Showing posts with label Fr. Hate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fr. Hate. Show all posts

Sunday, November 29, 2009

A View from the Pew

     I've still received no word on Fr. Hate. It's as if he's been abducted by aliens. He's just gone. I'm very worried and doing all I can to find out what's happened.  The church his hiding something.  I hope he's okay.

     In lieu of my usual Sunday postings of my meetings with Fr. Hate, here's a reflection upon the funeral of the mother of my Super Husband Extraordinaire (SHE). 

            A View from the Pew


There is no god in the Huntsville Boulevard Church of Christ.  There are people.  There are pews.  There are bibles.  But there is no god.  Not for me.

Camouflaged by the tiny choir, I sit in the back corner of the naked church.  I wait to give voice to symmetrical hymns and latex lyrics.  A glimmer of grief grazes my consciousness, grief for the harmonies of my youth, my former life as a Catholic priest, days when there was no way out but through, no option but to deny oneself—the truth—for the glory of the kingdom, a kingdom in which I am no longer welcome.

Far away on the center aisle in the fifth pew from the front, my fianc矇 SHE sits alone, exposed.   The beloved Ms. Saint sits in front of him.  SHE’s family adores her—the ex— the last vestige of SHE’s “normal” life.  They never accepted him—for being a musician, for being gay.  They know nothing about his life.  Decades of atherosclerotic denial have dammed any flow of fondness for him that they may harbor in the bowels of their fear.   Instead, they venerate Ms. Saint, whom SHE has forgiven, to whom SHE remained true all those years that he knew Ms. Saint was cheating, when he knew that he was gay but was struggling to be straight for Jesus.  Divorce wasn’t an option in the Church of Christ.  Being gay wasn’t even on the menu.  And now, at his mother’s funeral, beatific Ms. Saint sits in front of SHE.

The pillow-like man to my right fidgets.  His pant leg grazes mine.  His fingers fumble through a stale songbook, although they’ve already located the first hymn.  His wedding ring needs a good shining.  To my left another married man with a permanent lemon-licking pucker keeps a more respectable distance like the evenly distributed married couples filling the pews, four inches of carnal security buffering them from their magnetic instincts.   Again, pillow-man’s leg punctures the body-space barrier kissing my knee.  He knows.  The forbidden voice from within is calling his name.  He can’t resist.  Still, he doesn’t inquire.  If asked, I am “a friend” of SHE’s old choir friends, for he’s in too much pain to speak the unspoken-yet-known truth, too weak to fight off the righteous condemnations that would ensue, and too exhausted to resist his shame, his function in the family’s dark dance.


SHE sobs alone in his pew.  I hate Alabama.  Each tear drives a reed under my toenails, spikes through my wrists, and a spear into my side.  I’m bound to the unfeeling pew by invisible chains, ancient chains.  I pull at them, but do not break away.  I remain in the chains for them: SHE’s dad, his sister and brother, and their families, the five generations that sit in the pews in front of my SHE.   

I know their stories.  I know about the deceased’s great-great-grandchild in the second pew.  I know of the hardships of his great-great-great-great grandfather, stories of generations past, family schism courtesy of the Civil War, the unceasing, unrelenting war.  Family stories mined from SHE’s exhaustive ancestral research come alive as I see his family for the first time, in the flesh, looking upon their matriarch, Ruth, who deceives us from the coffin with a blissful glow.  I sit.  I observe as the unknown entity, a nameless stranger who knows the intimate secrets and sin of their lives.  I’m a non-being, trapped in some out-of-body nightmare in which events progress, emotions drain, and daggers dressed as pious platitudes dance in the plastic preacher’s every other sentiment.

My body recalls, embraces even, how it felt—the closet.  My shoulders round forward.  My chest chokes itself into a knot.  Endorphins assault my extremities, pushing through capillaries into follicles.  My forearm hair stands erect.  My eyes dart, searching for signs.  Does anyone know?  Does anyone suspect who I really am?  My hearing sharpens as my comprehension clouds.  I filter through pleasantries, descrambling cadences for any indication that someone knows that I am other, I am gay, I am the scapegoat.  I sit alone in a sea of believers, people who profess that the truth sets one free and believe that Christ gave them the privilege to hit anyone different with their god-stick.  Drowning on the other side of the nefarious nave is my spouse, my SHE, and I am as powerless to help him as the corpse of his mother who stares peacefully at the stark rafters above.

