Thursday, July 30, 2009

goodbye, july

Dear July,

You have brought me good things, and bad things.

Thank you for both.

You've been warm, but not hot, and just the perfect amount of rainy.

You rekindled a love for an old disease and taught me that love hurts.

Sometimes you treated me gently, like a rarity, and others with a terrible necessity that knocked the wind out of me.

July, I hated you and I loved you, as most things in life go.

In a way, you brought me closer to adulthood, whatever that means.

In addition, dear July, I'd like to thank you to my new friends. They're strong, perfect and creative. We are closer than anything. We could be called sisters.

Thank you for bringing me closer to August, whether it burns red or not.




I wish I had the words to make everything go away for you.
The heartbreak, the constant obsessions, all of it.
I love you, even though I don't know you.

There are times when I have this bonding with people, sometimes just strangers walking by. It's not like I can see everything they've been through. . . I can just feel it.

Maybe it's because I've been through crap too. Or maybe it's something God put in me. Maybe it's a gift.

If it is, it hurts.

When I was younger, I'd sit in the backseat of our car and watch the houses roll by as we drove. There were feelings I'd get, not about certain houses, always, but just feelings about neighborhoods or whatever. There was a sense of something that went on there. Someone crying. Someone beaten. Someone starving, cutting, hoping, praying, dying.

Maybe it's because I've felt that. Maybe it's because I wondered if anyone saw it in me that I learned to see it in others.

This is to them:

You are a masterpiece. You are broken, beaten, bruised but still a masterpiece. I wish I could say something, anything that would make it go away. That would make it at least better. Listen, you are loved. If not by them, then by me.
I'm sorry the church at the corner meets every Sunday and talks about "reaching the world with the gospel" and then drive right past your house. They don't know you're looking through the shades at them in their pretty little Lexus bubbles. They have no way of knowing you're holding on to the bottle with the pills that will end your life. I wish they would take a chance and try to find out though. I wish they'd step out of that church and stop being oblivious. I don't know. I'm sorry.
We haven't done a good job. I haven't done a good job. We pass you by because you're too broken, too abused, too alcoholic, too anorexic. You are not. No one can be too much of anything. Especially loved which you have none of.

I still don't know what to say.

We've failed and you're still without hope.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes 'Aww!' " -Jack Kerouac


Sunday, July 26, 2009

i'm starting to believe the ocean is much like you

"These damned heights get eerie after a while. I want to go down, way down;far, far down. To the ocean. That sounds right. Where the waves roll in slowly and there's always a roar and you cant fall anywhere. You're already there."

I'm not sure who this quote is credited to, but I think they may have been me in another life.

Sometimes beauty shows up in the most unexpected places.

Oceans are magical.

There's the air that tastes salty and the constant crashing of the waves. It never stops. It's comforting, like a lullaby of nature.

Each wave is fresh. Each one is different and each looks more powerful than the last.

There's a song by Thrice called "Open Water".

"I'm starting to believe the ocean is much like You, 'cause it gives and it takes away."

If we can learn about Jesus through what we see around us; if nature and the world we live in have attributes of the God who created them, then we are lucky.

We are lucky because seasons change, healing comes, death is swallowed in life, the sun rises again every morning and sets every night and because every wave brings new possibilities.

I don't love the ocean because it is easy to deal with, because it's quiet and serene.

Yes, at times it can be peaceful and calm, but that's not always the case.

Sometimes there's storms.

Sometimes the waves don't remind me of renewal but of destruction.

I love the ocean because it reminds me of life.

The ocean has many facets. It can seem cold and unforgiving and it can seem inviting.

Sometimes the ocean destroys things. But after the destruction, when the light from the sun pours through the clouds, there isn't just death on the shore, there's life too.

Even the storms have meaning.

Someday, I'd love to live in a little house on the edge of the sea. I hope I can step out of my front door and curl my toes in the sand.

Friday, July 24, 2009

urine cups

You're like sunshine on a cold, dark day. Sounds a little cliche, but you are.

I don't actually know what to write about. That's the truth.

The last few days have been terrible, and I barely know why.

