some of those people back on her Sept 15, 2010 show and asked them if they regretted the things they said 23 years earlier. ALL of them expressed sorrow and regret for how they treated Mike Sisco and his family...except one. Jerry Waters, who, according to one website I read is a "Rush Limbaugh wanna-be", maintained his position. FYI: his position in 1987 was to scream at Mike Sisco, "I'm disgusted by you and I'm disgusted by your lifestyle!" Then he went on to have an ill-advised argument with a PhD in communicable diseases on THE MEDICAL FACTS. Actually, the good doctor had facts. Mr. Waters just interrupted a whole bunch. He did say that he wishes he hadn't been so "passionate" about it But when asked by Oprah if he felt he owed an apology to Mike's sisters, who were there, he said, "I'm sorry for your loss." Oh Mr. Waters...you, my friend, deserve a poorly crafted angry letter written by my shaking hands.
Hello Mr. Waters;
In 1987, Oprah did her show live from Williamson, West Virginia. The community was up in arms because a gay HIV+ man had jumped into a swimming pool. He didn't jump in and masturbate or jump in with his partner and have anal sex. He didn't jump in and open up his veins, screaming, "Now all y'all got this fuckin' disease!" He simply jumped in the pool.
YES, I understand that in 1987, HIV/AIDS was new and people were scared. But the reaction of the community was more than over-the-top. So much so that Oprah Winfrey took herself to perhaps one of the scariest places for any kind of outsider and filmed an incredibly revealing show that highlighted the hatred, ignorance and out-of-control mob mentality. This so-called "Christian community" had zero compassion that day for a young man who had come home basically to die. Many people that day said horrible things to Mike and horrendous things about gays and people living with HIV. Oprah invited some of those people back on her Sept 15, 2010 show and asked them if they regretted the things they said 23 years earlier. ALL of them expressed sorrow and regret for how they treated Mike Sisco and his family...except one. Jerry Waters, who, according to one website I read is a "Rush Limbaugh wanna-be", maintained his position. FYI: his position in 1987 was to scream at Mike Sisco, "I'm disgusted by you and I'm disgusted by your lifestyle!" Then he went on to have an ill-advised argument with a PhD in communicable diseases on THE MEDICAL FACTS. Actually, the good doctor had facts. Mr. Waters just interrupted a whole bunch. He did say that he wishes he hadn't been so "passionate" about it But when asked by Oprah if he felt he owed an apology to Mike's sisters, who were there, he said, "I'm sorry for your loss." Oh Mr. Waters...you, my friend, deserve a poorly crafted angry letter written by my shaking hands.
Hello Mr. Waters;
I would like to congratulate you on proving to the United States that it's really YOU and people as ignorant and hateful as you who should be quarantined. Your embarrassing appearance on Oprah in 1987, where you screamed like a crazy person about how Mike Sisco, a gay HIV+ man, disgusted you, was championed only by your appearance on her show TODAY. Your refusal to apologize for your disgusting comments is one of the saddest things I have ever witnessed. People like you, Mr. Waters, are the reason people hate Americans. Furthermore, I'd like you to consider where ignorance comes from. Make no mistake, sir, you are indeed ignorant. Ignorance comes from FEAR. You are afraid of what you do not understand. And, quite frankly, in this age of information, it's simply pathetic to continue to be uneducated about HIV and the gay community. But...I would like to thank you for showing your true, hateful colors. When we can identify bigots, it makes it that much easier to fight against you. I'm pretty sure your need to be there in 1987 and "defend the community of Williamson" had more to do with your ambitions as a right-wing "personality." According to what I've read about you on the internet, that plan has failed. I hope it was worth it. I really do.
Again, thank you for making yourself and West Virginia look like a pile of backwards hicks. I'm sure you're a "man of God" and I gotta tell you: GOD does not support people like you. I think you're all in for a rude awakening.
Dresden Quinn Jones
Monday, September 13, 2010
This is What Y'all Need to Do When I Die
I don't need to write a will because, well, let's face it: None of y'all bitches get any of my shit!
So instead, here are instructions on what to do once my body is discovered on some toilet somewhere in Eastern Europe.
