Sorry, man, I can’t find it on the Toobs to embed it.
Hello, world! I am swearington, and I’m a closeted atheist. Yay anonymity! I’ve wanted to write this somewhere for ages, and this gives me a place to put it without being attached to my name directly.
What that means is that, for a large portion of my family circle, I’m allegedly Christian. It’s how I was raised, and it was what I believed up until a couple years ago. There are only a handful of people who know the truth–thankfully, my wife is one of them, and she’s awesome.
There is an assumption within Christian culture that atheists secretly want to believe, but don’t because of some actual or perceived trauma. Or they You see this reflected in places like the Newsboys vehicle movie “God’s Not Dead,” where Kevin Sorbo’s arc ends in a (spoiler) gotcha moment where the “hero” wins the Most Strawmaniest Debate Ever by pointing out that he was being awful mad at a god that supposedly didn’t exist. Or, if they don’t have some irrational hatred of god, then they simply don’t understand.
While there are those kinds of atheists, I’ve found that there are a lot like me: we dared to ask questions, couldn’t get a satisfactory answer, and eventually threw it away. We know the bible and we know all the rhetoric backwards and forwards, and there is literally nothing anyone can say to make us believe because we’ve heard it before and already decided it was bullshit.
Now remember, I’m closeted, so I haven’t yet had to explain my decision to anyone formally. But I’m preparing for it, because it’ll happen eventually. I’ve been trying to describe it. So consider this post a first-draft of that speech. This rant is specifically about Christianity; it might fit other religions too, but I don’t have any experience in them. But I imagine that the process is much the same.
Joining Christianity is like being given a giant (like “James and the Giant Peach” sized), beautiful, perfectly ripe apple. For the sake of this illustration, it’s a magic apple that doesn’t rot. You take that first bite and it’s awesome. You think, “I could eat this forever.” And holy fuck do you try. Your life becomes All Jesus, All The Time. Jesus the Video Game! Jesus the bedsheets! Jesus the flame thrower! (the kids love this one). And remember, this apple is ginormous. You eat down far enough, though, and you hit a bitter patch. “No problem,” you think, and you move to a different spot.
This cycle repeats over the span of years. Each time, without fail, once you get down far enough into this gigantic apple, you get to a point where it tastes like unadulterated ass. And, over time, a sense of foreboding develops. Surely, there’s a part of this thing that doesn’t get nasty in the middle.
For me, about two years ago, I ran out of spots to move to. All that’s left is the nasty core that can’t answer basic questions like, “If God loves babies, why are the majority of them born into poverty and misery?” or “What tax plan would God approve of?” (To be fair to God, none of the Republicans could give a good answer to this question either). The turning point was an analysis I found that illustrated how many basic theological ideas were rooted in Bronze Age-era understandings of how the universe works. All that bullshit about being “above all other gods” was meant LITERALLY. FUCKING LITERALLY. Mind fucking blown.
And Christianity is littered in this delusional bullshit. If you hate your eardrums, listen to a Christian radio station like Air1 or Way FM, and you’ll hear such banal platitudes like “Your life’s not falling apart, it’s falling into place” or “the same power that rose Jesus from the grave IS IN YOU!” It’s insulting and nonsensical, but not if you grew up on this shit like I did.
My wife isn’t thrilled, as you might expect. I try not to be all “lol god iz dumb and ur dum if you buy that shit” but every so often there’s something head-slappingly stupid topic that comes up and I open my big mouth. I’m lucky that we have learned to forgive each other quickly over the years (13 and counting!). She says I haven’t been hiding it as well as I think I have, and she’s probably right. But I think inside she thinks this is just a phase and I’ll snap out eventually.
“NICE GOING, DICKBAG,” he yells at a miscreant in traffic.
“…I was trying to go for dickhead, or douchebag, but it came out wrong. I don’t even know what a dickbag is.”
“It’s what’s left over after you tell someone to eat a bag of dicks. I mean, they don’t transport themselves.”
I have a terminal disease. It fucking sucks, in case you were wondering. Don’t get ALS, it’s a shitty thing and wrecks parties and sleeps with your ex and then tells you all about it.
Something that’s bothered me about it (there are many many things that bother me about it and I have a whole other blog for that) is the way my friends have stopped feeling like they can complain to me about anything. “Oh god, why am I complaining to you about a flat tire, your problems are so much worse.”
Because I am your friend and a flat tire is a shitty thing, that’s why.
I hate the phrase “first world problems” with a fiery passion. First world problems are still PROBLEMS. They are little ways in which our world is a little bit shittier, and we have every right to complain. Yes, recognize that other people may have it worse, but that doesn’t mean you don’t get to complain about anything ever.
My pain does not invalidate yours. Your problems do not cancel out mine.
There’s no equilibrium here, shit does not cancel itself out, it just piles on. So even though I am losing my ability to walk and will someday be a ghost trapped inside a meat shell completely unable to interact with the world around me, it still sucks ASS when your shoelace breaks. I might trip and fall over a curb and be unable to get myself back up off the ground, but it is STILL SHITTY when your friend gives you the brush-off and you have every right to be sad and angry about it. And tell me about it, without feeling apologetic. I don’t necessarily believe I have it any worse than you do. I don’t think you’re unworthy of complaining about your life just because someone’s life out there sucks harder. Someone can’t get access to clean drinking water, that sucks, but it is still shitty that you have to walk to the next building over because the drinking fountain in your building is busted.
And that’s what I made this site for. A safe space to complain about what ails you, no matter how great or small, major or minor. Stubbed toe? Let’s hear about it. Amputated toe? Okay, shoot. Complain, use a lot of swear words. All of the swears. Invent new ones. This is your place to tell the world how fucked up your day was. What an asshole that waiter was. Let’s sympathize about how fucking hard is it, really, to NOT put motherfucking cilantro on the nachos when you specifically asked for NONE? You had to go OUT of your WAY to put them on there, fucker, and now my nachos taste like soap and you SUCK.
I’m trying to not have many rules, just guidelines, and I’ve hopefully set it up so that you can be as anonymous as you like.
Let’s get this shit started, motherfuckers.