Behind the keyboard, I can paint you a picture with words. Eloquently draw out a sad, but true story. Love lost. Love found. Life lessons. Comedy. Horror. My canvas derives directly from the technological advances of the 21st century. No more personal than a twenty dollar hooker from the four corners. But it's all mine. For the world to see. Next time, I'll mail you my story. It'll probably get lost, but its the thought that counts. To whom it may concern: my life is not for you to judge. But for you to witness. Painted pretty on that HD LCD screen you spent my entire months paycheck on. And tomorrow, you will forget every last word and ill be but a distant memory lost in cyber space. Only to be rummaged up by some child researching online blogs for his research project. And when I'm old and grey, I'll only have the words I wrote for the world to witness. For I wrote down my thoughts, relevant or not.
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
I love 'my life is for you to witness, not judge' message
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