Blitzed By Wolf

Check out the comments section of my last post to see a fine example of Republican spin. You can read what Boehner said in the CNN transcript. Blitzer and everyone else interpreted his comments as I did, and John Kerry and Howard Dean demanded an apology. Countless newspaper columnists and editorial boards around the country correctly understood Boehner's insanely insensitive remarks.

But Republicans can't accept reality, so they spin their collective asses off. Part of the spin process is to point the finger at the person reporting the story and accuse him or her of being a liar, or delusional. The fact is that Wolf Blitzer not only mentioned troop casualties in his question, but he emphasized them as part of the cost of the Iraq war.

When the shit hit the fan after House Minority Leader Boehner's callous remark the word went out from the Republican propaganda machine. They tried to argue that he didn't hear Blitzer include troop deaths as part of the cost of the war, and that he was only talking about money.

Give me a break. Republicans are endlessly trying to manufacture an alternate reality and then force us all to accept it. All one has to do is read the question, or watch the video. You can find it here, along with John Kerry's excellent commentary.

The Tao of being a Republican: Say something callous and stupid and pretend it wasn't said and/or do something stupid and pretend it never happened or was done by someone else. Repeat over and over and over again.

Unlike The Fonz (nice glasses and jacket) who left the last comment, I do not maintain a political 'blog. I write about everything here, and I don't take my marching orders from any Democrat. You said it yourself, Fonzie, I'm a socialist. Actually, I'm a capital "S" Socialist, as in I'm a member of the Socialist Party USA. My dues are current. You clearly drink the Republican Kool-Aid. At least some bloggers out there had the balls, or ovaries, to attempt to justify Boehner's comments by arguing that the cost in lives has been worth it. Instead, Fonzie sticks his fingers in his ears and closes his eyes and pathetically recites the Republican Central Committee mantra.

Donne Too Soon

Good day to all the brainy, beautiful and stylish readers of my little 'blog. It's New Year's Eve and there is great potential for mischief, drug abuse and sex for tonight, which is how I like to celebrate taking one step closer to the grave; either my birthday or New Year's. Of course, every day is a step closer to the horizontal underground, but one can't celebrate every day, now can one.

Nope, this is special. It's a great opportunity to reflect on the past year, particularly to mourn those who didn't make it. First and foremost on my mind is Kurt Vonnegut. We never met, yet I feel his absence as if a member of my family died. But he had a good life, and not one that ended while still young. A lot of young people bought it in 2007, long before they had to. The 899 American servicemen and women who died in Iraq come to mind. I'm reminded of what House Minority Leader John Boehner (R-OH) said about those deaths. He referred to the 3,774 deaths in Iraq as an "investment" and a "small price if we're able to stop al Qaeda." Remarks like that make me hate Republicans. It's not just the callousness itself, or the way he tried to play down all those deaths and injuries for political reasons. No, what really gets under my skin is the reference to stopping al Qaeda. Iraq, everyone should know by now, had nothing to do with al Qaeda. Boehner knows this, but he continues to lie anyway. Sunni and Shia violence is one major cause, as is the Taliban in Afghanistan. And many of the insurgents are fighting against the US occupation of Iraq. So the men and women who died over there weren't fighting the people who were responsible for 9/11. They were over there fighting because Bush lied his ass off to get is into Iraq. Boehner and countless other dipshits use fear to manipulate reality...it's mainly a Republican thing.

Anyway, enough about that. Actually, one more thing. I was watching the news yesterday and my father told me about something that General David H. Petraeus (the man in charge of all coalition forces) said when asked about progress in Iraq. He quoted John Donne, the poet, and said, "Any man's death diminishes me." That comes from Donne's Meditation XVII. The paragraph goes as follows:

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

My father and I are both romantics, which can be an exhausting way to go through life, but it's a price worth paying. We all have plenty of time to be dead after we die. My father was so moved in the telling of this story that he wept. We're both inclined to let a well-crafted poem get to us, especially the works of Longfellow and Donne. It was a profoundly moving and powerful (and beautiful) thing for the general to have said.

So I suppose it would be appropriate for me to post my New Year's resolution, since part of this time of year is looking back, but the other part is looking forward. I have two resolutions. The first one is to kick my addiction to painkillers like Vicodin, which will be brutally hard, but for many reasons it needs to be done. My second resolution is to get off my ass and visit Prince Edward Island, Canada, where my grandmother once owned a farm. I've never been up there at all.