There is no god in the Huntsville Boulevard Church of Christ. 

There is a preacher, who admires the sound of his voice as much as the crisp part in his greased mane, a preacher who would have failed my homiletics classes in seminary for his abuse of pious platitudes and random scriptural proof-texting, a preacher who knows only of Paul and Ruth what he wants to know in order to justify the rectitude of the prescriptions he hurls at his liver-speckled, white-haired, and white-skinned flock, a preacher who walks with an air of overconfidence and gestures with histrionics that betray the true nature of his closets, a preacher whose “inspired” wisdom has provided him with a kindergarten acrostic of a sermon.  

Ruth:  R is for reverent (Wife reveres husband.), U is for unselfish (Wife defers to husband.), T is for thankful (Wife thanks god for husband.) and H is for hospitality (Wife keeps house for husband).   

This preacher trains his flock to fear and condemn anyone different.  He continues the holy line of succession, the succession of bipolar bigots who hate their very selves “to the shame” and project their toxic denials onto the “gays and strays” of society.   

The preacher praises Ruth and Paul for what he knows them to be: reliable, loving members of the Church of Christ.  He omits half of the truth: they were parents who denied their children love and acceptance, a father who abused his children and belittled them as adults, a mother who let it happen, grandparents who put pious point-winning missionary travels above time with discarded grandchildren.  They are not perfect saints, as the preacher professes them to be, and there, SHE sits, an eternal void of saved souls separating us, skewering us.  Not a savior in sight. 

SHE weeps and wipes his wrinkled cheeks with a handkerchief.  My liver boils.  My spontaneously overgrown fingernail digs into the songbook on my lap leaving a mark, a divot that will never be repaired, a sign that I was there at Ruth’s funeral at 1:23 pm on Saturday, March 7, 2009.  I was there!  I am here.  We are here.  We will not go away.  You will not cure, erase, or crush our love, my love for SHE, his love for me.  We love.  We live.  You evenly-spaced stoic sour-faces catatonically propagating the status quo—you are dead, as dead as my lover’s mama in the casket before us.  You live in your closets, your fantasies.   I, for one, am finished.

I stand up and run down the aisle to SHE.  I embrace him, cradling the boy who misses his mama.  I don’t care what these religious bastards think.  I shout to the heavens.  The woman in front of me is an adulterer.  She’s not the saint Ms. Saint you have canonized her to be.  Paul wasn’t a loving father.  SHE hid under the bed when he came home from work.  My SHE was six!  He still has PTSD from the random beatings.  And on and on I preach the truth and expose the lies.


But I’m still in my pew with the choir, sight-reading another vacuous verse set to a three-tone bass growl.  SHE stares at the backside of the family that’s rejected him since his fourth birthday when he asked for paper dolls.  Together, everyone sings of the peace that the Lord Jesus Christ brings to those who confess the truth, and I bow once more to the god I have forsaken, the god I have outgrown, the god who failed to evolve with the truth of my human experience and history, a god who now takes his rightful place in the weathered acropoli of conquered civilizations, a god who is nothing more than myth grasping at power with fingers of dread, damnation, dependence, disgrace, and duplicity.  For one more day, I offer sacrifice to that god.   I bow and light fire to my dignity, my authenticity, my truth, and my love for SHE who wails abandoned to that heartless pew.  I sing Amen—and so it is—in Alabama.

My eyelid twitches.  My heart tightens.  My lungs resist breath.  I am in the closet.  I remain there a few more hours to spare people who know me not.  I spare them and sacrifice my love.  I loathe them, their preacher, their imaginary Santa Christ.  Never again, I promise myself.  Never again will I abandon my love, my SHE, to the jaws of their denial.  Never again.  


Postscript: The names of persons and places have been changed.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Spiritual Direction Canceled Indefinitely

     I have some scary news. 

     Fr. Hate didn't show up for spiritual direction, again.  He called me on Wednesday sounding very depressed and said that he really needed to talk.  Two hours later, I went to meet him for coffee and he didn't show.  Since then he hasn't been returning my calls.

