This is How Far I've Fallen

When I was little and in love with Jesus my life was very different. I was "the informant" on the playground who boldly told all unsaved children that they were, in fact, going to Hell with Satan if they did not ask Jesus into their hearts. I bet their poor agnostic mothers were fielding questions for weeks. I also believed in The Power Of Prayer. I would shut my eyes and plead with God to make me Barbie-sized so I could wear all her clothes. I would cling to my favorite art supplies as I fell asleep just in case the rapture happened; I believed that only what one was holding would go to heaven with them and I had no faith in there being Rainbow Bright marking pens at Jesus' house in the sky. But, like all God-fearing folks, I doubted sometimes too. I would tell God that I would only believe in him if he would grant me big breasts when I grew up. Now you can all understand my disbelief.

I wish my little 15-year run-in with religion was this simple and therefore easy to brush off. When people I know give me that little "Religion was a great part of my childhood, why can't you get over it" crap, I hold my tongue. But, inside I'm thinking--Wait, some of us carry guilt and betrayal and abuse that cannot be extricated from the religious-ness of our early lives. It wasn't all Barbie clothes and freckle-faced kids doing exorcisms underneath the monkey bars. Some of it was horrible. So, excuse me while I pout about it and I might forgive you for your assumption that Jesus rocked everyone's world.

When I Relayed this Story to Phil, I Could Hear His Heart Break

I was driving my brother to work while on one of my many visits to the land-of-sin-and-parties: Modesto and we were listening to one of my famous mixed CD's. If you ask real nice, I might make one for you. Just be prepared to fall in love with me after you've listened to it. On this CD was Tori Amos covering The Cure's "Lovesong". It's a mediocre recording sound-wise, but why would that stop me or any other red-blooded twenty-something? My brother Aaron is listening along and stops and says "hey, I know this song. She's covering 311."

We think maybe he's getting some CD's for Christmas. All pre-1995.

And for everyone else, we were thinking this, maybe. Too risky? Too in-your-face? We were hoping so.

A Fairly Standard Evening Conversation

"Ow! You poked my boob!"
"You don't have boobs."
"Well, you poked my nipple....and besides...men can lactate."
"What!?!"
"They can!--Google it!"
"Um, I'm totally blogging this, like, right now."

How we go from a friendly evening tickling match to male mammary glands is beyond me.

Because I know you're dying to know

The grade got changed.

95%. Not 85%. Now I can breath.