If I had a dollar for everytime someone who loved god told me he wished I had never been born I would be diving in Scrooge Mc Duck style vaults of gold coins, and doing back strokes through rubies. I don't know why I do it. Why do I always want to talk to men standing on bible soapboxes?
So there I was minding my own business on an epic date to see the best musical of all actual time, Hamilton, with my favorite person ever Navin. He is a gorgeous caramel colored Indian man, which obviously angered our lord and savior because out of nowhere this very angry man was yelling that particular blend of hypocritical diametrically opposed hooey of love and hate that ONLY religious zealots can master.
Why do I always stop? What is actually wrong with me? I can't help it. They are my meth, the flame to my moth antennae, and I cannot keep away from their glittery hot white light.
I just want once, just once to have an articulate conversation with someone about Jesus. I Challenge you internet universe, to send me someone with heart and wit who I can talk to me about why the laws of science don't apply to them, why it's ok to preach love and acceptance but marginalize those who are different and vilify woman for stepping out of the June Cleaver box they'd like to put all our Vaj's in.
Come on. One intelligent debate. It must be possible. Until then, pray for my cursed soul and maybe send me some new shoes? Honestly, because if my soles look more valuable than my soul, my soul IS SO SO CHEAP, flat and used.