I had resolved to find myself a millionaire boyfriend until Rachel told me that would be using him for his money. Turns out that was my intent in the first place, I just hadn't thought about it that much.

I bought new underwear.

Don't mock me.

It's cute underwear.


From Aerie.

It was cheap.

Oh, I had a doctor's appointment today (that's something semi-interesting in an old lady sense of the word, right?).

They said my kidneys are screwed up. Too much protein in my urine.

By the way.

Am I the only person who always gets the pee everywhere but the little plastic cup?

What the heck is up with those?

Are they like the nurses way to get back the rest of the human race?

How many girls actually know where their pee-hole is? How do you even find that???

I just kind of stick it down there and hole it gets in the cup.

But seriously, you have to hold the freaking cup, which means you get pee all over your hands. Gross.

And then you get it all over the cup.

Which means you have to wash the cup off in the sink.

And if you're a germaphobe like me, you use soap on the little blue cup. And soap, my friends, is slippery.


And then, you have to wipe the warm cup of yellowish-clear liquid off because it has water all over it, and you don't want the nurses to think that it's actually pee because then they might do something nasty with the blood-drawing needle.

So you wipe the gross warm, less-than-a-quarter-cup-full cup off.

And another thing. Who has actually had to go pee when you're supposed to?

I can never go when I'm ordered to. . I let nature take it's sweet time.

Nurses are fun.

No, really.

They do some amazing things.

"This'll only pinch."

I wonder about their honesty.

Or how they actually think I'm gonna go around in one of those hospital gowns with my butt hanging out the back.


I'd much rather use more tax-payer dollars and use two gowns to cover my rear-end up.

No, it doesn't matter that I have cute underwear on. Because, as luck has it, I usually end up having no laundry done the day I'm scheduled for a doctors appointment.

Winnie the Pooh, anybody?

Actually, I'm kidding. I do not have Winnie the Pooh undies.

I swear.

And what is it with nurses and ugly shoes?

Crocs were never, ever, ever in style, ladies.

You also do not need to accessories with your scrubs. Betty Boop earrings, watches and shoelaces aren't necessary.

Believe me.

Can you tell? I hate hospitals. Or clinics.

Don't get me wrong, I'm always nice. I've met some amazing nurses. . .

A few.

Actually, my favorites are the tech guys.

Like in the ER, they're always the sweetest.

And, may I mention, the hottest (not that I notice or drool or anything like that).

I do like nurses.

If I didn't I wouldn't have considered being a psychiatric nurse.

They really should get some training on stuff though.

No, when there's a pattern of scars on a person's arm that all resemble each other, I did not fall down and scrape myself. Seriously?

That's almost up there with the kid that asked me if I fell through a cheese grinder. "Yep, I got dropped through the Kraft factory. Worst day of my life."

They always don't know what to say.

Is self-injury really that uncommon?

I can count on the doctor saying "Even on your tummy?!?". It happens every dang time.

Like clockwork.

It's during the time when they lift your shirt up to "check your intestine functioning".

Yeah. Freaking. Right.

They KNOW they're doing it to tickle you.


I laugh every time. It's terrible.

They give me these looks like: I'm not really trying to tickle you. No, I'm molesting you.

Just kidding.


So, on the physical form, the doctor wrote nothing for all the categories, she just checked them off except for the breast one.

She wrote "defined" or "developed".

One or the other because the writing is almost unintelligible.

It couldn't be anything else though because if you piece all the letters together everything else isn't a word.

But seriously?

Developed? Yeah. They have been for quite some time. Thanks for noticing that I'm not 10 anymore.

Defined? Why the heck was she looking that close? What, next is she going to be telling me that they're "chiseled"? Ha ha ha. Wow.

I crack myself up.

I'm really tired. This is insomnia writing, not me.

She bids you adieu.


Sunday, July 19, 2009

hey you, i love you

You with the blond hair, black hair, brown hair, blue hair.
Short like me, giant feet.
You with your silly grin, crooked teeth, funny faces.

I love you.

I love every freckle on your silly chin.
Ever curly hair on your scalp.

