Slow Adventures in Slothville

November 14, 2007

Separated at Birth?

Filed under: Celebrity Whoredom, Penny, Religion — shhville @ 5:09 pm

Look at me, posting!

So, you all already know of my lingering fascination with the cult of personality that is Joel Osteen, possibly the worst man alive, whom I would bed without hesitation.  I watch his show all the time, natch. The other night he opened his sermon with a dumb blonde joke. It was terrific, especially since his wife is blonde and very likely dumb if not completely Satanic. Remember when she went all Freddy Kruger on a Continental flight and got kicked off the plane? That was pretty rad.

Anyway, I was trolling the celeb goss the other day and found a photo of Joel Osteen with a killer tan:

Look, it’s Smokey Osteen! Man, check out those krazy eyes on Smokey Robinson,  that’s the Lord’s work right there, I’ll tell you what. He looks more like Joel Osteen than Joel Osteen does!

Praise him, people. PRAISE HIMMMM!!

I showed the picture to Penny and she was considerably disconcerted.

Penny: That’s the guy you want to have crazy monkey sex with and ruin his life with blackmail and public disgrace?

Slothy: Well, that’s the black, musically talented version.

Penny: I don’t see it.

Slothy: There is hotness there. And hypocrisy. Trust.

Penny: Just make sure you get a receipt.

Slothy: What does that mean?

Penny: I have no idea.

August 8, 2006

Shoe of the Day

Filed under: Religion, Shoes — shhville @ 3:45 pm

The Pope steps out in style.

Dainty, isn’t he?

April 12, 2006

The Slothspels

Filed under: Religion, Slothyness — shhville @ 8:23 pm

I was watching Joel Osteen last night (shutupIcan’thelpmyself) and there was this woman singing on stage in front of 30,000 people about Jesus and the light and the incredibleness and whatever the fuck, and she was wearing – notkidding! – these super high-waisted pantz that came up to, like, her eyebrows, and a TIE the size of a ten-year-old child around her neck. She looked so ridiculous, it was mesmerizing. And her hair was all feathered and fucked up, it was awesome.

So I was listening to Joel Osteen talk about how we’re all ok and God loves us and we totally RULE!! And things might seem crappy and hard, but if we just use the right words and think the right things, and let God into our hearts instead of getting angry and worked up when some shmo cuts us off in traffic, then we will be A-OK. He seriously went on and on about this theoretical asshole cutting everyone in the auditorium off in traffic and how to not get pissed about it. And, of course, I was thinking about having manic, animal, videotaped sex with him and then ruining his life with shame and blackmail because, as you all know, that’s what I always think about when watching Joel Osteen. Favorite fantasy of all time, natch.

Hummana!!

My roommate was trying to go to bed but found himself hovering in the doorway, caught in the Osteen fascination forcefield. He said, “I can’t believe these people. Look at them. There are 30,000 middle-class people in that arena and they’re all caught up in the same groove. I’d probably be a lot happier if I believed in that crap, but I’d rather live my life questioning things than rolling through suburbia on blind faith.”

I said, “Honey, every one of those people is just as fucked up as you, if not worse. Don’t go thinking they’re all happy and yayGod and life is fuckin’ awesome-oh because they’re at the Lakewood Church. The whole reason they’re there is because they can’t deal with their problems and they need Joel-fucking-Osteen to walk them through the dumb little glitches they consider hardships.”

And HE said, “Oh my god, you’re totally right. I guess that’s the gospel according to Sloth.”

I’m serious, he really said that. And I guess it was. So it got me thinking that perhaps I should offer up some of my own Slothville Church advice for those who come here for solace (not a good idea) and comfort (same as solace) and a sense of community groove (that one’s ok).
So here is the Slothspel I want you to think about for today:

“If thou be cutteth off in traffic, do not giveth the demon driver the pleasure of thy anger, yet raise thyself up, and know, through the power of not being a fucking idiot, that what thou considereth to be hardship is not thus. To find hardship, ye need only look to the curb, where thou shalt find a homeless person holding a sign begging for food. Get over thyself.”

And for my fellow atheists:

“Those who goeth to church have no greater happiness, nor greater mindfulness than thou. Thy inner peace and inherent morality serve thee greatly. Be not envious of the believers, for they are only seeking the same answers in a different place.”