Finally, a message to Chica. I've tried Risperdal and had a very unpleasant experience; aches and pains and a general feeling like I had influenza. But people respond very differently.

Happy New Year Everyone!

Bag of Tricks

In a few hours time, I'll be heading into the mental health center in Cambridge to see my psychiatrist. He and I get along very well, but I still dread every meeting. The process is humiliating to me, but I made my peace with that a long time ago. I'm sick, and there's a price to be had for getting help. That price is that I have to be honest, and let myself be guided by his better judgment. This requires trust, and it must be present in two ways.

Of primary importance is that I trust him not to mock me. Simply put, I must be able to trust his professionalism and intellect. If he were to ever laugh at my pain there is a small chance that I would kill him, or at least hurt him, and I'm strongly inclined towards a peaceful disposition. But a person has limits, and I'm in an awful lot of pain, manifest as paranoia, anxiety, depression, mania and self-loathing.

Equally important is my trust in his abilities. I have to know that he is good at what he does, otherwise I can't take him seriously. And part of being good at what you do when you're a doctor is having scruples and being compassionate.

In every sense, I trust him, which is why I've been his patient for nearly a decade.

Back in 1998, after my first suicide attempt, I told a psychiatrist in a mental hospital that I didn't appreciate the way he spoke to his patients, including me (it was in group). I was rather worked up, and I told the fellow that, "If I had no problem trying to kill myself, why would I hesitate to stick a knife in a cruel, arrogant prick like you?" That got me a very long talking to by another staff psychiatrist. And it probably kept me in the locked hospital for a few more days.

I detest cruelty, especially within a hospital context where people are struggling to get better.

Anyway, I have a lot to talk about with my psychiatrist today. Practically, of greatest concern is the prospect of starting a new anti-psychotic medication; I'm thinking of Zyprexa or Seroquel. Either way, I may find a modicum of peace, but at a price. Neither one of these drugs are really new to me, I just haven't touched them for at least a couple of years. My file is like the Tokyo telephone book; very thick. I've tried just about every single psychiatric medication at one time or another, and found a few (like lithium carbonate) which work.

Must go now. More later.

The Little Black Keebler Elf...Complete With Cookies

This morning finds me feeling terrible, but in good spirits. Another December has past, and New Year's Eve is on the horizon, which is an enjoyable holiday. You take a moment to look back, then forward, perhaps make a resolution that you'll almost certainly break, and then have Chinese food and do some drugs while waiting patiently for the big ball to drop. It's almost as much fun as Halloween.

Unfortunately, New Year's Day marks the beginning of the long, interminable Purgatory between the cold, short days of Winter and the long, green days of Spring. January through April in New England is a depressing affair. It's worth it to live here, though. When leaves and grass begin to reappear, and the forsythia pop out with their canary yellow flowers, life actually seems like it's good for awhile. Before we get there, however, we have this "waiting room of the world" as C.S. Lewis put it. I actually like the cold, but the early sunset, that's the killer.

My favorite moment, by far, of this holiday season was last week when my beloved Linda and I went to Governor Deval Patrick's First Annual Holiday Ball at the Fairmont Copley Plaza Hotel, where I used to work as a "Houseman." That's the person who cleans and helps get guests whatever they want, at any hour of the day or night. I worked the overnight shift, 11pm-7am, and loved it. Some crazy shit went on there, and by going back there for a party I was halfway to a good time already.

I got a letter from Deval Patrick's people several weeks ago, since I did some "visibility" for them and am listed as a volunteer on their mailing list. The "suggested" donation to attend this ball was "$100 or $250" (one imagines that any amount in between would have sufficed, as well). I told them that I wanted to go, but had not a dollar to donate. So Linda and I ended up as volunteers at the big ball, if only for an hour or so, signing people in as they showed up.

Now, a few words about how this event was advertised. The invitation spoke of "desserts and dancing until 11pm" and requested "festive attire." Both Linda and I imagined well-dressed, stylish and wealthy people mixed with college student activists, perhaps dressed more casually. We had that pretty well pinned. Some people were dressed to kill, mostly women. But three African American gentlemen joined the party who looked fabulous, and festive. Linda postulated that they were gay, which seems likely. Eloquent, funny, well-educated and well-dressed people are usually gay. Ha!

