Monday, October 17, 2011


You know that guy who said "God sends you trials to test you and make you stronger"?
Fuck that guy.

But does he have a point? Are trials truly sent by some sadistic deity with a penchant for people's pain, or are they merely the inevitable consequences of your own piss-poor choices?

Was it Allah that made me punch a police officer who I had somehow mistaken for a killer clown on the lam, thus landing me in jail where I met Rico the Colombian-drug-lord-turned-imam who opened my eyes to the wonders of Islam? I mean, I found religion. I found peace. Hell, I now work for UNICEF...So was it God who lead me to the homicidal Bozo hallucination? Or was it the 10 mg of heroin I shot up in the bathroom of The Masquerade just prior...?

My money would be on the China White, but then again, the Lord does work in mysterious ways...

As I spent my morning contemplating these questions instead of doing something of import--like pilates--I began to realize (right now, as a matter of fact) the futility of the above questions. Not that they aren't worth contemplating, but that mankind has mulled over them for centuries and no conclusions can be reached, save this: such debates question the existence and role of God in our lives. I mistrust anyone who claims to have answers on this point. And you should too. I mean, I personally do not know what is more off-putting--their claims to divine knowledge or their spray tans and perfect teeth... Anyway, as the answers cannot be known, these questions are futile.

Which, it turns out, is actually alright by me...because these questions are not really the ones I want to ask. After hours of sleeplessness and what has now become a rambling blog, I have finally honed in on the quandry that has set up shop in my brain and is spreading like a disease directed by Steven Soderbergh.

What it really comes down to, my friends, is this:

Is this all my fault?

With earthquakes, the world literally breaks apart at the fault line. Is it the same in life?

Am I the reason things just aren't lining up?


And what do I do if the answer turns out to be even scarier than a killer clown on the lam?

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