January 27, 2005

Broken Sloth with Random News

Filed under: Religion, School, Whateverall — shhville @ 1:17 pm

Hi peeps. I've been laid up for a couple of days with an ouchy back that has no business giving this kind of trouble to a young, limber sloth such as myself. In any case, I have to have an MRI and physical therapy. Until then, my new best friend is Vicodin.

Vicodin, meet the peeps. Peeps, this is Vicodin. I'm sure we're all going to get along famously.

I'm not sure what happened to me to bring this all on, but after 2 1/2 weeks of wearing this *not* fashionable pain belt, I realized that I might have to wear it forever if I didn't go to the doctor.

Ok, letseeee……I have a few things to say.

First of all, Lleyton Hewitt fans are idiots. No, I don't mean YOU. I mean those assholes who dress up in the yellow t-shirts and hoot and holler in the stands during the match. This is tennis, people. Pipe the fuck down. And if you absolutely must act like such a dumbass, at least don't do it while his OPPONENT is serving. That is so unbelievably rude. And why the hell do you like Hewitt, anyway? He such a puffed-up, ego-wielding jock. Bad sportsmanship all around.

On a less bitchy note, here are my top ten current musical favorites: (this excludes permanent favorites like John Hiatt who will always be #1 on my list)

1. Calexico
2. The Arcade Fire
3. The Black Keys
4. David Mead
5. Snow Patrol
6. Devendra Banhart
7. Interpol
8. Gomez
9. The Faint
10. Um……can't think of a 10th *current* one.

As for Monday's exam, I picked it up by the neck and shook it until it was dead. Amazing how I can feel totally unmotivated and burnt out on school but I'm too OCD to actually let my grades slip no matter what.

And finally for today, remember kids, God is just pretend. (Oh, I'm such a troublemaker!) 😛

October 6, 2004

Busy Brain Sloth

Filed under: Photography, Politics, Religion — shhville @ 8:25 pm


Onions at the farmer's market.

I am interrupting the travel journal because I wanted to tell you all about something I learned in class the other day about the psychology of small groups. Irving Janis, in studying group thinking, determined that there is a typical suspension of critical thinking seen in highly cohesive groups, especially when they are under stress. The seven properties of this behavior are as follows:

1. Illusion of invulnerability.
2. Sense of moral superiority.
3. Suppression of doubt or disagreement.
4. Pressure for unanimity (punishable by scapegoating, etc.)
5. Rationalization of dissenting information.
6. Insulation from outside input.
7. The "risky shift." Under extreme stress the group may often make a wild, radical, stupid decision and consider any disagreement with that group decision not only incorrect, but immoral and a betrayal.

Does this remind you of anyone?????

Before you freak out, I am not Republican-bashing here. (And even if I was, let's all try to remember that this is Slothville, not Politicallycorrectville.) That is not the point I am trying to make. I think that this information is fascinating because I recognize the behavior in others and, I hate to admit it, in myself. I have a sense that we have all experienced some if not all of these properties in our own lives at some point. I have to admit, though that some of the numbered properties made me think of certain groups immediately – before my mind could even censor anything.

#1 …….ok, well, this one really does remind me of the Bush Administration.

#2, of course, makes me think immediately of the protesters in front of Planned Parenthood.

#3 brings the Catholic Church to mind, but also the Patriot Act.

#4 ….well, this is everywhere. PETA, the Klan, 8th grade, the university I work at, you name it.

#5 …..Creationists. All the students at Bob Jones University.

#6 immediately made me think of Mormons. They are discouraged from reading anything other than the Book of Mormon. All outside information is deemed dangerous and corruptive. If they go to college they usually go to Brigham-Young.

#7 suggests a possibility of what the War in Iraq may have been. A stupid, wild, radical decision made under the extreme stress following 9/11. I'm not saying that's what it was, just throwing it out there as a possibility. Or maybe what I mean is that as a group, a cohesive, freaked out group, a lot of people supported that war and a lot of those people were, unfortunately, able to make it a reality. Not necessarily Bush and his peeps but perhaps all the people (including Kerry) who voted to give Bush the power to wage his war. Just a thought.

September 10, 2004

How to Win Friends and Influence People. Not.

Filed under: Boys, Photography, Religion — shhville @ 6:06 pm


I took this picture of a sunflower when I was in Maine over Labor Day weekend.

