prove me Wrong

March 30, 2009
“It must be nice to have faith,” I said.
“It is,” you said.
“It’s not,” I said, “because that thing we call faith can become crippling with too many doses, if you swallow too many sermons."

Warning: may cause insomnia, loss of appetite, blindness, and dangerously high self-esteem.

Digest only what you need to keep yourself informed, enough to quip a witty response at those Bible-thumping door-knocking nut jobs : [not you of course, dear friend (I talk about you behind your back)]

If there is a God, He’s laughing at us, from his pearly perch in the sky while he dips a cloudy Danish in an angel’s nectar. His great beard sways in the breeze as He chuckles at the antics of His never-ending subjects. His never-ending sitcom.



He laughs





and He laughs









and He laughs.

In the end, when you die and go to this place you’ve christened Heaven, you’ll be sorely disappointed at your new accommodations. It’s dark and it’s dank and you can’t see an inch in front of or in back of your nose. Eternity in such a place is more trouble than the life you lived was worth.

Truthfully, I’ll probably laugh at the sight (please excuse my utter disregard for your wellbeing, sweetheart, all’s fair in love and war).

“That’s not true,” you say, with that saint’s reserve you so desperately try to mimic, cracking, its cracking. (I can see right through your makeup, honey, and your soul is ugly underneath).
“Prove me wrong,” I say, and I smile, (a kinder smile than that of your God, I’ll promise you).





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BlueEyesCry said...
May 8, 2010 at 6:23 pm
WHOA! GOOD!! YOU EXPRESS YOURSELF I LUV IT
 
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