1. Remove body from toilet.
2. Clean that shit up.
3. Fly me back to Minnesota.
4. Dress me in something yellow and place me gently in my bed. My mother would be thrilled to find that I finally took her suggestion and wore yellow.
5. Place a well used copy of Race Matters by Cornell West in my hands. My father will be proud.
6. Hire someone to play a doctor. Have him say "She went peacefully...natural causes. In fact, we're pretty sure she died of happiness."
7. When the questions start, deny, deny, deny.
8. No open casket; in fact, don't put me in any coffin but let the people think I'm in there.
9. Play "All By Myself" on a boombox. Not an iPod or a CD player. Play a tape on a boombox.
10. Cremate my remains. Ooooh that's sad. Now stop crying, you've got some travelling to do.
11. Organize a completely pointless, drug and alcohol fueled vacation to someplace exotic and expensive. Tell everyone I wanted my ashes scattered there. "There" being wherever you are going. I don't give a shit.
12. Party harder than you ever have in your whole lives. At least one traveler must break down sobbing, hugging the urn holding my ashes, screaming, "Whhhhy??? WHY?!" Also, someone must awkwardly suggest that everyone mix a spoonful of my ashes into a cocktail so I'll always be with you. And, ok, you must sojourn with me at least once during the trip. A sojourn to the nearest mall is acceptable.
13. Remember in horror in the cab to the airport that you've left my ashes in the hotel room.
14. Go get me.
15. Take me back to Minnesota.
16. Scatter my ashes into Lake Superior. Then sit quietly on the beach while children frolick and play in the lake waters. Laugh quietly thinking about how gross that is.
So instead, here are instructions on what to do once my body is discovered on some toilet somewhere in Eastern Europe.
1. Remove body from toilet.
2. Clean that shit up.
3. Fly me back to Minnesota.
4. Dress me in something yellow and place me gently in my bed. My mother would be thrilled to find that I finally took her suggestion and wore yellow.
5. Place a well used copy of Race Matters by Cornell West in my hands. My father will be proud.
6. Hire someone to play a doctor. Have him say "She went peacefully...natural causes. In fact, we're pretty sure she died of happiness."
7. When the questions start, deny, deny, deny.
8. No open casket; in fact, don't put me in any coffin but let the people think I'm in there.
9. Play "All By Myself" on a boombox. Not an iPod or a CD player. Play a tape on a boombox.
10. Cremate my remains. Ooooh that's sad. Now stop crying, you've got some travelling to do.
11. Organize a completely pointless, drug and alcohol fueled vacation to someplace exotic and expensive. Tell everyone I wanted my ashes scattered there. "There" being wherever you are going. I don't give a shit.
12. Party harder than you ever have in your whole lives. At least one traveler must break down sobbing, hugging the urn holding my ashes, screaming, "Whhhhy??? WHY?!" Also, someone must awkwardly suggest that everyone mix a spoonful of my ashes into a cocktail so I'll always be with you. And, ok, you must sojourn with me at least once during the trip. A sojourn to the nearest mall is acceptable.
13. Remember in horror in the cab to the airport that you've left my ashes in the hotel room.
14. Go get me.
15. Take me back to Minnesota.
16. Scatter my ashes into Lake Superior. Then sit quietly on the beach while children frolick and play in the lake waters. Laugh quietly thinking about how gross that is.
If I Was Barack Obama
I would answer every question at every press conference by throwing my hands in the air and declaring, "By the power of Grayskull...I...have...THE POWWWWWEEEEERRRRRR!"
Thursday, September 2, 2010
You brought me the joy of apples
I hate funerals. I guess no one likes them but I hate them so much, if we could do away with them altogether, that would be great. Super fantastic. Utterly amazing.
The first funeral I ever went to was for a 3 year old child. I walked in and saw the open casket at the other end of the room. I became suddenly and irrationally terrified. The concept of an open casket felt very wrong to me. I respect every family's traditions and needs but it made it hard to breathe. I swear it took me 20 minutes to walk to his casket and peer down at him. The only comfort I had was that it didn't look like him, so I determined it wasn't him.