I've been neglecting my tree house in Slothville lately and I apologize. As my vacation approaches, as my apartment stagnates, as the first year students descend upon me, as my classes begin, as my ex-boyfriend shows up at my door 40 pounds lighter, I find myself frozen in place. Everything is happening at the same moment and instead of rolling with it, I'm standing ankle deep in the dirt while it all crashes into me. Does anyone remember that episode of Married With Children when Kelly Bundy was going on a game show and for every new thing that she learned she had to forget something else? That's what I feel like now. It seems like my mind is full of holes. My life is full of holes. Everything is just caught up in this huge avalanche of people and places and things that need me to pay attention to them RIGHT NOW but I can't keep it all straight and I am always forgetting what I'm supposed to be doing.

So this blog entry is short and random because it's all I'm capable of at the moment.

Before I go I'd like to mention that I've decided to stop apologizing for thinking that people who believe in God are crazy. I know there are a lot more of you than there are of me, but I'm done tiptoeing around with my atheism all tied up in knots and tucked away. You know what? The notion of a dude who was born from a virgin, then died, then came back to life and can now be eaten in a cracker is insane. The notion of an almighty being giving a shit whether you can afford a boat or not just because you prayed about it is insane. The notion that God reached down and personally snatched you from the jaws of a disaster, natural or otherwise, while all those other people got killed is insane. The notion that God, the supreme creator, took a personal interest in your little life and made you win that gold medal or that basketball game or that Powerball is insane. Just because 90% of you believe it, doesn't make it not crazy!! If you think that's disrespectful try being a fourth grader who refuses on principle to say the Pledge of Allegiance. Yeah, that was me. I've known what it's like to be disrespected for my beliefs for a long, long time. So forget it. I'm done being touchy feely nicenice around religion.

That's my rant for the day. There will doubtless be some sort of shitstorm but who the hell cares.

And on a final note, a few days ago the Dastard was helping me pick out a bottle of wine at Trader Joe's. He grabbed a Chianti and said, "This one looks good. It's Sicilian. You have to like it or it will kill you."

August 30, 2004

Firsts

Filed under: Celebrity Whoredom, Photography, Religion, Slothyness — shhville @ 10:36 am


Dragonfly II.

Good morning, residents of Blogland!

Some entirely unprecedented occurrences have……occurred since the last time I updated. Over the weekend I:

1. was nice to a Mormon.
2. met Dave Eggers.
3. did not tremble with icy-hot rage when someone touched my arm on the bus.

Anyone who knows me knows that I hold a peculiar animosity toward Mormons. Perhaps it is their annoyingly self-righteous do-goodery. Perhaps it is their homophobia and racism. Perhaps it is those prissy flight-attendant-looking outfits they wear. Whatever it is, I can't stand them. Yes, I know I'm offending legions of people right now, but I don't give a shit. Mormons disapprove of feminists and scholars and gay people so I don't feel the slightest bit bad about disapproving of Mormons. Mormonism is a cult the same way that Scientology is a cult and people get hurt from it and ignorance reigns and the stuff they believe is downright laughable. (……let the shitstorm begin………)

At any rate, I generally shoot them disdainful and/or dirty looks when I see them, perhaps explaining why no Mormon has ever spoken to me. On Friday night, however, one of the little buggers snuck up on me when I wasn't looking and sat next to me on the bus with a, "Hey, how ya doin'?"

I was horrified. I was about to have to cause a scene on the bus in front of everyone. I told him I was fine in a terse little snarl and started fishing around in my bag for my headphones. Then he asked me if I had a good night. Yep, I said – the most clipped "yep" in the history of yeps. Am I from around here? Ok, that was about as much as I could take of Wonderbread Boy. I thought, he's going to start proselytizing at any moment and I'm going to have to kick his little God-fearing butt. And then…

I don't know what happened. I really don't. I just kind of looked at him and thought, this guy isn't trying to hurt me. He's not trying to steal my wallet, he's not trying to ask me out, he's just asking me a question and I'm acting like an asshole. He doesn't deserve this. And all of a sudden I didn't hate him any more. It was so weird, it was like right then this kid turned into a real person instead of a representative of all things obnoxious. So I put my headphones away and asked him where he was from (one guess) and we talked for about twenty minutes until he had to get off the bus. Oddly, he didn't even try to convert me. I got the feeling that he was just really happy to be talking to someone who wasn't rude to him. As he stood up to leave he handed me one of those Jesus cards and I thought about telling him that I'm an atheist and no thanks, but decided at the last second that it wasn't worth it. He's just one kid, you know? He's just one kid in a sea of Mormon kids and I guess I didn't feel like disillusioning him right then. So that's the story of how I was nice to a Mormon.

