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© 2004-2008 Linda Escaip
"I may be grumpy, but I like you."
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The Suns and Moons of the Grumpiest Girl in the Room.
Welcome to my journal, sweet-treat.
Hope In Hell 01-Dec-2004 8:42 p.m.
Apparently I am going to hell. At least that's what the born-again guy told me. Straight to hell, with no detours. Probably not even a quick stop at 7-11 for some crappy sunscreen and five dollar sunglasses. Oh, but wait. There was that time in seventh grade when, after being scared shitless one too many times by my bible teacher Mr. Snorter, I opted to be baptized in the school's church. My parents enrolled us in a private Christian school in order to avoid our having to ride a bus to some distant school somewhere. I have miles of material from that experience. Anyway, I guess since I did accept Jesus as my personal saviour, I am forever excused from the responsibility of any wrongdoing. I could have brought that up when listening to the unctuous ramblings of this guy whose bags were clearly all packed for heaven, and who was trying to round up company for the journey.
I could have told him I was once a member of the club. If you listen to a born-again person spout their doctrine, they make heaven sound like a private country club. And we all know how loving those private country clubs are, either not allowing Jewish people, or black people, or whatever other folks the owners deem unfavourable. Sort of sounds like heaven, doesn't it? Which is why I'm not all that keen on obtaining a ticket, or keeping the one I "earned" all those years ago.
It is nearly impossible to have a two-sided discussion with someone who has been born-again. It's like trying to have a debate with a prerecorded message. There is a great deal of rhetoric-spewing and a good deal of nothing else. You know what I love about Jewish people? They have no interest in converting you. They leave you alone, which is always nice. Perhaps some Jewish folks revel in being the chosen ones, but they're not bothering you with their status; they're not flaunting it in your face and trying to scare the shit out of you by saying you'll burn and rot if you don't join them in all their glory. Some atheists are almost as tiresome as the born-again crowd, often getting all worked up while trying to talk you into seeing how pointless everything is. They usually seem to have suffered a great loss or other painful experience. They strike me as people who really do desperately want to believe in something, but who need solid proof. I have none to give them, and the ones I've talked with seem too cranky to settle for cake.
The other day I heard a woman say that she thought gay marriage was disgusting. Yeah, I guess all that love and tenderness and the desire to commit to one another for life would be pretty nauseating. I never knew heterosexual people had cornered the market on love and ceremonies celebrating that love. I wonder what else I don't know, and if people will ever get over themselves.
I have an aunt who was born-again back in the late seventies. It's an ugly, ugly thing on her, having already possessed far too much self-righteousness for sixty people. She is filthy, bloody rich, and is the walking example of the slogan "Money Can't Buy Happiness." Money can't rent it, lease it, or borrow it for an hour. She could easily tell you that, but will probably opt to say something really condescending to you instead. She never tried too hard to "save" any of us. I think she just gloated over the thought of us burning in hell. Hey, less competition for buying up all the property in heaven. For my eighteenth birthday she attended the surprise party my parents put together for me. I still have no idea why she opted to show up. Know what my gift was? A thin fake gold necklace with a fake pearl pendant. She lives in a multi-million dollar house. I would have preferred a card. I think I may have even preferred some misinterpreted bible verses.
Tomorrow I am going to the candy store to buy a whopper of a bag of Swedish fish. It has to be done, you realize. I threw this in because I'm just jolly nuts. I'm here to share. Presently I have three big zits on my forehead because I have been unable to contain myself when it comes to Trader Joe's salt and vinegar potato chips. You want me. Zits are fashionable this season—did you get the memo? Not that I follow fashion. I start trends and then leave them in the dust.
I have to tell you, I'm bored silly (formerly silling for some reason) with all the fucking judgments flying around. Mine, yours, theirs. Shame on all of us, I say. Who the hell do we think we are, anyway? Let us clean up our own backyards before we say another bloody word. There does exist a thing called empathy, which is a useful little tool for getting the hell over yourself. Maybe put that on your fucking Christmas list ahead of the Black & Decker crap.
A tidbit of enjoyment for you: someone found my site through Google by typing in possessed grilled cheese sandwich. I need an interpreter and angel food cake for that.
In high school my dear friend Kirstie thought she was possessed by the devil. It was sad and scary to watch her sink deeper and deeper into her delusions. She thought she was receiving a message through her odometer when it displayed three sixes in a row. I tried to reason with her, but she was convinced. I suspected she was using heavier drugs than marijuana, just wasn't sure which ones. She eventually got over the demon possession delusion and moved on to the I'm psychic and I think I'll tell you really unfortunate things about your future that will not come true, but that will freak you out anyway delusion.