I love your funny-looking toes.
Your crooked, doggy nose.

You with your size 9 Doc's. Your leopard-print flats.
Chucks all in rainbow colors and flags.

You, straight or curved.
Hopeful or hopeless.

You, under a blue sky or a rainbow banner.
You, no matter what's in your pants or under your shirt.

I love you no matter what your mouth says-
Because I've seen your eyes and I've heard your heart beat.

You with your pigeon ribs. You with your chewed up fingernails.

You with the hat and the guitar slung on your back.

I love you.

I love you, even with your ribs sticking out through your coat.
And even with your calorie counter poking out of your back pocket.

You, with your ziplock bags and your water bottles full of vomit.

Behind your eyes lies liquid fire.

I love you.

No matter what.

No matter who you are.

I love you.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

max lucado

He still moves stones.- Max Lucado

Word for word, this is how Mr. Lucado tells the story. . .

"Rebecca Thomson fell twice from the Fremont Canyon Bridge. She died both times. The first broke her heart; the second broke her neck.

She was only eighteen years old when she and her eleven- year old sister were abducted by a pair of hoodlums near a store in Casper, Wyoming. They drove the girls forty miles southwest to the Fremont Canyon Bridge, a one-lane, steel-beamed structure rising 112 feet above the North Platte River.

The men brutally beat and raped Rebecca. She somehow convinced them not to do the same to her sister Amy. Both were thrown over the bridge into the narrow gorge. Amy died when she landed on a rock near the river, but Rebecca slammed into a ledge and was ricocheted into deeper water.

With a hip fractured in five places, she struggled to the shore. To protect her body from the cold, she wedged herself between two rocks and waited until dawn.

But the dawn never came for Rebecca. Oh, the sun came up, and she was found. The physicians treated her wounds, and the courts imprisoned her attackers. Life continued, but the dawn never came.

The blackness of her night of horrors lingered. She was never able to climb out of the canyon. So in September of 1992, nineteen years later, she returned to the bridge.

Against her boyfriend's pleadings, she drove seventy miles- per hour to the North Platte River. With her two-year old daughter and boyfriend at her side, she sat on the edge of the Fremont Canyon Bridge and wept. Through her tears she retold the story. The boyfriend didn't want the child to see her mother cry, so he carried the toddler to the car.

That's when he heard her body hit he water.

And that's when Rebecca Thompson died her second death. The sun never dawned on Rebecca's dark night. Why? What eclipsed the light from her world?"

Max Lucado goes on to further write about the possibilities of fear, anger, guilt, and shame that Rebecca may have experienced the next nineteen years of her life after that assault. He writes encouraging words of healing as the story ends with this... "Invite Christ to journey with you back to the Fremont Bridge of your world. Let him stand beside you as you retell the events of the darkest nights of your soul."

old- Imago Dei

(This is a repost of a Facebook note.)

Image of God. Imago Dei.

Blue Like Jazz was kind of sitting on my shelf for the last couple of months. I had tried reading it, but had given up, because I was, and still sort of am, mad at God, but I picked it back up this morning. I'm almost done with it.

Lately, I've been skipping church. It's been pissing me off. Everything seems so fake- not just at our church- but the Church, in general. It's all about not watching PG-13 movies and not saying "Jeez" and how homosexuality is wrong, and I'm sick of it.

It was right after P.O.D. and right before RED when I heard what Slipknot's new concert tour was called. All hope is gone. That's what it's called. I'm not sure what I was inspired to when I heard that, but I know I was inspired to something. Probably sadness. Or desperation. I get that feeling sometimes.

Like just acouple of days ago, when I was staring out of the bus window after some exceptionally thought-proviking sentence in the book I was reading (The Hunger Artists) when I saw a man riding a bike through a Liquor Drive Thru.
What has our world come to? We have to have Liquor Drive Thru's now? Of all things?
And when you go to a Drive Thru, you drive. You don't ride your crummy-ass bike through it. That's just my opinion. What happens after you pay the man at the grimmy little window for the beer? Do you sit it in your lap, trying to balance the six-pack as you pedal down S. Grand?