     Today, I went to his rectory after Masses and he wasn't there.  The maid answered and told me that Fr. Hate was no longer in the parish and that Fr. Boundarilessi had been made temporary pastor.  When I asked what happened, she slammed the door in my face.  As I walked back to my car, Fr. Boundarilessi pulled out of the driveway.

     Our conversation:

     Fr. Boundarilessi!  Hold up, please.  Thank you.
     ...
     Good day to you, too, Fr. Boundarilessi.
     ...
     I'm happy to hear that you found the computer links enlightening.  So, I hear you've been made interim pastor?
     ... 
     I was supposed to meet Fr. Hate on Wednesday for a meeting and he skipped out.  He hasn't been returning my calls.  Is he okay?
     ...
     I realize that you can't tell a simple lay person about what happened to Fr. Hate, but I'm his friend and his spiritual director.  I'm worried.  Please, I need to speak with him.  
     ...
     Well, according to Catholic theology, I'm still a priest!  Those are your rules not mine.  But I don't won't to argue theology. I'm here because I care about Fr. Hate.  So...please, just let me know if he's okay.

     At this point, Fr. Boundarilessi called me a depraved sodomite and told me to stay away from Fr. Hate.  He told me that Fr. Hate was in the care of the church, that the situation was an internal issue, and that it was going to stay that way.  Then he told me that he would call the police if I ever returned to the parish.  After saying, "God bless," and throwing his cigarette butt at my feet, he sped off.

     I'm worried sick.  What happened to Fr. Hate?  Do any of you have any hypotheses?  I'd love to hear them.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Spiritual Direction Canceled

I awoke this morning to find the following email from Fr. Hate:
15 November 2009          3:37 AM
Dear Ht. Tom:
     I must apologize.  I can't meet you at the Abbey for spiritual direction this morning.  It's just too frightening.
Fraternally yours,
Fr. Hate
 My response:
November 15, 2009          7:17 AM
Dear Fr. Hate,
     Thanks for your note.  It's no problem that you can't make it.
     I realize that it was a lot to invite you to meet me at a gay restaurant/bar for your first gay discernment/spiritual direction meeting.  If you'd be more comfortable meeting somewhere else, I'm happy to do so.
     It's okay to be scared to talk about this stuff.  When I first said, "I'm gay,"  back in seminary, the words felt so foreign, even dirty.  I didn't want to be one of "them."

     For years, I'd been haunted by the memory of seeing Pat Robertson pray over a boy who'd been sexually abused by an adult male.  He was praying the gay "demons" out of the boy, who'd been "infected" by his perpetrator.  I saw this on TV around the time that the pediatrician was abusing me and became frightened that he'd made me gay. 
     So, I had to be successful, get perfect grades, be the perfect son, and excel at everything I did in order to prove that I was normal and hadn't been affected/infected  by the sexual abuse.  Perfection would wash away the pediatrician's soiled, gay fingerprints from my body and his stench from my mouth.
     Until my mid-twenties, I believed that if I told anyone I was gay that they would take me to bed and hurt me.  What else was I supposed to believe? Of the first three priests in whom I confided about being sexually abused, two exploited me; the other harassed me. 
     When I moved to Baltimore for major seminary, I broke away from the abusive priests.  I knew if I was going to be a healthy priest that I had to get the secrets that these other clerics had been using to control me out in the open.  I had this counselor, Fr. Butterballi, and I knew that I had to trust him with all of it.  But to open up meant that I'd be vulnerable to him, so I resisted.
     After a few months in therapy, the dam broke.  Sobbing and shaking in fear, I confessed to Butterballi that I thought he was going to take me to bed as the other priests had.  He didn't.  And, the truly frightening thing is that I was so vulnerable in that moment, so conditioned by the cycle of sexual abuse in my life, I probably would have obeyed him had he demanded sex.  For that's what I'd been conditioned to believe love between priests and their gay subjects was all about.
     Fr. Butterballi helped me to break that cycle of trauma and abuse.  He showed me that two gay men could love one another and work together professionally and intimately in therapy, confession, etc. without sleeping together.  He offered me real love; something that none of the priests who'd abused me had ever shown me. 
     Butterballi also helped me to begin facing my own homophobia.
     Homophobia isn't only a heterosexual phenomenon.  We gays can be plenty homophobic.  Now, that's nothing to be ashamed of.  Hell, we live in a hetero universe where we were raised by our straight parents, formed by the sodomy-obsessed church, and bullied on the playground into being straight.   We learned at a young age to "pass" and that being different was bad.  No wonder we feared others who were out of the closet or more flamboyant than ourselves.  We had to fear them to survive.
     So, I know what it's like to be frightened of taking the step to talk about one's sexuality.  I know your fear, your shame, and your pain, Fr. Hate.  I understand completely that you don't feel ready to talk right now, but, please, know that when you are ready, I'm here for you.  I won't abuse your trust.
Sincerely,
Heretic Tom