There are two worst parts to any funeral: selecting what to wear and leaving the grave site. I'm not going for style here, people. I'm upset, I'm pissed off and I have a lot of black clothing. And yet somehow, I find myself doing my hair and putting on make-up. Why? What is the point? Leaving the grave site is awful; it's gut wrenching, knee buckling horrible. In fact, I'm often one of the last people to leave a grave site because I feel bad leaving my friend there to be buried. I feel like I should stay and talk you through it. I feel like I just want to hold you one more time.
Today, 4 years ago, you left us. I remember your father calling me, I remember sitting on my brother's front porch and I remember getting extremely wasted and walking home from the bar alone, crying. But I remember the day you were buried even more.
It was hot and I chose a shawl. I don't think I said a word on the drive down. Open casket. Fuck. I didn't get too close to you because I didn't want to see what someone else's interpretation of you looked like. I wanted to remember you the last time I saw you looking like you: in the bathroom, at The Red Dragon, winter 2005. You were looking at yourself in the mirror with this gentle smile on your face. You had been through chemo and radiation and had miraculously escaped with all your hair. You were always so delicate and thin but goddamn you were tough. I asked you how you were feeling. Some of the other people we were with didn't yet know that you had cancer but I did. You arranged your brown hair, turned to me and smiled and said, "Good." I felt confident; if you felt good, then everything was going to be ok. But when I think about it now, I think perhaps you knew, even then, that you weren't going to make it.
I don't know what to say about your funeral; it was hard, sad, it hurt, I sobbed, I felt empty. But as we drove back to the city, we passed an apple orchard on 169. To this day, we have no idea what it's called; we just know that if we get on 169 and drive south, past Jordan, we'll hit it. We decided to turn around and get some apples. Maybe something sweet to remind us that life isn't all bitter.
The apple orchard itself has never been visited by me; it's the store that fascinates me. It's totally bizarre, dreamed up by some German guy circa 1940, complete with polka music. I sometimes wonder if they have secret meetings in the basement. One half of the store is all weird candy that you can't find anyplace else. The rest is freshly baked apple pies, apple strudel, apple bread, apple butter, jams, salsas, and an assortment of frozen apple seasoned meats and, of course, mountains of every kind of apple you can imagine, freshly picked from the orchard.
We go there every year. The temperature begins to dip and I spot a few yellowed leaves on the trees and I know it's time to go get some apples. Going to The Apple Place is fun and exciting--it's like our change of seasons road trip. I can't help but remember you on the drive--some sadness creeps in but mostly I remember all the good times we had. I remember cutting your hair and making hashbrowns in our apartment in Olympia. I remember going to sleep in the room we shared and always saying goodnight to each other. I remember how proud I was when you told me you were getting your RN degree at Columbia. But every single time we pull into that parking lot, I start to cry. Quietly and without drama; I'm just crying because I've lost you. I've lost you and all I have is the goddamn Apple Place and Sonic Youth and some pictures. I cry for a few minutes and then I buy apples. Then I return to my life, which is emptier now than it used to be.
I love you so much. I'll never stop loving you. I try to be a better person for you. I hope you know that.
The first funeral I ever went to was for a 3 year old child. I walked in and saw the open casket at the other end of the room. I became suddenly and irrationally terrified. The concept of an open casket felt very wrong to me. I respect every family's traditions and needs but it made it hard to breathe. I swear it took me 20 minutes to walk to his casket and peer down at him. The only comfort I had was that it didn't look like him, so I determined it wasn't him.
There are two worst parts to any funeral: selecting what to wear and leaving the grave site. I'm not going for style here, people. I'm upset, I'm pissed off and I have a lot of black clothing. And yet somehow, I find myself doing my hair and putting on make-up. Why? What is the point? Leaving the grave site is awful; it's gut wrenching, knee buckling horrible. In fact, I'm often one of the last people to leave a grave site because I feel bad leaving my friend there to be buried. I feel like I should stay and talk you through it. I feel like I just want to hold you one more time.