There was an old man driving a Lincoln once upon a time, and he stopped at the mall. I don't know why he stopped at the mall, because certainly he wasn't going to find Dockers at our mall, and I highly doubted the posibility of him mall walking since he could barely totter to the doors. It was a fridgid day, and I was sitting on the bench outside of Sear's because I had heard that being in the cold helps you burn more calories. He walked in the exact middle of the faded yellow lines that were at one time a cross walk, as if walking in the exact center would save him from something terrible. He was wearing a hat. No one wears hats anymore, and baseball caps don't count, unless you're a guy that wears plad shirts and buys beer by the keg. People should wear hats more often. Bonnets, Stensons, Newsboy's caps, the whole deal.

Anyway, he was wearing a hat, and he stopped at the cigarrette receptacle. I watched him, because I do that, unashamedly, because I plan to be a psychologist, and psychologists really should do this, because they'd learn alot. Maybe they do. The best places are at airports, but malls are a close second.
He stared into the ashes and the butts (I could make a bad joke here, but I'm refraining) and pulled his hand out of his pocket.

Maybe he was going to scratch his just-shaved-last-night chin-hairs, but he didn't. He dug his finger into the ashes and dug around for a cigarrette that still had some nicottene left.

And then he put it in his mouth and lit it.

I think.

Because I wasn't watching anymore. I was looking at my lap, consentrating on how intricately the white and blue threads had been woven together. The smoke from his cigarrete almost became a tear in my eye, but I try not to cry, because I'm stupid, and I think that crying is a manefistation of weakness. I know that's not the case, in my intelectual, but try to convince my self-conscious of that. It doesn't listen.

What if that was a woman's cigarrette? In my mind's eye, I can see the red lipstick marks, even though not that many people wear red lipstick any more (they really should, it makes you feel bold and confident, even if you're not. Maybe I should wear it more often). He was sucking on something that someone else had sucked on. Someone else's saliva had infiltrated the filter. Maybe the last user had had a nervous habbit of chewing on the filter. . . . .

It was like rape.
And I was watching it.

And I couldn't help it.

And I was furious.

Aren't older people supposed to be mature; the one's us youngsters are supposed to look up to? I guess not. They're too busy riding their bikes through drive thru's to buy cheap booze, and puffing on someone else's death to have any time to speak wise words any more. Those days died off long ago, when people stopped wearing hats in everyday life.

But God.

God is mystical and works in the weirdest ways, through oceans and eyes and tears and blood and dirt and eggs and hate and gays and vegeterians.

He sent me beautiful things- to remind me.

He sent me Jamie, the founder of TWLOHA, and his words. If you've never read Jamie's blogs (, you need to. It's amazing.

He sent me Blue Like Jazz, and the concept of Imago Dei, and finding a church where people use art to worship, and use love to speak. I'm going to live in Portland some day, and go to Imago Dei ( that's a promise. I want to be part of that community.

He sent me Dontrell, who is funny and reminds me of Noodles every time I think about him. I don't know what God sent me through Dontrell, but it's something. It's a surprise, and surprises make me smile, because God loves surprises too- like surprising us with grace. It's awe-stricking. And Dontrell is too, I've heard, when he runs fast. He's like the wind. . . you feel something moving, but you can't see it because as soon as you turn to look, it has passed. God is like that too. Dontrell isn't God, but he reminds me of Him sometimes. Now if Dontrell starts talking about how the poor are blessed and how they're going to inherit something someday, a surprise maybe, I will be worried, because I've always thought God was white. Maybe I was wrong, I'm wrong about alot of things.

He also sent me Erin. Erin is amazing. She's sunshine through the rain, Dairy Queen Waffle Bowl Sundaes, coffee and music. Erin inspires me too. She gave me something special today- a thought, and so much more. Someday, I'm going to meet Erin, and I'm going to shriek so loud that I'm probably going to pee my pants, but that's okay, because she's not the one to judge. She'll probably just laugh and hug me. I hope I don't get pee on her, I always do things like that. God sent me Erin to tell me that I'm doing the right thing today, and that I should be like her. Unexpected, suprising, and love.