We also expected that the desserts to be served would be wonderful pastries, pies and cakes. When we started our brief volunteer stint, we were given a list of donors. Some people gave as much as $5000. We figured that a donation like that would bring out some sinful delights to go with the free coffee. We figured wrong. The "desserts" that circulated around the room were actually just cookies. Some were jazzed up with fresh fruit or drizzled chocolate, but I know a cookie when I see one. More importantly, I know a cookie when I taste one. These were cookies.

No matter. There was a live band and a ballroom full of rich people dancing poorly. Linda and I danced, and I kept the lid on my furious sexual power so nobody would get hurt. Visions of my YouTube dance festival come to mind.

After dancing and filling up on cookies and free coffee (or tap water..."sparkling water" cost $6), we set out into the huge ballroom to find Deval Patrick. Easier said than done, given that Deval is only 11 inches tall. Ha! He's actually just a bit shorter than I am. Linda and I shook his little black hand and I told him that he was doing a "good job." I'm sure he's relieved to get my seal of approval.

Before we left, I revisited my days as a Houseman and showed Linda the spot where I rode the floor buffer for two seconds before it sent me flying into a table. And I pointed out the Oak Room, a very fancy and expensive steakhouse in the lobby. I used to sleep in that bar, with my co-workers, for an hour or so every night. And of course I had to show her the bathroom where I tried to commit suicide via overdose, and the sidewalk outside where I collapsed and was surrounded by dozens of people. Ah, those were the days. The shitty, suicide, sex addicted days that I'm glad to be rid of.

Linda and I had fun, we didn't slip on the ice and we got to party with the rich hippies. Hopefully something equally fun will happen on New Year's Day. And if you're out there, Deval, feel free to drop by anytime for coffee and cookies.

Scarecrow

It has been a fine week for me, and I'd like to write a little bit about why. Something is happening right now, though, emotionally and intellectually that is of some concern. I've spoken with several friends in the last couple of hours, as well as my brother. My father and I had a fun conversation about politics and movies (Fellini and the "War on Christmas"). The House of Four Cats is full of cats and people, including a stray cat that is now being treated like royalty.

All is well. But for some reason I was suddenly overwhelmed by a need to apologize to everyone in my life. Suddenly I just starting weeping, my heart was pounding and my breathing was uncomfortable and tight. That is my chest was tight. So I apologized to Ken first, emphatically, desperately seeking a comforting word. This is what he said:

You have absolutely nothing to apologize for.

Then I moved on to Linda, Jenifer, my brother Kent, and people I haven't seen in years. In my mind, I poured over everything...I felt that I did something horrific, just terrible. I say this in the past tense because I'm getting better now. But these anxiety attacks, that travel with a heavy dose of guilt, really make me angry. If only I could be a psychopath and be free of a conscience. That would be so sweet.

For what it's worth, I'm sorry everyone. I'm doing the best I can with that I have. If I could be more, do more, offer more, I would.

What a boring entry. This is what I'm doing, though, it's where I'm at mentally. It's withering.

Public Service

I received something in the mail that has terrified me and I'm considering living under my bed for the foreseeable future. The dreaded dispatch is the Town Meeting Warrant, and a meeting is scheduled for January. It's for the elected town meeting members, of which I am one, because I stupidly voted for myself in the 2006 election for my precinct. Four other people did (my father and three neighbors) and now I have to go to the town meeting...because I had to be a smart-ass.

One reason that I don't want to go is my insanity. At the meeting, there are two possibilities regarding how I'll act and feel. I break it down like this; there's a 75% chance of my being withdrawn, sullen, quiet and uninterested in the proceedings. Frankly, I don't give a rat's ass about zoning issues, or hearing the report from the 2008 Town Day Planning Committee. I want it done, just not by me.

So I'll sit there and let my apathy wash over me, and perhaps take in the architecture of the building, of which I'm fond. Also on the agenda is how I'll go to great lengths to avoid talking to the people I know, or even worse the strangers who want to talk to me at random. I mean Jesus Christ is there anything worse than talking to people? It's why I stopped going to the Unitarian Universalist Church. Even though I'm an atheist, I thought I'd enjoy coffee and an intellectual discussion about the nature of god; I was wrong.

I couldn't get the fuck out of there fast enough.

But there is another possibility, especially where politics is concerned. I estimate a 25% chance that someone will really piss me off about something. Not zoning, but they tack on larger issues at the end of the meeting, like passing resolutions against the war or making a statement about the evils of torture. Most people at the town meeting don't care about these large issues because it's all symbolic and very divisive. The bigger the issue, the fewer people give a shit what we have to say about it.

