Proverbs 20, Verse 30
"Punishment that hurts chases evil from the heart."
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CHIPPED WISDOM:
Tonight, I made a really good pizza. Unfortunately, in the process, I almost grated my middle finger off.
I'm not being a baby. It's a brand new grater, so it's extra sharp, and the cut is big and deep. Three Band-Aids. And it's soaked through.
It's kind of hard to blog with an injury like this. The bandaged finger keeps fucking everything up, and I keep trying to switch what my middle finger would do on the keyboard to my ring finger, but this runs contrary to what legendary pantyhose queen and emetophobe Mrs. Dougherty taught us in 6th grade typing class.
"F... J... SPACE! F.... J.... SPACE!"
Really, kids-- that was a class. And I'm old enough to have taken it on a typewriter-- albeit an electric one.
So, due to the fact that I'm erasing every third I write and re-typing it, this isn't going to be a terribly long entry. In fact, I think I've already done two this week, even if they were both about my father. I was thinking to myself, as I was bleeding all over the bathroom sink, about my eldest sister. I don't know if she still believes this shit, or if she ever really did, but she used to tell me that she thought, when bad things happened to people, that it was really God speaking through the dog-shit under the sole of your shoe, or the icy step that resulted in your shattered vertebrae. Or the extra sharp cheese grater effortlessly skinning you alive while your two-year-old twins play happily over there at the table.
And so I was thinking about that, and I was thinking about how much more attractive and seductive religion would be if it really was like that. If death and mayhem and brain-dead mothers on ventilators and bastards getting whipped cream pies in their mush actually had some sort of logic to it, and not this kind of "we mere mortals cannot possibly know His reasoning" because that's kind of bullshit, isn't it? We know. We can know. We can know that, when a nun gets run over crossing the Roosevelt Boulevard by some drunken Fishtown scumbag in a 1983 Firebird that that's kind of fucked.
Unless, of course, she used to delight in beating the piss out of scared little gingers because their handwriting slanted a bit too sharply to the left, signaling that, obviously, they were combined with Satan. Then I guess it makes sense. Then I guess maybe I could stand behind that.
Maybe this little accident tonight with the cheese grater is payback for how I used to imitate my elementary school principal in the playground during impromptu performances for my peers. Maybe it's because I've never been to Israel or because I don't call my parents or because I think people who "can't eat gluten" are full of shit.
GOD I CAN'T ST%ANSD ALL TEHSE TUPOS!!!!!!!!!!
Seriously, that's what it's like without correcting every seven seconds.
Fuck it. IO'm doine.
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