Because love is what it should always come down to, right?

See you at Imago Dei.

Monday, July 13, 2009


Things I love:

Things I love lists.
Jon Foreman.
Bottle caps.
Etymological dictionaries.
Mini New Testaments.
Spinny chairs.
Bottled water.
Mt. Rainer cherries.
Perez Hilton.
Glitter Veins.
"I think I figured it out, we're meant to be together, like the shore and the sea."
Hard-wood floors.
Cherry wood.
Vintage clothing.
Desk lamps.
Storage bins.
The way garages smell.
The world "manhole".
On/off switches.
Book holders.
The smell of old books.
Cassette tapes.
Noah Gundersen.
Jesus, Jesus.
"Jesus, Jesus, if you’re up there won’t you hear me
‘Cause I’ve been wondering if you’re listening for quite a while
And Jesus, Jesus, it’s such a pretty place we live in
And I know we fuc*ed it up, please be kind
Don’t let us go out like the dinosaurs
Or blown to bits in a third world war
There are a hundred different things I’d still like to do
I’d like to climb to the top of the Eiffel Tower
Look up from the ground at a meteor shower
And maybe even raise a family."


Saturday, July 11, 2009

this is what you'd call a secret


Shh, don't breathe a word,
Dear ED, for you and I are the best of friends
And we'll keep each other's secret until death do us part.
No one will ever know,
Even when I am just skin on bones
And you are the lie that suffocates me.
Because all I see is fat hanging on more fat
On the carnival mirror that is you.
No one will notice,
Even when my teeth show through my cheeks
And I eat nothing but air
And sweet, sweet lies from you.

Oh, Ana, you are my bestest friend.
All bone and air and art and masterpiece of will,
And I love you and pray to you.
You're my little secret, my ED's skeletal daughter.
And no one will suspect that I harbor your fragile soul
Within the cage that has become me;
All bars and ribs and bones.
No one will know.

Me and Mia, sister to Anne and Ana,
You are my first escape, my deadly secret.
I shove my mouth full of sin
And hold my impregnated flesh
Until I am sick all over your porcelain altar.
You're my capsules and pills inscribed with salvation,
My only escape when I look for truth.
You are my only truth.

I cannot run away,
Do not let me run away.
Because I long to be captured, tethered, caught
Within your gilded cage, your web of steel,
I want to be your skin and bones,
Your home sweet home,
Your purest sanctuary.
Emaciate me; strip me down; leave me empty-
Oh, emptier still.

I want to become you.

Monday, July 6, 2009


Question: Since when has the word church (in Greek: ekklisia) evolved from a word meaning a group of like-minded individuals who strive to live for the glory of God to a building made of stone and brick and drywall?

I am officially considered a radical threat to the church for asking that.

You're welcome.

Not once in the over 110 times this word is used in the New Testament is it used in the context of a building.


It doesn't mean building. Not the way Jesus used it.

It means a group of people.

Jesus doesn't live in a building- He lives in our hearts. At least, He can live in our hearts if we let Him. The letting is up to us.

Question: Why do we go to church to sit in pews facing the front, watch the pastor talk for an average time of 32 minutes and then go home? What God's name does that have to do with the original Christian meetings where people got together in someone's living room on throw pillows (or the 1st century equivalent of them) and discussed the Bible, prayed and ate a "love feast" (which, on a side note, was what Communion is supposed to be. The sacrament wasn't a cup of an alcoholic beverage or a plastic thimble of grape juice and unleavened bread or crackers- it was supposed to be a huge affair. With talking and mingling and little kids shitting their diapers)?


I have been thinking about this a lot lately.

And by the way, if you're reading this to check on my love life, click the little red x on the top right corner of your screen. Get out. You're seriously not appreciated. It's a little sickening.

Back to the point.

There has to be some reason I can't stomach even 10 minutes of church. I've walked out the last, oh. . .3 or 4 times I've gone.

Right after worship starts, I have to leave, which is weird because worship has always been my favorite part.

It feels so wrong now.

Because it is wrong.