Today, 4 years ago, you left us. I remember your father calling me, I remember sitting on my brother's front porch and I remember getting extremely wasted and walking home from the bar alone, crying. But I remember the day you were buried even more.
It was hot and I chose a shawl. I don't think I said a word on the drive down. Open casket. Fuck. I didn't get too close to you because I didn't want to see what someone else's interpretation of you looked like. I wanted to remember you the last time I saw you looking like you: in the bathroom, at The Red Dragon, winter 2005. You were looking at yourself in the mirror with this gentle smile on your face. You had been through chemo and radiation and had miraculously escaped with all your hair. You were always so delicate and thin but goddamn you were tough. I asked you how you were feeling. Some of the other people we were with didn't yet know that you had cancer but I did. You arranged your brown hair, turned to me and smiled and said, "Good." I felt confident; if you felt good, then everything was going to be ok. But when I think about it now, I think perhaps you knew, even then, that you weren't going to make it.
I don't know what to say about your funeral; it was hard, sad, it hurt, I sobbed, I felt empty. But as we drove back to the city, we passed an apple orchard on 169. To this day, we have no idea what it's called; we just know that if we get on 169 and drive south, past Jordan, we'll hit it. We decided to turn around and get some apples. Maybe something sweet to remind us that life isn't all bitter.
The apple orchard itself has never been visited by me; it's the store that fascinates me. It's totally bizarre, dreamed up by some German guy circa 1940, complete with polka music. I sometimes wonder if they have secret meetings in the basement. One half of the store is all weird candy that you can't find anyplace else. The rest is freshly baked apple pies, apple strudel, apple bread, apple butter, jams, salsas, and an assortment of frozen apple seasoned meats and, of course, mountains of every kind of apple you can imagine, freshly picked from the orchard.
We go there every year. The temperature begins to dip and I spot a few yellowed leaves on the trees and I know it's time to go get some apples. Going to The Apple Place is fun and exciting--it's like our change of seasons road trip. I can't help but remember you on the drive--some sadness creeps in but mostly I remember all the good times we had. I remember cutting your hair and making hashbrowns in our apartment in Olympia. I remember going to sleep in the room we shared and always saying goodnight to each other. I remember how proud I was when you told me you were getting your RN degree at Columbia. But every single time we pull into that parking lot, I start to cry. Quietly and without drama; I'm just crying because I've lost you. I've lost you and all I have is the goddamn Apple Place and Sonic Youth and some pictures. I cry for a few minutes and then I buy apples. Then I return to my life, which is emptier now than it used to be.
I love you so much. I'll never stop loving you. I try to be a better person for you. I hope you know that.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Mom finds my pot.
This is an actual phone call that occurred in 1994 or 1995 between myself and my mother.
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello?
Mom: Dresden? It's your mother. (This is how my mother always identified herself when she called me at college. She always sounded mad, no matter what she was calling about.)
Me: Hey Mom.
Mom: How are you?
Me (sighing): Fine, what's up?
Mom: Well, you know, I'm cleaning the house, getting ready to sell it.
Me: (distracted by the giant bong being passed by me): Uh huh.
Mom: I'm going through your room, putting things in boxes.
Me: 'Kay.
Mom: Do you want to keep all these vinyl records?
Me: Yes, for sure.
Mom: How about all these back issues of Spin magazine?
Me: You can toss them. Oh but keep the one with that has Kurt and Courtney and their daughter on the cover.
Mom: Who?
Me: Forget it, just...keep them all.
Mom: Ok. And what would you like me to do with your grass?
Me: My what?
Mom: Your grass.
Me: Like...the lawn? What the hell are you talking about?
Mom: I'm talking about the bag of grass that I found underneath all your old clothes in your dresser drawer.
(The longest pause in the history of pauses happens here. Grass...in my dresser...what the fuck...oh my God...Oh my God...they called weed "grass" in the 60s...oh my God...she means weed...she found my weed...oh my God...wait....I'm 1500 miles away.)
Me: Um...you can throw it away...?
Mom: Ok. I'll do that.
Me: Ok.
(pause)
Mom: Bye.
(Click)
Ring, ring.
Me: Hello?