Sunday, November 8, 2009

Confession #5


     Forgive me, Father Hate, for I have sinned.  It's been three weeks since my last...  Screw this!  I'm done with this confession bullshit.

     ...

     In fact, I'm done with this confessional and this church.  Just being here is wrong.  I mean, you all gave money to take away my rights in Maine and California.

     ...

     But Fr. Hate, you tithe, right?

     ...

     Okay.  So, your money goes to the parish and then the parish tithes to the diocese, which gives money to the U.S. Catholic Conference, which gave money to the campaign that took away my rights.  Why didn't you preach against this?  You could have done something.

     ...


     Well, obedience sucks, Father.  And, that's why I'm done.  Just putting my butt in this confessional plays into the church's system of control, fear, and hate that I no longer want to be a part of.

     ...

     No!  I'm not mad at you.  Well, yes, I am.  I'm mad at all of you Catholics right now.  Even those of you who support my rights, but still sit in the pews every Sunday.  You need to speak up.  You need to stand up to these cowardly bishops that preach hate and fear, not love.  I just want to explode.  I can't believe that I gave so much of my life to this institution, that I tried to fit into your idea of what holiness was.  But you know what?  The church going after gays' rights is not holy.  It's malicious. 

     ...

     I'm glad you agree.  But, I'm still angry.  I haven't been sleeping.  I nearly threw up from the stress.  When will the next shoe fall?  Which rights will they strip from us next?  I fucking hate this!  I may have to extend my forty day hate retreat.

     ...

     Thursday is day forty.  Then I'm done.

     ...

     Yeah, it was working pretty well.  I was finding myself really letting things go after naming it and getting it out of my system each day, but after the elections this week, what the church in Maine, all the cleansing is gone...wait a minute.  You're getting me to talk about this.  No.  I'm done. Goodbye.

     ...

     Well, there are consequences to the church's actions and this is one of them.  And I'm so angry right now that I could break that crucifix over your head.  It's best that I leave.

     ...


     Sure.  I'm still open to giving you spiritual direction during your gay discernment.  Meet me at the Abbey next Sunday in West Hollywood.  We can talk about your "formation" issues then.   

     ...

     Goodbye, Fr. Hate.  Oh, and don't wear your collar to the Abbey next week, that is, unless you're looking to get laid.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

Confession #4


     Forgive me Father Hate for I have sinned.  It’s been two weeks since my last confession.  Oh…and welcome back from your cruise.  How was it?
     …
     I know that’s a boundary violation, but after what I heard from your sub, Fr. Boundarilessi, last weekend during my “confession,” I realized that you closeted priests need someone to talk to.  And being a former priest myself, who’s come out of the closet, left the priesthood, and is now an atheist, I have no sacred cows.  You can talk to me about anything.
     …
     Oh, cut the crap, Father Hate.  I just gave you an opening to vent—about anything!  How often in life do you get that offer?  And what priest doesn’t like to talk about himself?  Come on.  You have my word that I won’t tell anyone.  This can all be under the seal.  Hell, you can even blaspheme the Holy Spirit for all I care.
     …
     Seriously, I want to help you.
     …
     Because, when I left the priesthood five years ago, I was a wreck: crushed, clinically depressed, and suicidal.  Every paradigm in my life was in flux—in question—and I didn’t know if there was a life for me on the other side. 
     ...
     Didn’t I tell you about the sexual abuse I endured at the hands of trusted priests?  And how it was all covered up?  I lost my career, my livelihood, and my community because I told the truth.  So yes, it was scary to come out, the most frightening thing I ever did in my life, but it was worth it.
     …

