Fingerprints

"We all have a lonely, bloody path to greatness. Maybe God just forgot about my finish line. He seems like a busy guy."

"You believe in God?"

"He and I have an... interesting relationship."

"Well, I'm gonna be here all night."

"Okay, well... I was taken to church every Sunday, and I was a little girl. I believed. It went like that 'til I was about twelve And I was still expected to attend, just found a way out of service every week so I could schizophrenically hate God. A couple years later I met a girl pretty enough to distract me, so I started going again. We hung out every week, and I was too afraid of my sexuality to have a personality. So it didn't really go anywhere. A few years after that, the girl moved away, she didn't bother to keep in touch, so I jumped into the worship band at church. Not as pretty, but it got the job done. I tried to force myself to believe in God, and repress any crushes I had. Until I got tired of it. Then I stepped down, stopped attending altogether, and came out to all the people that matter to me. But then last week, I had an epiphany."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. I realized that only something like God could give us all individual fingerprints. It's so simple. Nothing else in the world, literary or otherwise, can explain that. Therefore, I believe that there is a God."

"But a god that gave us all individual fingerprints is the God from The Bible."

"Yeah..."

"So if you believe in that God, don't you have to believe in everything that He is?"

"Yeah. I believe He exists, so I have to believe in all the judgment and the hate. I have to. You know, I don't know if I, or Elton John, will get into Heaven when we die. And I don't really care. I'm sure if I'd felt Hell, I'd start dating guys or something. But I'm tired now. Of hiding, and answering stupid questions, and being someone I don't know. You know, I'm young. I'm relatively healthy, and I adore women. I'm not gonna marry some man and have his babies just because my fingerprints are different than yours."


"Get It Right The First Time" - The Stranger (1977) - Billy Joel
February 26, 2011

Freedom.

"A song made me cry."

"Yes..."

"Nothing makes me cry."

"Why do you think it upset you?"

"I think it's about a guy giving up."

"How do you mean?"

"I think he was trying to be everything that everyone didn't have, and now he's giving up. He's still gonna come out the hero, though."

"He's a hero?"

"You know, he's gonna give up audibly so that no one can call him out on falling short. You know? They might even sympathize with him, with his inability to..."

"To do what?"

"To wanna be there, in the middle of everyone."

"Why do you think that upset you?"

"I don't know."

"No?"

"No."

"Okay, so what did you do?"

"What did I do?"

"Yes. What did you do when the song was over?"

"Oh, I learned how to play it."

"Yes..."

"Yeah, and I sang it until it didn't mean anything. Time's up?"

I suppose I don't have to be here. No, I suppose I could be watching TV, or practicing scales, or asleep somewhere. No, I suppose I'm just bored. And who says therapy can't be amusing?

No. I suppose being told that I have no choice in the matter pretty much sucks the fun right out of it.

Either way, amusing or not, I'm bored and I'm here. I'm here chewing or choking or making something up. I wonder if she can tell the difference, between the real and the bullshit. It's no matter now. I won't see her for another week, and I know no one else can tell the difference. Freedom.

So I'll go home now and watch The L Word. Or maybe Rescue Me. Or maybe I'll read a book. Or maybe I'll just sit on the couch in my sweats and stare at the bare white walls for a few hours before I call my sister about it, tell her how right she is.

Alright, job-hunt it is.

Merry Christmas

Who would have thought? That I needed to be wasted to have a good Christmas? I guess if you know me well, you might have guessed it. But not me. I thought I was having a good time, but it was just the same as every other Christmas. Only this time I'm out, and I'm not feeling God's unconditional love lately.

So I may as well pop a few Aleve and drink seven Stella Artois' on His birthday, right?
Right?

Oh, well. It's too late now. It's December 28 now, and who the fuck cares? Not me, not my siblings, not even my mother who witnessed the whole night. All I care about now is when I can do it again. Maybe I should be alone next time, so I can brood or write or scream or whatever.

Or maybe I should be with strangers. Female strangers are my preference. Female strangers that are also drunk or high or something. That would be a merry fucking Christmas.



December 28, 2010