That said, if one cunt takes the stage and says something off the wall like, "We need to pass a resolution against gay marriage" I'll do an Incredible Hulk impression and wake up in a dumpster the following morning. What I mean is that I'll get so worked up that I'll make a spectacle of myself.

On the plus side, I'll know in advance what is on the agenda and will be able to do a feet don't fail me now out the door, thus avoiding a shouting match over a meaningless political vote at the end of the meeting.

Basically, I just shouldn't leave my flat...ever.

Why did I have to vote for Darren W. Lyle?

The Deer Hunter Hunter

I was asked if I'd rather go deer hunting or quail hunting by someone, not a friend of mine. Internet flotsam. But I'll be honest here, I'm proud of what I wrote back. I'm going to post the letter here.

Cheers.

I'd much rather stalk deer hunters. To follow one into the wood. Pretend to be his friend, share a cold one with him, then as he turns and walks into the woods ahead of you, you take your pocket knife a ram it ever-so-gently into the area just under the occipital lobe of his skull. Just about where the spine and skull meet in an Achilles' Heel of nerves and arteries just below the surface. A 6 inch knife would do it quickly and painlessly, which is why you're glad you're using a 3 inch knife.

As the big hunter spasmodically gesticulates on the ground, in the process of going paralyzed, he looks like a Parkinson's patient is giving a one man puppet show. There is blood, and spinal fluid, but it's not too messy. A tidy way to bring down of the Earth's largest animals, the human being. But to ease his passing, you consider dropping a boulder on his little head. Then you remember that people who hunt for the fun of it, instead of out of necessity, are douchebags. So you let the bastard thrash around some more. Before the big hunter dies, you cut his eyes out, turn them around, and cram them back in; the optic nerves hanging on each side of the nose. In between laughs of glee, mingled with quiet moments of deep, serious concentration, you cut his nose and lips off, too. He finally dies, chocking on his own nose shoved down his throat.

You'll let him ripen until morning, then you'll blow him up with 30 sticks of dynamite in a raft on that little pond. It will be like he never existed. In a way, he never did. I defy you to find him.

The Golden Calf

I have to relate what I think is 2007's Hard Luck Story of the Year, and just under the wire as we approach '08, which I'm sure will also be a picnic of despair; some fresh Hells and old, familiar ones, as well. Anyway, this story is about a fellow named, "Yanadi Kondaiah." Imagine you're him, and you're 80 years old. People revere you as a holy man, but they pretty much revere every old man as holy, because you live in a place rife with ignorance and superstition; a remote place in India. Chittoor Province, India, to be exact.

So you're probably not used to living the Life of Riley, as they used to say. You drew a crap lot in life but you've made the best of it. Some things give you comfort in a world full of abject poverty, squalor, disease and brutality. Oh, and probably a fair share of hunger, as well. Your family makes you happy. Enjoying a meal near a hot fire on a cold night is good, too. You have been in love, and you cherish your memories. You have nothing to lose and you sleep easy and have more friends than you can count. All of it and more makes life a good thing. But nothing comes close to giving you the kind of happiness that your magic leg radiates onto you and those who touch it. Your leg, a part of your own body, is an instrument of God. He works in mysterious ways...He's even known for it. And he's chosen to give you a leg that people will beg you, even pay you, just to touch. It's a Holy Leg is what it is.

You can survive and even enjoy your awful, difficult life because of the leg, and the fame that comes from it. The adoration and admiration. You may be hungry, but you feel blessed.

Then a couple of friends off to buy you a drink...

Attackers Chop Off Man's 'Magic' Leg

By OMER FAROOQ, AP
Thu Dec 13, 4:30 PM EST

Two men attacked an 80-year-old, self-proclaimed holy man in southern India and chopped off his right leg, apparently believing it had magical powers, police said Thursday.

Yanadi Kondaiah, who claimed that those who touched his leg would be cured of illness or have wishes granted, was hospitalized in serious condition after the attack Tuesday, said R. Ravindranath Reddy, a senior police officer.

"We are looking for the miscreants as well as the leg," Reddy told The Associated Press by telephone from the Chittoor district, a remote area 340 miles south of Hyderabad, the capital of Andhra Pradesh state.

"This seems to be a case of superstition. The two people might have taken away the leg hoping to benefit from its magical powers," said Pendakanti Dastgiri, the police officer handling the case.