Mom: Dresden? It's your mother. (This is how my mother always identified herself when she called me at college. She always sounded mad, no matter what she was calling about.)
Me: Hey Mom.
Mom: How are you?
Me (sighing): Fine, what's up?
Mom: Well, you know, I'm cleaning the house, getting ready to sell it.
Me: (distracted by the giant bong being passed by me): Uh huh.
Mom: I'm going through your room, putting things in boxes.
Me: 'Kay.
Mom: Do you want to keep all these vinyl records?
Me: Yes, for sure.
Mom: How about all these back issues of Spin magazine?
Me: You can toss them. Oh but keep the one with that has Kurt and Courtney and their daughter on the cover.
Mom: Who?
Me: Forget it, just...keep them all.
Mom: Ok. And what would you like me to do with your grass?
Me: My what?
Mom: Your grass.
Me: Like...the lawn? What the hell are you talking about?
Mom: I'm talking about the bag of grass that I found underneath all your old clothes in your dresser drawer.
(The longest pause in the history of pauses happens here. Grass...in my dresser...what the fuck...oh my God...Oh my God...they called weed "grass" in the 60s...oh my God...she means weed...she found my weed...oh my God...wait....I'm 1500 miles away.)
Me: Um...you can throw it away...?
Mom: Ok. I'll do that.
Me: Ok.
(pause)
Mom: Bye.
(Click)
I'm tryin hard to reach you.
When I was a little kid, I had a lot of nightmares. It's an active imagination not a response to abuse or everyday trauma. My mother would always come to my room if she heard me crying or calling for her. After calming me down, she would tell me that if I was still scared, I should pray to Jehovah.
But she wouldn't just say it; she would say it while pointing to the corner of my bedroom ceiling. For many years, I thought God lived in my room. In the corner of my ceiling.
What's he doing up there, I wondered. I couldn't see anything or anyone up there but after she'd leave, I'd talk to the ceiling.
"Jehovah...um...please don't, um, make me have any more bad dreams, ok? Also, I don't like all the centipedes in our basement. They are really, really scary. My brother is a real buttwipe and could you, um, make him be nicer? Or maybe send him away. That might be easier. Just for a little while." And then, the line I had been taught over and over: "I ask you through you son, Christ Jesus. Amen." But it came out more like, "Iaskyouthroughyoursonchrissjesusamen."
Then I'd stare at the ceiling for a long time.
My image of God was very adult and tidy. He only existed from the shoulders down, wore a white button up shirt and a black tie. He had brown hair that was parted on the side. He was usually smiling but his face wasn't clear; it was like a muddy collage of all the middle aged white men I'd seen. God was definitely white. Everyone was white. When I finally saw the status quo Christian representation of God, with a long white beard, robes and sandals, I was totally confused. Wasn't God someone we were supposed to be able to talk to? I wouldn't talk to some crazy old man in robes. I was taught not to. Wasn't everyone?
I had no earthly idea what Jesus looked like. My mother used to say her brother looked like Jesus. My uncle Mark had long dark hair and a beard, wore glasses and played the guitar. I liked him, so I was comfortable with that image.
Insatiably curious about everything, I routinely followed my mother around and asked her a million questions. We were Jehovah's Witnesses and I had been told that "any minute now", Armageddon would happen and if we knew The Truth, we would survive and live forever on a paradise Earth. I needed to know exactly what that meant.
"Will it still hurt when you comb my hair in the New System? Will I be able to go to college? Are my friends going to make it through Armageddon? Will there be centipedes in the New System?"
No one could give me answers to my questions in terms I could understand. Around 15, I discovered the joy of doing things I wasn't supposed to do. There was no way I could reconcile my need to do naughty things with God. So, in a very dramatic moment, I told my mother that I was no longer a Jehovah's Witness and religion was stupid and I wasn't going to eat meat anymore. It was a very dramatic moment indeed; I think I even ran out of the house in my combat boots, jumped in the back seat of my friends Citation and went to smoke weed in the woods in Plymouth.
