As a born-again Atheist with a big red capital A, I took a me that could have been, and wrote her down.
And as I was writing myself that alternate life, so I realised that I could have sinned. BIG TIME.
If I’d wanted to, I could have really sinned and commited some big hairy crimes against a God I once believed I believed in.
F’rinstance, I may have smoked pot in high school and may have injected even worse RIGHT up my arse because you get the HIT much quicker that way (I’m told).
I quite possibly could’ve shagged twenty-three boys and eleven girls in my classroom. Over my desk. All at the same time. And I might have thrown in a couple of bad teachers for good measure. I might have stolen stuff out of shops and broken in to broken-down houses. I was maybe in and out of Borstal until I was potentially completely free, but not before enjoying the hobby of homicide.
But no – I’m boring, really. Had a little too much to drink once -which ended badly – and as a result I’m now tee-total
(Well – tee-almost – I have a penchant for putting Guinness in the food…).
The actual me hasn’t done ANY of that shit. The actual me is a good person, and not because I fear the wrath of some lazy deity or the promise of eternal damnation – what a steaming pile of utter horseshit of biblical proportions.
I don’t kill people, or even maim ’em; not for fear of punishment in the form of being downstricken or hellsmote or whatever the fuckother manmade claptrappy punishments one attributes to some non-existent sky-dweller.
The reason I don’t do that shit? Because it’s the wrong thing to do. It’s immoral, unethical, yadda yadda….but there’s also the wee fact that I don’t exactly have to stop myself from partaking in said stuff.
Doesn’t cross my mind* in the first place.
But yeah – it’s not like there’s two cartoon versions of Lin perched atop my shoulders, a la Tom and Jerry circa 1956. I just don’t have it in me to be anything other than downright nice.
Helping people is more my thing. I may have overdosed on an empathy-drip at some point in my life, but I certainly don’t go around being nice because that’s what the bloody Bible says. Or because that’s what my dad says. Or because my dad says that that’s what the Bible says.
There are parts of that story (yes, it’s a FUCKING STORY) that are, quite frankly, fucked up. And by parts, I do of course mean fucking shitloads. Most of it.
Does the book tell us to be nice? Sometimes, sure. But other times, it expects – nay, DEMANDS no less than purely cunty and entirely twattish behaviour from its followers.
In my godless reality, I educated myself back from the realms of contemplative Christianity and found myself in this dubious school of a planet, with brand new eyes and the aural escape of an open ear. So…..listen I did. I took it all in. Everything. All of it.
Epiphanies were rife and Satoris raw.
Paternal detestation followed, with an easily-placeable culpability. HE forced this shite on me from an early age. His god, his religion, his bullcrap. He drilled into me what to think, not HOW.
But with Godlessness and less Dad came clarity. I learned to separate the empty nothingness, the shite of salvation, and all of the Heavensome sorry sorcery away from the realness of reality.
And I liked it. I preferred it. I drank it all in, and decided the only way was to unbaptisedly cleanse myself. This organised forcery of a belief system that imaginarily rotated the revolving planet had in fact, stopped evolution in its tracks. People were regressing. They hadn’t merely paused; humanity was retreating up its own backside.
Now I have two hands: and both are held aloft. There’s a very mild faith in humanity on one side, and a disbelief of humanunkind on the other.
My no longer being a God-botherer makes me untrustworthy, apparently. There’s Seven American states in which I can’t run for office,(and fifty in total, what with me being British ‘n’ all, but that’s neither here nor there) and several countries that would violently slice me into wafer thin meat for refusing to believe in that which they believe I should believe.
But God, honey, get a grip: if you existed, surely you’d show yourself. You could show yourself in Syria. You must show yourself in Iraq. Maybe even get off your fat lazy eris and appear in Nigeria, or Bognor fucking Regis. Anyfuckingwhere’d do: perhaps my very own living room where I sit cradling my sick child.
You want me to believe in you? To worship you? Then show yourself.
No? Didn’t think so.
Don’t blame me; if you baked humans in your heavenly kitchen then you made me too. I know that’s a bit of a reach, being that I’m barely human…but Hell – I’d sell my non-existent soul to see you prove me wrong.