I once knew a girl who screamed at me at the top of her lungs because I asked her if she'd like some soup. Soup, for the love of monkeys everywhere. I asked her three separate times, because we were away from school on our lunch hour, and because she hadn't had any food all day. "Are you trying to make me fat?!" she yelled with tears welling up in her eyes. Yes. With soup. I peddle my soup in the hopes of creating obese, unhappy psychopaths who yell at me over soup. Jesus.
I have had a handful of really weird friends in my life. But they were lovable to a point. I used to take a lot of shit from people before realizing I'd be better off without them. I once had this friend I'll call Millie. Hot shit, she was a piece of work. I love that expression. She is the only person I have ever known who would map out these detailed plans for hurting me. It is obvious to me that everyone else who has ever hurt me was always flying by the seat of their pants. But not Millie. Millie was crafty as all glorious fuckout. I recall looking forward to the senior class movie night. They were showing "Gremlins" in the auditorium and a bunch of us girls had decided to go to dinner first and then go watch the movie. Guess who never came to pick me up? I waited. I fucking waited some more. I called. "She left 45 minutes ago, Lin. She didn't pick you up?" I paced. By the time the clock hit the time the movie was scheduled to start, I knew she'd pulled one of her stunts. When she called me back it was after eleven. "I totally forgot to pick you up! I'm soooo sorry." The next day I talked with the other girls who had gone with her and was informed that they had asked where I was, and Millie had told them I couldn't make it.
Millie thought I had the perfect family life and she resented me for it. I knew it then, but it was still painful to have someone be so sweet to me and then turn around and be so heartless. I wish her well, nonetheless.
I bring up hurtful memories from the past because I am trying to make peace with the people who delivered the goods. I'm attempting to write that stuff out of my head, look at it, and see it for what it is. I know that most people don't set out with the intention of hurting anyone. But it hurts all the same. I have been told several times during my life that I am too sensitive. It's a favourite accusation of people who don't want to take an ounce of responsibility for the shitty things they say and do. It is true that I am enormously sensitive. What the hell is wrong with that? In a world where kindness is practically unfashionable, I am happy to announce that I am sensitive and caring. If that's stupid, sue me. And bake me some cupcakes while you're at it.
The very first time I remember hurting someone was somewhere during my first few years of grammar school. There was this boy, a black boy, who ended up being mad at me for some reason. He had taken to picking on me and hurting my feelings, and I would often end up in tears. I sought the advice of my brother, who is six years older.
"Oh, that's easy. Just ask him, 'How's your Aunt Jemima?'"
I had no idea how the lovely Aunt Jemima, with her sweet, syrupy goodness, could possible get this kid to stop bothering me. That is, until I said those words to him. The kid's face was so full of hurt, I hated myself, yet I wasn't sure why those words had affected him that way until my brother explained it to me later. I can still feel what it did to my heart. It worked—he stopped bothering me—but at what price? That was my first lesson in how shitty it feels to hurt someone else.
You know what really gets me? The way people talk about how tragic it is that "our American soldiers" are dying over there in Iraq. Yet it's perfectly OK that Iraqi people have died in the same mess. You know, as if we're all separated. As if we're not from the same fucking place after all. This is mine and that is yours, until I want it. I live here and I am this; you live there and you are that. This is the border, and don't you cross it or I'll shoot. All these millions of years, and we are still hating people because of the colour of their skin, the gods they choose to worship, the person they fall in love with, the way they talk, the way they dress, the causes they believe in, the language they speak, etc. What the hell is that? What are we doing?
I have no idea. I don't think the way many people think. I am unrealistic, for this place, anyway. Despite the chaos, I think things are on their way to changing for the better. Slowly. I hope. Sometimes I freak myself right out with the amount of hope I am able to muster at any given moment. Somebody should really hire me to do some serious hoping. I'm good at it.
Quote From My World
"Do they build trees specifically for paper use?"
Well, I'm off to call my travel agent and see what sort of deals they have on airfare to hell. I like to plan ahead. I wonder if they have roundtrip tickets to hell... and back? I guess I could always borrow my friend's handbasket. She goes to hell in that thing on a whim. Thanks for reading.
Linda
The photo at the top of the page is the sky as seen from my front yard on the last day of November '04. We do live in a beautiful world.
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