Enter: Frank Viola's book, Pagan Christianity?. Read it.

That is some crazy shit in that book. It will rock your world.

I read it and it went freaking kaboom in my head. All the questions that I've been asking in Sunday school and texting Calvary (which they haven't answered on their website or on Sunday nights as far as I know) are legit! I wasn't just imagining people totally avoiding my question and giving me an answer that had nothing to do with the freaking question itself. . they were really doing it.

Not because they were purposefully trying to deceive me. No. Definitely not.

Because they have no clue what the answer is themselves.

Sometimes, because they don't understand the question. It can't even cross their mind, it's so forbidden.

Whoops. Wittle Annie's asking too many questions again.

I seriously can't help it, though.

Have you thought about steeples? I have, and so has Frank. What the heck do steeples have to do with anything in this freaking world having to do with Jesus??

Hmm. . . well, the only thing in the Bible that remotely resembles a steeple to me is. . the Tower of Babel. They were trying to reach God.

According to some historians, steeples are used to make us feel, ahem, closer to God.

How about, say, uhh. . tithing. Did you know that the whole 10% thing came way after Jesus died. Not sure when, if you want I can get you approximate dates, but it was like centuries later. You know why 10%? Because that's the same exact percentage the Romans used in their taxes. Huh.

The only thing the Bible says about tithing money is found in the Old Testament. Apparently Jesus thought it was okay to give whatever you thought you should, and geez, probably the Holy Spirit will tell you to give more than 10%. The Widow gave 100%.

That, my friends is pure crazy giving.

And Jesus, well. . Jesus was all about crazy.

He disagreed with both of the main religious parties of the day.

The Pharisees added to the Bible all these random laws. They totally made up this extra mini "Torah" for their followers to do.

The Sadducees took chunks of theology out of the Bible. They didn't believe in angels, demons, resurrection and stuff like that. They were like the pragmatists of the day, boiling everything down to the mere 5 books they called the Torah. Everything else, they tossed out.

Funny, this all seems mighty familiar. One added, the other took away.

Human nature doesn't change.

We still do this today.

We don't have the freaking cool Jewish names, but we still do it.

Jesus was like, "Hey, I'm in between. I hate the fact that you added all this crap to the Bible, and I hate that you took tons of stuff away. I'm right between you two. I'm balanced."

And they hated Him.

Actually, they hated Him and then they killed Him.

There are two sides.

There are the people who sit at home and watch TV and sip beer and say "Dude, I'm still a Christian. I don't cheat on my wife, I don't get drunk, and I don't do drugs- I just can't stand the stuffiness of church" and there are people who dress up in funky gowns that, wow. . . greatly resemble and basically imitate Catholic priest's gowns and make everything a ritual. There's two extremes.

One takes away everything but the basic "I-believe-Jesus-died-for-my-sins-and-repented-of-my-sins" and the other relies on two candles on the sacrament table to keep his relationship with God straight.

We're just humans.

But if we can make some things right. . . why don't we?


Until I can find some like-minded individuals who can't stand siting through another well-organized liturgy when they know there's chaos and pain going on right outside this "churches" walls. . . I'm just going to stay home from the building that has come to be wrongly known as church.

And, no. I'm not going to have a set time of prayer or worship or Bible-reading. Not anything more than I do every day.


Why, Annie, do you refuse to go to church on Sunday morning and then on top of that won't wake up and conduct a worship service?

Why? Because I'm tired in the mornings. I can't keep my freaking eyes open.

Oh, you want a spiritual reason?


Because I think "worship services" are stupid.

Why do we have to have a service to do something we're supposed to be doing every breathing moment??

Why a designated time?

When did worship evolve into a time when people play music, anyway?

And has anyone else noticed that the music and lighting and prayer is all used to evoke emotions that will help the pastor in his goal to get us to come up to the altar to either a) confess sins or b) give our life to the Lord???

WHICH- Since when has that been the goal of a Christian? Since when do we talk about Jesus, sing about Jesus and talk to Jesus so that we can get more notches in our Christian belt/bedpost? Yeah.

Oh, and the altar call.