     Well, the bishop and my superiors told me to shut up, to go back to my parish, back into the closet, and to be a good little obedient priest.  After all, why would I want parishioners to know what happened to me?  It would only scandalize them, and everyone thought that the guilty abusers were good priests.  Hadn’t we had enough scandal already?
     …
     Yeah, it was horrendous.  I didn’t know what to do, so I drove to the icy Mississippi with the intention of driving my truck out onto it until I fell through.
     …
     Well, as I sobbed, parked at the river’s edge, my internal counselor kicked in.  I knew I had to call someone.  I knew that even though I couldn’t see any alternative, besides going back into my parish and dying of depression, I knew that there had to be another alternative that the veil of my despair wasn’t allowing me to see.
     …
     People do die of depression, Father Hate.  If it’s left untreated it can be a terminal illness.  A depressed and closeted priest friend of mine drank himself to death.  Every year over a million people kill themselves, and upwards of 90% of those suicides are related to mental illnesses.  So if you are depressed, seek treatment.  But, I’m not here to lecture you, Father Hate.  I’m here to listen.   As someone who’s been on both sides of the confessional and clerical closets, I have something to offer men and priests like you who are struggling with their sexuality issues.
     …
     No.  That wasn’t a come on.  I’m happily engaged to SHE.  Remember?
     …
     I’m flattered, Father, but we’re not in an open relationship.  And, thanks for coming out to me. 
     …
     But you did.  And look, the world didn’t end.
     …
    Now you’re changing the subject, but that’s all right.  I’ll answer, but then you’re going to talk to me.  You need to talk to someone.  Okay?
      …
     Good.  Well what happened that night is that I called a friend, and he talked me down from my suicidal perch.  Then I called my parents, who came to move me out of the parish the next day.  I didn’t, but that’s a story for another time.  What’s important is that from that moment on, I chose to live and to start taking care of myself.  There wasn’t a future for me in the priesthood and the closet.  Is there for you, Father?  Talk to me.  I’m all ears.


Postscript:  If you or someone you know is ever feeling suicidal, there are people that can help you.  Please call 1-800-SUICIDE.  For LGBT youth, call the Trevor Project.

Heretic Tom: gospelaccordingtohate@gmail.com


Sunday, October 25, 2009

Confession #3

     Forgive me, Father Hate, for I have sinned. It’s been one week since my last confe...
     ...
     Father who?
     ...
     Father Boundarilessi. Did I pronouce that right?
     ...
     Oh...Boundary-less-ee.
     ...
     Yes, I have a bit of a lisp. Big deal. So, where's Fr. Hate? I only confess to him.
     ...
     Working vacation? A cruise chaplain, really? Well, good for him. Everyone needs a little R&R now and then.
     ...
     You know, a little rest and recreation: R & R, B & B, T & A, S & M. I bet he's on one of those special cruises.
     ...
     All gay cruises.
     ...
     Yes, they have those. Why? Interested? Because I have a cruise guy.
     ...
     For the past seventy-five years, really? Wow, that must have been hard for you.
     ...
     I meant hard as in difficult, Fr. Boundarilessi.
     ...
     So, why didn't you just come out?

     ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
     But why didn't you...
     ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
     I see, and then...
     ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
     (yawn)
     ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
     (double yawn)
     ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...
     Wow. So, let me be sure I got this straight, not that there's anything straight about it, right?
     ...
     Sorry. I just think it's good to be able to laugh about such things, our limitations. I mean, even Jesus laughed for fuck's sake.
     ...
     Excuse me? You, like it, when I talk dirty? (cold shivers, swallow vomit)  Anyway, let me see if I got this right. You've known that something was different about you since you were in third grade when you first got to serve Mass. It was then that you discovered that you liked putting on the cassocks and surplices because it felt like a lacy dress. You spent the next five years making up excuses to stay home from school so that you could dance around in front of the mirrors wearing your mom's and your granny who lived in the attic's underwear while they were passed out drunk from the homemade whiskey. After you were caught dancing before the ark, you were sent off to high school seminary, where you happily got to wear a "dress" every day and you even slept in it.  In fact, this was encouraged, so as to avoid self pleasuring.  Then you fell in love with Jesus and the Pope because they were surrounded by all men all the time and you thought that would be a good way to stay celibate because you wouldn't be around lascivious and tempting women.  All the while, you were still secretly mail-ordering women's lingerie and wearing it underneath your cassock. Finally, in major seminary, a kind old priest showed you "the way" to channel your ejaculations into Jesus in secret group "prayer" meetings with the older seminary professors and other seminarians that had strong historical interests in birettas, ferraiuolos, and baciamanos. From then on, you were celibate, because you didn't have sex with women, and because you didn't swallow with men, and you always rinsed your mouth out with holy water afterward. You have served thousands of people and brought them closer to God, all the while decrying the "sin" of homosexuality as a violation of God's Natural Law. And, you are a serial boundary violator, confessing this truth to anyone and everyone who will listen in the confessional box, because they are bound by the seal of the confessional.
     ...
     Yeah. When you put it that way, strangely, it does make sense. I mean, the good news is that you found a way to be open about this, the bad news is that I'm the one thats supposed to be confessing here.
     ...
     No, I don't really have anything to confess today. After listening to you, I'm beat.
     ...
     Well, that's your problem. I don't feel much like confessing, so technically the sacrament didn't take place. I'm not bound by the seal.
     ...
     This is going to be great for my blog!
     ...
     The internet, Father. Check it out. Write this down: www.ptown.org and www.manhunt.com. Have fun.
     ...
     And peace be with you, too.