On Sunday night I met Dave Eggers who is every bit as sardonically funny as one would imagine even if he is a bit thinner and paler than I expected (although still entirely, unbearably smoochable). If you don't know who Dave Eggers is, he wrote A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius which is everything the title declares and so much more. A runner-up for a Pulitzer a few years ago, he has since had his hands in a bunch of projects including one-on-one tutoring programs for kids and my most favorite website, McSweeney's from which I steal the "Daily Reason to Dispatch Bush" every once in a while for your edification. He and a few other authors were at Wordsworth Books in Harvard Square to promote the new McSweeney's anthology Created in Darkness by Troubled Americans which is so funny that I seriously could not catch my breath from laughing so hard. If you buy this book, do NOT read it on public transportation and be thankful that someone else learned that lesson for you so that you don't have to.

And finally, a horrifying development. I have now reached the point that I am so desperate for the touch of another human being that when someone rubs up against me on the bus I no longer mentally annihilate them. I am so starved for any kind of physical intimacy that the upwelling of unfettered rage that used to greet even the slightest accidental brush by a fellow commuter has been not only tamed, but entirely transformed into a humiliating, breathless yearning.

And on that note, I wish you a very happy Monday with much touching. Ciao!

July 28, 2004

Getting-on-with-things Sloth

Filed under: Family, Photography, Religion — shhville @ 10:10 am


This is a photograph of a child’s grave that I took at Mt. Auburn cemetery.

Hello everyone – as a few of you already noticed, I’m back. I lurked around for a bit but now am back to posting. This post is a little long which I usually try to avoid because I don’t like it when other people post long rambling passages either. I could have split it into two installments but, frankly, I want to be done with this topic. I am loath to dedicate two days strung together to death. So here is the last of it – it’s just a section of the journal I kept while I was gone. It’s nice to be back, even on a rainy day. Oh, and lest there be any confusion, we all called Lyla “Lee.”

July 22, 2004

Day one of death rituals. Today is Thursday. Lee died on Sunday. We bury her tomorrow.

I spent the night in Maine before picking up my dad’s wife, Cindy, and flying to D.C. After an evening of drinking, smoking and crying with my mom and stepfather I woke up messy, but I was ready to go in half an hour. Go go go. Don’t think about where or why, just get to the airport. Go go go. Then wait. Our flight was late. No planes could land in the soup of fog that passed for our atmosphere this morning.

Eventually we landed at Dulles. Horrible airport. We had to walk through three enormous buildings to get to a taxi stand. Our cab driver was a special needs cab driver. He couldn’t find the National Cathedral which is visible from every square inch of this city. Unfortunately Cindy and I were special needs passengers. We couldn’t find our street on a map. Cindy was feeling nauseous from peeping at the map in a moving car (the short cab) and my teeth felt like they were being ground down to nubs. When the meter hit $40 I called my dad. He spoke to the driver who slowed to 3 mph as he spoke much too loudly into my itty bitty Zoolander phone, the face of which was barely visible peeking out from his meaty hand. We were still creeping around the neighborhood at the pace of a pig roast when my dad appeared on a corner and flagged us down.

So we got here. And here we are. The house has my grandmother’s good smell. A half-empty bottle of Chanel No. 5 sits on her dressing table. I looked through some of her drawers and found a quick, impromptu love letter from her husband, Ed, that somehow incorporates the word “discombobulated.” I had to have my dad decipher the letter – the handwriting looks like Sanskrit and is very similar to his. There is no date on it, but it is likely quite old as Ed died when I was only a child.

We picked up Lee’s ashes at the funeral home this afternoon. The first line of their brochure reads, “When someone you love has died, regardless of how much time you’ve had to prepare for the death, it will be upsetting and shocking.” I am inclined to agree. The pink wallpaper, the Monet print, the friendly young woman who was both kind and professional, the soft green velvet chair that I sat in – none of it was quite enough to distract from the grandmother-in-a-box on her desk.

I just couldn’t fold this information into my mind. Her naturally strawberry-blonde hair, the thin, tissue-paper skin over the delicate bones in her hands, her tiny perfect triangle of a nose, her painted fingernails, her small, hesitant legs, her Michelle Pfeifer lips are all in this box.