Don't even get me freaking started.

What the hell?

Do you ever see Jesus giving an altar call in the Bible?

Yeah- no.

I didn't think so.

And when the poor people, the flock, finally do go up to the altar. . . the emotions that they've been conditioned to experience finally hit them, and they think they're having a spiritual encounter with the one true God (don't get me wrong, Jesus can still work at altar calls. I'm not saying He can't . . . Geez, He made heaven and earth. . ).

But, usually (again, not always!), it's just these emotions that are caused by the awesome music, the cool colors and all this stuff that Plato said makes us have a connection to God through our souls (or something like that). It's usually not real.

In my case, every single time I've gone up for an altar call that's what it was.

It sure as hell felt like something that Jesus was doing.

But I'd get up the next morning and I would still feel like shit, and I would still be no closer to God.

And that made me loose faith in God Himself.

And it wasn't even God who was to blame.

It was centuries of people who changed one thing because it worked, which in turn changed the whole idea of what Christianity and the Church is supposed to be.

Wow. I can't believe I thought less of the Jesus that saved me and who loves me and who I love- because my emotions let me down. . . because they wore out.

Again. Emotions are not bad.

They certainly are used by God and they are an amazing tool!

I'm one of the most emotional people I know. That's why they sometimes call me a bitch.

Emotions are what fuel my writing. They help me give praise to God because I feel how much I love Him.

But they aren't a spiritual experience.


That was a lot, wasn't it.

Digest it.

Leave me a comment telling me what you think of all this.

And seriously- read the book Pagan Christianity by Frank Viola and George Barna.

I trust this dude. He knows what he's talking about and he's done research.



A note about swearing.

And how I do it.

Some people think it's a carnal sin.

I think that swear words are. . . just that. Words.

If you have a problem with it, guess what? Just don't read my blogs.

It's as simple as that.

I don't write these for you, I write them for me.

It helps me get my thoughts all straightened out.

Okay. I guess that's it.

I'm out.


Sunday, July 5, 2009


Today, I lay on my bed with my best friends ultra-amazing puppy, Heidi, and took a nap. She just looked so cute and peaceful asleep that I figured maybe some of it would rub off on me if I lay really close to her.

It did.

You know when you're asleep, you kind of drift? Well, I was drifting and then a dream happened. I saw Hotmail, and I saw myself clicking on the unread messages tab where it said 1 unread message. I saw his name in the sender's name place thingee, and almost peed myself (not in real life).

The email was short.

It said something really close to but not word-for-word like:

"How could I not love someone who says 'crazy bastardly benifits'?
I love you."

And I woke up right then.

But, there was a huge smile on my face.

Until I realized it was only a dream.

That crash back to reality hurt like hell.

So, because I can't stop thinking about him, I checked his myspace (just a few seconds ago). He was on 4 days ago. He felt adventurous then, or whenever he updated his mood.

I (stalker) looked at the few pictures he has. One is a tag from me, from his Mormon prom. I'm really tempted to untag him. It doesn't seem right, now.

As I was looking at the other two, I felt the urge to vomit.

It hurts so bad.

I couldn't sleep.

So I drew a picture of someone I thought would be his dream girl.

She looks nothing like me.

She is beautiful.

Her hair is wavy, and soft and floaty.

Her eyes are huge. And she has a really pretty smile.

Damn my art.

She's almost perfect.

She's wearing a cameo. Not that I know he likes cameos. It just seemed to fit her totally feminine persona.

You know. . . a girl who would never wear skinnies. A girl who's favorite color was dusty pink.


I'm totally scaring myself.

I swear, I'm not a freaky stalker girl. I've never done this before and it's even creeping me out.


His birthday is in 3 days.


I'm a moron.

Shoot me.


Wednesday, July 1, 2009

davinci had a code?

"As long as there has been one true God, there has been killing in his name."

There has obviously been a lot of controversy over The DaVinci Code and, more recently, Angels and Demons.

Those are amazing movies. Some of my favorites.

It's a story. Fiction. So shut up and enjoy some great story-telling.

