Why is it that every time after a night of heavy drinking, I feel the need to go to church. And I’m talking like, I am hung the fuck over: Can barely put words to together, headache, gut rot, I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cry, and I am completely aware that chances are there is a large cock and balls drawn with a Sharpy on my forehead. All I can think of in these self-reflecting moments is God fucking hates me. I should go to church. FML.
I used to go to church. I mean I was baptized as a wee little babe, in a God forsaken long “Uni-sexual” gown of Bounty and Royale (excuse my language). In the summer time, I stayed with my Grandma and every Sunday she went to church, and I felt this deep over-whelming sense of guilt if I chose not to go. So going, I made sure I had a mission: Wine. bread, and puppets. (Don’t ask me about the puppets.)
As I got older, I would find my ways to make up excuses to not go to Church.
- I’m working.
- My butts to big for the pews.
- I’m sleeping.
- Me and the alter boy sinned together.
- They banned me from singing hymns.
- I visited God last night.
- I’m constipated.
- Etc.Etc. Etc
Every time my Grandma left to go to her Holy ground of Bible thumpers and humpers, I would give her the Vulcan Salute and say “Peace Be With You”.
I just couldn’t do it. Hearing the reminders of God’s love was boring, repetitive and a fucking lie. God doesn’t love me. If he loved me he would say (in a Jamaican accent) “Cait, my child, the yellow ones taste like chicken, and Jesus loves the pole. BONG!”
I drink wine. I think that it is a wonderful blasty blast of a way to show my love for God. But whenever I do, he punishes me. I think it’s because I really don’t love him. If God could cure my hangovers I would consider going to church. Actually if God was a Jedi Knight, I would go, I feel the force would be strong in that one,
Forgive me Father for I have sinned, I find your lack of faith disturbing.