Superstitions, belief in magic and the occult remain widespread in much of rural India.

Kondaiah told police that two men offered him a drink as thanks for previously helping them with his magical touch.

After he passed out drunk, the men chopped off the leg below the knee with a sickle and left him to die, said Dastgiri, adding that passing villagers found him and took him to a hospital.

Copyright 2007 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.

My Bedroom Window

Over the years, I've managed to amass a smashing circle of friends. Some I see frequently, some every few months, some every few years. That's how it goes, I'm sure for you, too. As I sat here doing Winter Solstice, Christmas, and Hanukkah cards last night (how social of me), I made a mental note of the last time I spoke to the person to whom I was sending the card. It ranges from two weeks to twelve years. There's an ex-girlfriend in there who may or may not wish me dead. More likely, she doesn't care one way or the other.

This time of year is like a birthday that everyone shares. Not because of the gifts, but because of the opportunity it provides to catch up with friends.

Family is another issue.

There's some sort of work crew from the city outside my bedroom window, working on a telephone pole. Almost certainly damage from the storm last night. I moved my desk so I could see out my window because the snow was painfully beautiful to watch. Mesmerizing. There are two cats sleeping on my cot, and on the table next to my bed is a book, an old Royal typewriter (part of my collection) and Linda's gift, which I just got in the mail from Britain. The "Royal Mail."

Last week, I had what is referred to as a "nervous breakdown," and hit my arm with a cleaver, which caused a minor cut and later a black and blue mark. Luckily for me, the cleaver was dull. I'm too old for such nonsense, despite my being mentally-ill. Perhaps a change, or increase, in medication is needed...one of them. Or a decrease. I don't know.

Of Guliani, Honegger and "Standing Up To Terrorism"

Does anyone remember the Iran/Contra hearing and Barbara Honegger? She's been on my mind lately because of the Guliani television advertisements about the 1981 release of the Iran hostages after 444 days. Guliani is using that little episode in history to make Reagan out to be a badass who the Iranians were so afraid of, they released the hostages a mere one hour after Ronnie was sworn in as president.

This is a total, absolute and complete "misremembering" of those days. And before I get into all that, I'm just curious if anyone else remembers those heady days.

Honegger, pictured in a tiny photograph up there on the right, was a member of the 1980 Reagan-Bush campaign team and Reagan White House policy analyst. She and others allege that the Reagan-Bush campaign negotiated with Iran to delay the release of American hostages until after the Presidential election, and that arms sales to Iran were a part of that bargain. Interesting, eh? More on that later. If there is any justice, Guliani will pay for bringing that episode up again and attempting to cast it in a positive light for the Republicans, and Reagan.

Someone in power...with influence...please notice!

King Ghidorah's Last Known Photograph: Whereabouts Unknown

It's coming up on ten in the morning, although it feels much later, as I've been up since 4am. The five milligrams of lorazepam I took at 11pm last night certainly went to work and did what I hope every pill, drink and toke will do; get me the fuck away from me. But a nightmare awoke me early, a nasty dream that benefited from feeling as if it really happened. Here's how it went down, in italics.

After attending a Red Sox game, and probably sitting in the bleachers (I get screwed on tickets even in my imagination), I was walking over the Massachusetts Avenue Bridge towards Kenmore Square. Clare, Melanie, Donna and my beloved Linda were all with me. Linda and I were holding hands, and everyone else was to her right. It's worth mentioning that I was wearing a very flattering Alan Ladd trenchcoat, so in my incubus I must have lost some weight. Right now, a trenchcoat makes me look even rounder than I already am. Imagine a medicine ball hiding behind a curtain. Anyway, a non-sequitur follows here, as happens in dreams often. Someone attacked us with a burnished knife, all agleam, and Linda was in his sights. I'm very brave in my dreams, so I knocked him down and ended up with a knife in my paunch. Linda was hysterical, and Clare and Melanie strangely seemed at peace with my getting impaled...it was a large knife.

That's it. What was most disturbing to me wasn't the cold blast of air on my intestines, or that I somehow got Clare and Melanie to go to a sporting event. Instead, it was crushing guilt over having done something to anger a knife wielding maniac and thus almost getting Linda killed; as I said, he went for her first. And last meal was probably a $4 bottle of water and a $6 hotdog. Oh, the humanity!