Not only are these two movies (and I hear, books) great mysterious tales, but they are full of absolutely amazing quotes.

Take the one at the beginning of this blog. I rarely hear words more honest. It reminded me of Blue Like Jazz (if you haven't, read it! That's an order!), where Don apologizes for the Crusades. Reading that made me what to go set up my own confession stand.

I'd tell them that we've fucked up badly. We've focused on the filth of man and refused to acknowledge the divine traits God has endowed each of us with. We've looked at the outward, and disregarded the heart. The wellspring of life. The core.

We've kept ourselves quarantined in our pristine churches and chapels and failed to go outside our brick-layed walls. But outside is where we are needed. Outside is where we are called.

Every Sunday we stand in our pews with either raised hands or hymn books and we sing. We cringe if the song-leader misses a chord. And somewhere out there there may be a teenage girl about to overdose on anything she could find. Across the street might be a man on the verge of raping a girl. Somewhere around the corner may be a needy soul who is crying out for someone. "Jesus, help me." But Jesus is paralyzed, boys and girls. Jesus has His hands and feet tied up inside the pristine chapels, the glass houses of the church.

"As long as there has been one true God, there has been killing in his name." And it's still going on.

I'm going to go as far as to say there's blood on my hands, on yours- on ours as a church. "Go unto all the world" was the command, not stay in your pretty manicured churches and listen to a man preach.

There is a time and a place. And we've gotten too much of preaching and sitting down and listening.

That's all we ever do, is listen. We don't act.

If we do, it's inviting someone to church, our social club, or telling them "I will pray for you, dear sister" and then forgetting her name. That's a "step of faith" and a "witness" to this dying world? Seriously? Grow up.

We're not little children any more. We shouldn't still be fed milk. It's time for the meat (says the vegan), and with meat come bones.

There is evil in the world, though sometimes I think there's more in the church. We have to come face to face with evil to do any good. Where light is, darkness is not- but they touch at the edge. They have met, and they have overlapped.

We have to get our hands dirty to cleanse our hands of the blood we may have unwittingly shed.

I for one can't stand the church as it is right now, at least the ones I've been to lately. I have to walk out. I can hear the cries of souls waiting to be loved, and yet I'm expected to sing some pretty little song about how Jesus saves. Jesus can save without us, but He sure could use our help. Jesus would move a whole lot faster if He had hands and feet, don't you think?

Don't shove a dollar in the homeless man or woman's cup, take them to lunch, hear their story. I bet it'll bless you. I bet they have an amazing story to tell. I bet they're wise beyond their life span.

Don't make a wide circle around the prostitute. Ask her if she's hungry. Tell her there's hope out there. . there are stars. They still shine. She doesn't have to sell her body to find her soul. There is love and it doesn't only exist between two sheets and two bodies who are struggling to breathe.

Don't dismiss the child as being a fool, because they are wise beyond their years. They understand things that even adults struggle to comprehend. Listen to them. Look at the drawings they draw for you. They care deeply and unconditionally. They don't know a straight man from a homosexual, they hug the body none-the-less, no matter what he chooses to do with his sexual orientation.

Please, please listen.


Come on.

You've heard me say this before, hear me say it again.

Jesus summed it up in this:
1) Love God. Love Him with everything. Heart, mind, soul, body. Love Him because He is worth and awesome and mystical.
2) Love others the way God loves you. Love them no matter their skin color, eye color, sexual orientation, hair color, clothing style or religion. Just love them. Love them the way you wish someone would love you. Bake them cookies. Make them mixed CD's of their favorite songs. Write them poems. Tell them they're unique. Most of all, tell them there is love out there for them, and it's true, and they can have it. It is reachable.
Hug them.

It's not that hard to comprehend, but it's hard to do. It just starts with trying though. If you don't try, you won't get very far.

Start by loving God. Don't love Him for His gifts to you, because that's selfish. Love Him because He is beyond comprehension and immovable, insurmountable, and a mystery.

God is love. We're supposed to strive to become like Him.

"We were made to be lovers bold in broken places, pouring ourselves out time and time again until we are called home." -Jamie Tworkowski