Saint Margaret Mary

So when I was younger, I used to be a member of the Saint Margaret Mary Parish. I went to CCD every Wednesday, and I had Holy Communian there. So if any of you know anything about Communian, you have to go to confession. From my recollection, I only remember being told to come to church, instead of CCD that Wednesday, but without my knowledge they were planning on this being a confession session.

So I come into church and no one from my CCD class was there. Being only a second grader, I didn't assume class was cancelled or that they were meeting someplace else first, I just got really scared. So, I waited for about five minutes trying to get the play by play of what was going on in church at this time of night (around 7:00). I saw people going into those little wooden rooms and I knew that meant confession. For some irrational reason, I was terrified of confession. I was mean to my brother sometimes, I lied to my Mom, and I'm sure me and my 2nd grade girl friends said bad words under our breath to each other, so I had plenty to confess.

At this point I was alone, and now doubly afriad so all I could think of to do was run home. At this time in my life Saint Margaret Mary seemed terribly far away from my house, but in reality it's about a mile away.

So, frightened to death, I made the walk of death back to my house. It was late fall and the chill in the air wasn't helping my state. I began bawling, and didn't stop crying until I was picked up by my Dad and bro, who happened to be passing by.

Needless to say, I haven't really been back to church and
soon after my parents took me out of CCD, I think because they were beginning to discuss abortion to 2nd graders.

I don't know. Not that funny. Just scary.

Maybe I Am Gay...

I searched "gay" in google and the image at the top is what I found.

SAME CLOTHES!

Ringo Starva wears the same thing everyday.
Nate Johnson wears the same thing everyday.
The guy outside is playing extreme riffs.
Trippin' out with the bros,
mostly I like nachos.
Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones, Bones.
STD, I like to play ABC's.
Stream of consciousness, where'd you go.
Jim Beam, Canadian Springs, Where did all the children go?

Let's put ourselves together, and get together. You got to admit it's getting better, it's getting better all the time, since you've been mine. Getting so much better all the time.


This is fake.

Bones Day.

It was a Sunday, a Sunday not unlike many Sundays before it, lethargic, meaningless, and generally unappealing. Me and two of my friends were sitting around the table rather uneventfully. We would start having conversation for a moment or two, and slowly it would drift off into the undetectable realm that all lifeless Sunday interactions eventually find themselves in. As I sat there, wondering what topic would fill the monotonous air next, I looked down at my wrist bone. As we all know, the wrist bone slightly juts and outs and curves into the hand. I followed this curve with my eyes, and then it came to me, an epiphany of utmost proportions, that would turn this sulking Sunday, into a day of celebration. Not wanting to seem over-excited, for I had no idea what my company's reaction would be to such a startling idea, I quietly said, without looking up, "Wouldn't it be crazy if we were just our bones, one day a week?"
To my deilght, my companians were thrilled! They took my single sentence, and saved our dreary Sunday! We began to discuss the stipulations of "Bones Day", How do you tell each other apart? What if you get hit by a car? When do you put your skin back on? Eventually we decided that every Thursday, respectively, would be said, "Bones Day." It's now the absolute center of my week. I can't eat, sleep, or interact without the constant thought of how my next "Bones Day" is going to elapse.

I leave you with this: Out of a one to ten, my "Bones Day" is always a skeleten.