The way she clasped the locket around her neck when she was at a loss for words, the way she maneuvered each forkful of food to her mouth without losing a crumb, the way she began her answers to questions with the word “well” in an upward inflection, the way she gracefully deflected any praise by pointing out something wonderful about the person offering it, the way she laughed, oh that funny, high laugh, and tried to talk through her laughter, making us all laugh more, the way she ran her finger back and forth over her chin as she spoke, the way she touched the corners of her mouth after taking a sip of Chardonnay, the way she kept her husband’s love letter in a drawer in the vanity that she sat at every day for decades, are all in this box.

Lee, the anchor of our family, the proud matriarch of our clan, is in this box.

This is her death. This is the reason that I am here. And all that is in that box is carbon. Grandmother to earth and ether. Granddaughter to grass and roots. I could just lie here, watch the sky go by. Wait for the lawn to swallow me up.

Day two of death rituals – the memorial service

Actually it’s day three at the moment. In two hours about 50 or so people are going to show up here to pay their respects. They won’t come all at once, of course. They’ll trickle in and out. There will be food and drink. There will be hugs and tears and wine and remembrances and cards and flowers and eggs. Maria Theresa – the woman who has cared for my grandmother for months – is making something with eggs at the moment. The whole house smells like a salt marsh.

We’ve made a little shrine to Lee on a long, thin table in the living room. Two bouquets of orange and purple flowers, photographs from all different stages of Lee’s life, the folded flag from her army service and a sandalwood candle. Many of the guests will be foreign service people who will recognize the young Lee in her photographs, though it’s clear in the pictures that throughout the progression of her life, she never lost the joy or the serenity that she seems to have been born with.

There were only ten of us at the graveside service yesterday, plus the minister. He didn’t know Lee. She hadn’t been a regular church-goer for some time. But he somehow made the service seem very personal and particularly framed around her life. Dr. Bauman was a kind man who seemed to carry his own serenity and inner light. He smiled throughout the service, yet it seemed entirely appropriate. He celebrated the joy of her life and the belief that the family shared in the joy of her afterlife. I was glad for his presence.

It is often difficult for me, as a non-believer, to find meaning in services such as weddings or funerals that are religious in nature. I grieve for my grandmother in a way, I think, that is different from the rest of the family. I don’t begrudge anyone their beliefs, but when Dr. Bauman spoke about the glory and love of God, about the teachings of Jesus, and about the triumph of the spirit in the afterlife, I found myself drawing away and needing in those moments to quietly speak to myself my own inner truth. She is gone. I miss her. I will never see her again. I miss her. I wish I could kiss her cheek. I wish I could get her back. She is gone. She is gone. She is gone.

I wanted not to cry but I was crying before we even got there. Sitting in the chair next to Ed’s grave I found myself scrutinizing the bouquet in an effort to hold myself together. That big yellow flower looks like the thing in that deep sea documentary I saw a while back, I was thinking. And that other flower looks like carpaccio. Yuck. Those big red flowers look like blood stains on thick paper. Blood. Lee died of blood in her brain. Lee died. She is gone. All gone forever. I don’t want to be sitting here. I want to lying face-down in the cool grass. The flower scrutiny plan was a failure.

Everyone spoke or read something at the service except for me. I thought I might feel guilty about that but I didn’t. It just wasn’t something I could do. There was a quote by Edith Wharton, a passage from Anne Lamott, a tidbit from the Bible and other things. I was glad it was just the few of us. I was glad to be able to say goodbye to her with only the closest of the family – crying together, feeling thankful together, loving her and missing her and wanting her back and releasing her together. There was an elegance to all of it, even to our grief, that seemed fitting to Lee’s elegant life.

After placing the roses and sprinkling the dried petals, we held a family circle around the grave. This is a long-held tradition in our family. In the moments before we take leave of each other we stand in a circle and hold hands. We pray or feel thankful or think good thoughts until we feel that we are ready to say goodbye. Then we squeeze the hands we’re holding and everyone squeezes and it’s time to go. We do this because in this family it’s always been very difficult to say goodbye, even when everyone’s still alive. During this particular family circle, I kept imagining the sound of Lee’s laughter. It was something I did reflexively when her daughter died as well. It is bizarre, let me tell you, to feel tears sliding down your cheeks even as laughter rings through your head.

