Perfect

At some point I was convinced that a state of perfection was inevitable. Maybe it was talk of this gold heaven I would live in eternally. If you believe in God, you get to live in a gold house. Not just believe, you have to give your whole life to him. For someone like me that was willing to accept that a higher power was gender less, you’re grooming an unbeliever. Because, really, are you really that simple? I hope not, for your own sake. So as a kid, I told my mom that I wasn’t comfortable telling my friends that they were going to burn in hell. My mom’s response was that I would just have a smaller gold house. This is coming from my mother, who absolutely depended on a belief on god to maintain. She’s also somewhat of a real Christian, if that’s even real. My mother’s love for me was enough. I don’t need a confirmation from a “brother” from a church. And I certainly don’t need instruction. She told me once that she was so upset to need glasses, because movie stars of her day didn’t wear glasses. I salute this mentality as she condemns it. Make it look good at all costs. Glam it up, please. She loved Shirley Temple movies, and I took breaks from my Cure infested bedroom to watch with her. So this whole perfection thing, I don’t know. Christianity is a weird idea, I find to be more strange than most experiences I’ve had. Just be the animal that you are, and keep each other warm. That’s always made sense to me. The whole Jesus zombie dying for you, you’ll never be good enough, doesn’t it exhaust you to no end? I’m not even touching on all types of organized religion, and the tremendous harm it has caused. The amount of lives destroyed by religion, I’m lucky to be alive.

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