But when I take all that other stuff out of the equation--my parents and their choices for me and our family; what "the elders" told me to do; what Bible told me to do--then there's just me, a kid, talking to God, who I believed lived in the corner of my bedroom ceiling, asking him to comfort me. Isn't that what the core of what God is supposed to be about? I'm genuinely asking; I have no answers. I have no idea what I believe. But I do believe that the concept of God has been desecrated, dishonored, muted and muddied by man. That's the part I can't deal with. If I say I have a relationship with God, it needs to be on someone else's terms. Why?
Buddha said, "Never believe anything that doesn't jive with who you are." It goes against everything I am and everything I believe to qualify who is a saint and who is a sinner based on archaic rules that make no sense to me and that I cannot reconcile my soul with. No way. Can't do it.
Call me a skeptic, tell me I'm lost, tell me I have no faith. But here's the thing: if I choose to, I can call my God anytime, into the corner of any room and it would be enough.
But she wouldn't just say it; she would say it while pointing to the corner of my bedroom ceiling. For many years, I thought God lived in my room. In the corner of my ceiling.
What's he doing up there, I wondered. I couldn't see anything or anyone up there but after she'd leave, I'd talk to the ceiling.
"Jehovah...um...please don't, um, make me have any more bad dreams, ok? Also, I don't like all the centipedes in our basement. They are really, really scary. My brother is a real buttwipe and could you, um, make him be nicer? Or maybe send him away. That might be easier. Just for a little while." And then, the line I had been taught over and over: "I ask you through you son, Christ Jesus. Amen." But it came out more like, "Iaskyouthroughyoursonchrissjesusamen."
Then I'd stare at the ceiling for a long time.
My image of God was very adult and tidy. He only existed from the shoulders down, wore a white button up shirt and a black tie. He had brown hair that was parted on the side. He was usually smiling but his face wasn't clear; it was like a muddy collage of all the middle aged white men I'd seen. God was definitely white. Everyone was white. When I finally saw the status quo Christian representation of God, with a long white beard, robes and sandals, I was totally confused. Wasn't God someone we were supposed to be able to talk to? I wouldn't talk to some crazy old man in robes. I was taught not to. Wasn't everyone?
I had no earthly idea what Jesus looked like. My mother used to say her brother looked like Jesus. My uncle Mark had long dark hair and a beard, wore glasses and played the guitar. I liked him, so I was comfortable with that image.
Insatiably curious about everything, I routinely followed my mother around and asked her a million questions. We were Jehovah's Witnesses and I had been told that "any minute now", Armageddon would happen and if we knew The Truth, we would survive and live forever on a paradise Earth. I needed to know exactly what that meant.
"Will it still hurt when you comb my hair in the New System? Will I be able to go to college? Are my friends going to make it through Armageddon? Will there be centipedes in the New System?"
No one could give me answers to my questions in terms I could understand. Around 15, I discovered the joy of doing things I wasn't supposed to do. There was no way I could reconcile my need to do naughty things with God. So, in a very dramatic moment, I told my mother that I was no longer a Jehovah's Witness and religion was stupid and I wasn't going to eat meat anymore. It was a very dramatic moment indeed; I think I even ran out of the house in my combat boots, jumped in the back seat of my friends Citation and went to smoke weed in the woods in Plymouth.
But when I take all that other stuff out of the equation--my parents and their choices for me and our family; what "the elders" told me to do; what Bible told me to do--then there's just me, a kid, talking to God, who I believed lived in the corner of my bedroom ceiling, asking him to comfort me. Isn't that what the core of what God is supposed to be about? I'm genuinely asking; I have no answers. I have no idea what I believe. But I do believe that the concept of God has been desecrated, dishonored, muted and muddied by man. That's the part I can't deal with. If I say I have a relationship with God, it needs to be on someone else's terms. Why?
Buddha said, "Never believe anything that doesn't jive with who you are." It goes against everything I am and everything I believe to qualify who is a saint and who is a sinner based on archaic rules that make no sense to me and that I cannot reconcile my soul with. No way. Can't do it.
Call me a skeptic, tell me I'm lost, tell me I have no faith. But here's the thing: if I choose to, I can call my God anytime, into the corner of any room and it would be enough.
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