/lit/ - Literature

Every night at seven she would turn off the television and usher me up to my room and read me a story from the bible. I would repeatedly ask her to read me lord of the rings but she told me that it wasn’t for little catholic boys and that I needed Jesus’s divine guidance. I always wonder what the fuck my dad was doing during all of this. That asshole could have saved me from that crazed zealot. Oh well the past is dead and gone. Even though I despised many things that were happening around me Sunday mornings were what I hated the most in childhood, having to sit and kneel and stand and kneel and sit and kneel and stand and then sit and then kneel really grew to be bore some and tiring and fucking overall annoying. Not to mention all the ridiculous stories they told about this hippie who traveled back in time named Jesus who preached peace and love and partying. I was fucking five years old. I didn’t need to be informed about how many fish this guy caught or how many nails it took to stick him to that cross. What I needed to know was how the fuck I even got to earth in the first place and how did cars and houses get built and what made the sky blue and if there was someone who could confirm my theories of little men in the stop lights that controlled traffic. But most importantly somebody needed to tell me what would happen to me when I died. I was introduced to death at an early age when my two month old cousin died in sleep. It was the only time I saw my father cry. A week later I had a breakdown as the thought of the emptiness of death crushed me.