Image Credits:  

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Confession #2

Forgive me, Father Hate, for I have sinned. It’s been one week since my last confession.

This week was horrible. I hate this fucking blog. What was I thinking? Somewhere in my crazy mind, I thought that people might actually enjoy seeing someone put all their inner crap out there. I thought that it might be therapeutic for them as well as me, but instead I’m in some deep crap.

Haven’t you been reading my posts?

And the comments?

Well that explains it. You see, two of my closest friends posted comments telling me that I’m offensive, Satan, and evil and that they don’t want anything to do with me. Fifteen years of friendship gone like that! I’m ill over it.

That doesn’t help, Father.

And why should I feel happy?

That’s bull, Father. They were—they are—my real friends. And, this is the first time that I know of that I've done anything to piss them off.  One strike and I'm out.  

You’re wrong.  All this therapy, religion, blogs, honesty, catharsis, coming out, expression, etc. etc. it’s absolute bullshit, Father. All of it!

Because everything in life is so transitory. Fragile. No matter how hard we try, any minute it can be taken away forever. I always said the fragility of everything made me appreciate life and people all the more, but as I get older there’s probably less life ahead of me than behind me, the constant loss in life is suddenly…overwhelming. I mean, if friends and family can discard an entire history built on understanding and intimacy in a blog comment, if people are left starving on the streets in a country where there’s enough for everyone, if religious superiors can order subordinates to lie about sexual crimes so that clerics can go on abusing, if democratic nations can invade and occupy countries under false pretenses, if a child can die of an aneurism while playing in the backyard, if all these things can happen and everyone gets away with it, then what’s the point? Why try to connect with anyone at all?

No, Father. I disagree. I’m in the pit, and the pit sucks.

What?

No, Father. “It” will not rub the lotion on its skin!

I don’t get it.

Silence of the Lambs?

Seriously?

I’m in the pit—the pit of depression! And, no matter how many times I climb out and fill it in, it always opens up when I least expect it and sucks me back in. And you know what? I was actually feeling much better last week. I felt a great deal of peace after getting all that pent up anger out in my blog posts and channeling it into creative energy and humor. Suddenly, the things that were driving me crazy didn’t seem to matter as much. But then the comment got posted and it all went to hell. I’m back in the pit.

What do you mean “it gets the hose”?

You’re a sick man. Seriously, Father. Seek help.



Ah! Ah! Ah! 

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Confession #1

          Father Hate, forgive me. It has been five years, seven months, three days, seven hours, and fifty one seconds since my last sacramental confession. For that I’m not sorry. But for other things, I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. I detest all my sins—

          What? You don’t want to hear my act of contrition?

          Oh. Just the sins for now. I get it. (Fucking voyeur.)

          Okay. Here it is: I’m totally freaking out. Okay. I’m afraid that people will hate me because of what I’m saying on my blog. I mean, it’s political and religious satire, for Dog’s sake, but what if my parents read it? Or my ninety-year-old grandmother? What will they think? Will they get the joke? Will they get the seriousness of what I’m trying to say? Or will they just be offended and hurt? Will they reject me?

           Yes! I’m still hung up on rejection. A gay catholic boy never gets over rejection, Father. Not that you would know anything about that.