Religion and Me!

Religion was never really a big thing in my family until my parents got divorced. I think I was five or six. I can’t remember for sure. My dad worked late, my mom worked late, and my brother and I would be at the Hispanic babysitter’s eating shitty meals like macaroni and cheese and hotdogs. I don’t hold that against my parents. Doing such a thing would be selfish. Both of them are journalists. The way I look at it is I could’ve never been born at all.

Anyway, although we weren’t a religious family, we never questioned whether God existed or not. He did. It was a fact. When my cat Chloe died she went up to heaven. So, despite the absence of religiousness, there was an instilled sense of a higher power there, although I can’t remember being taught about it.

When my parents divorced and my dad got weekend custody, he suddenly developed a spiritual side. My mom said it was because he wanted to look good for the judge, but I think his intentions were more genuine than that. He’s a good dad. But I hated church. I fucking loathed it. It was probably the most boring thing on the face of the earth. Shit, it still is. To this day I cannot sit through a church service. I’m ruined for going. For that, I blame two things: my dad forcing me to go and church being boring as hell. It was a catholic church we went to. St. Louis. It smelled really nice, like incense and candles. One thing I still can’t understand is why churches insist on smelling like sleep-inducing scents when people are already struggling to stay awake as it is. Is it a challenge from God?

At first my dad let my brother and I take coloring books and reading material to keep us occupied. Then, as we got older, we had to sit through mass like big boys. That sucked. I remember my dad told me that when I heard the priest ring the chimes it meant church was almost over. I’d perk up when I heard those chimes because I knew it was only minutes before I was back home playing Nintendo with my brother.

Right around this time I started going to Sunday school. My first day of class was probably one of the most eye-opening experiences of my life. The memory is a little fuzzy, but I think it was the first time this phrase ever crossed my mind: what the fuck? The kids were self-righteous little goody-goodies. I hated them -- all eager to do well and learn about Christ. Naturally I acted up in class. I had to go to school all week; why should I have to go to school on Sunday? The teachers, a bunch of smelly old schoolmarms/swingers, assigned homework too. My dad wanted me to take it seriously, but I couldn’t. The only way I’d get it done is if he threatened to hide the Nintendo controllers. And even then I’d treat it like shit. After all, I wasn’t being graded.

My dad has still never thanked me for what’s about to follow. Third-grade Sunday school with Ms. Kyser. She was nine years younger than my dad, not too bad-looking. She wore too much makeup. Too much. Per usual, I was the class asshole. I cracked jokes about Jesus and the pointless shit we had to learn. Even then I knew it wasn’t practical knowledge. I knew it wouldn’t help me in my life. Shit, it’s not even anything you can really throw around at a cocktail party to wow a stupid woman into giving it up for the night. My dad started having meetings with Ms. Kyser regarding my behavior.

Lots of meetings.

And I wasn’t even being as bad as I could be. I later found out that they were dating. Why? Because me, the little shit, brought them together with my general lack of concern for religion and the feelings of others (those pussies). So yeah. They ended up getting married when I was twelve-years-old. Right now she’s preparing for a C-section in the next two weeks. Twin half-brothers for me. I wonder how I’ll feel towards them? Not sure. I worry that they’re going to grow up to be like the people I disagree with. My step-mom will see to it. I feel sorry for the ultra-religious, like they’re missing out on so many great things. Like they’re putting all their eggs in a basket that may or may not exist.


Sometimes I get scared that there’s nothing after this. Blackness. I hope there’s an afterlife. I really do. But at the same time I can’t be sure, you know? I want there to be one but I don’t know. It’s scary thinking this is it; this is your one and only chance to do it. Of course if that’s the case then you won’t know when you’re dead, but that’s frightening. Not knowing. It amazes me that Buddhists work for a nirvana that is nothingness. To live is to suffer, they say. True, but to live is so many fucking things at once. Perhaps when you’re in your nineties you’re just ready for it to end, ready to see if anything comes next (like beating a video game and waiting for the ending, which almost always blows).

For the most part, I think religion is a big fluffy pillow to rest your ass on and smother your fears under. Imagine how much more you can enjoy life knowing that something even greater awaits. But I wouldn’t trade my inquisitive mindset for the world. Not for all the beautiful ignorance in the world. I’m not saying that religion is wrong; I’m saying it might not be right.

Also, how do we know which one is the right one? What I don’t like about religion is its cockiness. It’s so sure of itself. To hear a Fundamentalist Christian so matter-of-factly say Jews are going to burn and fags are going to rot is just so fucking wow. Wow. How does this asshole know that Allah isn’t the one pulling the strings from the sky? Maybe forty virgins do await those of the Muslim faith. When you think about it, it’s really no different from the “civilized” religions thinking they’re going to be reunited with their loved ones and pets in a land in the clouds.

It’s weird, isn’t it? But what if it’s real?

I want it to be. This can’t be it. No fucking way. If it is, then life is merely a handjob on a night that promises great sexual conquests.

I want to conquer.