I don’t feel well. Throat like sandpaper. Tomorrow we will have to decide which objects will go to which people. It’s a strange necessity and there is some dread nibbling at me, just as we seem to be nibbling away at her home. Wanting her bureau makes me feel like a loathsome troll. A troll with granite in my throat. Right now I am alone. Alone again, again, always alone. I don’t know how to get a toe-hold on a life that people keep slipping out of. I don’t know how to be ok. I miss her.

I’ll leave it here. It’s good to be back. There’s nothing like a speech from Senator Obama to cheer a girl up. I think the DNC is just the right medicine for a sad Sloth.

Posted by Hello

July 7, 2004

Reality Is Creeping In

Filed under: Religion, Whateverall — shhville @ 10:57 am

One of the worst things about being single is not having anyone to meet you at the airport after you've flown half way around the world. It's the most startlingly alone I've felt in a long time. I got off the plane and picked up my bags, found a cab with a driver who looked like he was still in high school, watched Boston-at-night go by out the window on the way home. At home, there was hardly anything to eat. I made a ramen-style noodle bowl, fried some eggs, dipped the last of the swiss cheese right into the mustard jar. Munched half-heartedly on some dried-up baby carrots. After that there was only flour and some off mushrooms left so I went to bed and slept until six o'clock the next evening.

Travel journal part II

Flying low over the coast of Sydney, the sunlight looked like a spray of gold needles on the water. Every Australian I met on this flight admonished me for visiting their continent during the winter months. "Woy ah ye hea niow? It's fuckin' frigid, mate!"

Walking to the cab I noticed that it was about 65 degrees and people were wearing mufflers. Yeah, frigid. It's the same exact temperature it was when I left Boston, you CRAZY PEOPLE. And, ooh! We're driving on the left! And our bags are in the boot! And I smell like a dead baboon!

Day 1 begins – first order of business at the hotel was a shower and a tooth scrubbing. (In the bathroom of LAX I had to ask a stranger if I could borrow some toothpaste. She reluctantly squeezed a little blob onto a paper towel and handed it to me.) Felt so good to be clean. Other than some general wobbliness, no problematic travel symptoms. After shower strolled toward the harbor in search of a little cafe that Abysmal Crayon mentioned in a sweet, sad post on her site and found it without too much trouble. It's in a church and it's quiet and old and musty but clean and sort of ancient and mysterious feeling. I ordered a flat white and an anzac biscuit (since Crayon had explained what both were) and they were delicious. Afterward, we tiptoed into the church but then mass started and we scuttled right out as fast as we could. I like churches, but only to look at. Not to stand up and kneel and sing songs and stand up and kneel and pray and kneel in.

We walked down to the harbor and snapped some pictures of the opera house and the angular underbelly of the Sydney Harbor bridge. Wandering through The Rocks we stumbled across the back door of an art gallery and popped in for a look. I loved the paintings of extravagantly elegant women in big hats and pearls with berry-colored lips and eyes delicately closed. There are many narrow, winding stone staircases here but in some ways I keep being reminded of Boston. Certain parts of The Rocks look like a cleaner, more spacious Downtown Crossing. At 4 o'clock it was time for a pint (a "schooner," actually – they come in schooners and pints) and then back to the hotel for a little rest before dinner.

It got cooler in the evening, enough to wear a little jacket. Walking to dinner I saw parrot-looking birds and sleek sea birds with scythe-like beaks. The first restaurant we went to in Darling Harbor wouldn't make a martini because it wasn't on the cocktail menu. We were flummoxed. How is it possible to have a cocktail menu without a martini on it? And why is that you can make a drink with straws and pineapples and flames and rainbows and shit coming out of it but you can't pour a little vodka in a glass? Definitely time to move on. At the next restaurant we had mussels and garlic shrimp and I drank three yummy cosmopolitans, then went back to the hotel and slept like a rock in a river bed.

May 28, 2004

Astrowhatthefuckital?

Filed under: Photography, Religion — shhville @ 1:53 pm


Why does it say my astrological sign? That's such garbage. I feel like I'm being accused of believing in astrology. It's embarrassing. Now I have to figure out how to LINK to things like The Atheist Alliance and Snopes just no one thinks I'm a sucker who believes in dumb things like God and what-sign-are-you and urban legends about people who put LSD on payphones.

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