I managed to get back to sleep about an hour before I had to walk down to the service station nearby and pick up my much abused '93 Mercury Tracer. I'll spare you the details of that. Feel fortunate for that tiny mercy.

I'd like to thank Apocalypse Cow for his comments after my last entry. Everything he says is true, and it reduces my sense of urgency about having to write an entry about atheism. It's something I feel rather strongly about. Atheists get knocked around quite a bit, but that's ok with people because (apparently) any belief is better than none at all. But we atheists are stone-cold undeniably right, and AC does a good job of succinctly explaining why. I'm not going to be ashamed because I do not believe in a Bronze Age sky king who acts like a retarded psychopath as He inconsistently gets involved, and then doesn't get involved, in human affairs. If god does exist, he's a total douchebag, and not a good inspiration for us humans. King Ghidorah died for your sins!

Anyway, enough of that for now. But more on it later, especially as the likes of Mitt Romney, Mike Huckabee and Joe Lieberman, a group of men I wouldn't trust to clean my tub, passionately try to make the case that if it weren't for religion we'd all be masturbating in caves and eating our young. Cue the calliope music.

Hermit Crab

It's been awhile since I posted on my quaint little 'blog. Or this one. The past week has been, for me, rather busy. Last week I helped my brother and his wife open up their store, Go Fetch Pet Supplies, and after that I bolted out to see my beloved; I just got back last night. Linda sometimes has difficulty persuading me to "be social," as I'm perfectly content to be with her and her alone forever. Well, not just her, but my brother and my circle of friends and comrades. Outside of that, I'm also of a mind to be totally alone for long periods of time. I'm so much more comfortable alone, reading and listening to music or watching Double Indemnity for the 100th time. In this godless universe, when I'm alone and there are no strange eyes taking me in, I can relax a bit more than I could possibly otherwise. And that brings a modicum of relief from the paranoia and anxiety that, I'll say yet again, really disturbs and troubles me. Thus, if it weren't for those who love me working so hard to drag me out into the world, I'd no doubt wither in this little flat. So Linda's affable, social nature is exactly what I need to avoid turning into a hermit, or worse, and disappearing into my own mind. One of the many reasons that I love her.

But why would I want to spend so much time alone with by brain, which is clearly not functioning properly? Not to mention a source of vexation, annoyance and crushing depression and mania? I have an answer for that...perhaps for another time. Something to look forward to! Also, later today I'm going to write something about atheism, because the woman I love said something yesterday that really surprised me. She's a theist, and her family is very religious. Naturally, I'm an atheist, and I didn't become one lightly. It was a long process from believing in god (or something), then at age 9 I remember having anxiety attacks and vomiting because I started to think that there was no god. A few years later, I was a full-blown atheist. I take my atheism seriously...again, I'll kick that around later.

The conversation with Linda, and her surprising response, was about morality, compassion and some kind of god, or "sky king" as I called it. I simply asked if she thought it was necessary to believe in god in order to be a good person. She said, "I'm not sure." I felt my stomach clench tight and a wave of warm, tingling anxiety spread within my chest. Like a bat taking flight in the small cave that also contains my heart. I didn't want to tell her then, but not only do I not believe in god, but if a Christian god did exist, I would hate Him. I refer you all to B.F. Skinner's "Problem of Evil" if you're interested in knowing why. Although that shouldn't be hard to figure out, either.

But as it is right now, I don't hate god because I know that there isn't one. I'm also a compassionate person. If I thought for a second that I wasn't, I would slit my wrists. Compassion and reason are needed in bulk if we're going to survive against fanatics of any kind, and the unscrupulously ambitious. There is nothing more dangerous than someone who puts their beliefs before simple kindness, to help each other get through life as happily, or even just as painlessly, as possible. And life can be unspeakably, seemingly impossibly, agonizing. Life can continue even when pain becomes crippling. It does all the time, physically and emotionally. Imagine all the mothers out there who lost a child, or children who lost parents, and the physical and emotional agony, and the sadness and horror that travels with it. I could go on. Not to mention the loneliness that is fundamental to living. And the more you struggle, the more alone you are, and the more you reach out. As far as I can see, nobility comes from helping each other survive comfortably past all that and feel less alone.

So I have to convince my girlfriend that it is possible to be good and not believe in god. In case you're wondering, she thinks I'm a good person (I'm not, but I try, I really do) who is in denial about god. Deep down, she thinks I believe. I love her like no other, but she is wrong.

Again, more on that later.

I think I've said enough for now. Shalom!