proser

I make art for blind eyes, and speak to empty chairs and the deaf. I write and paint what I'd like to enjoy, but can't find. For me. This is not pretentiousness, this is apathy to public reception. This is my backscratcher, a place to prattle prose and paint as I find myself uncontrollably compelled to do. Enjoy or don't, I'll not be affected.
~ Tuesday, March 2 ~
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I grew up catholic, asked a lot of questions, got into an argument with a priest.  I was in catechism class, just like every tuesday after school, which provided the corrupted public school children like me the proper Christian education we required.  He told me all eastern religions were wrong, the concept of reincarnation and kharma was immoral black magic, and that questioning my catholic faith was begging for hell.  He told me I couldn’t ask questions anymore, and that I just needed to shut up, and believe.  I told him he was just an old mechanic for domestic cars.  He didn’t get it.  Told me to say 5 Hail Marys and left the room.

I grew up catholic, asked a lot of questions, got into an argument with a priest.  I was in catechism class, just like every tuesday after school, which provided the corrupted public school children like me the proper Christian education we required.  He told me all eastern religions were wrong, the concept of reincarnation and kharma was immoral black magic, and that questioning my catholic faith was begging for hell.  He told me I couldn’t ask questions anymore, and that I just needed to shut up, and believe.  I told him he was just an old mechanic for domestic cars.  He didn’t get it.  Told me to say 5 Hail Marys and left the room.