For the Love of God

I’ve got a dirty little secret: I’m head over heels for God. In fact, lately we’ve been having a full on fucking love affair, and actually, it’s getting pretty serious.

A few years ago, I went through a skull-rockingly painful breakup with God — what I understood to be God — and I guess you could say we’re having make up sex now. And while this is pretty much the most tremendous, awesome feeling (as in mysterium tremendum and so fucking full of awe as to be fearsome), I’ve been afraid to admit it publicly. Because mystics are madmen, and I — a decent woman full of decorum and deference — am not mad.

Who the fuck am I kidding with that shit, though? I mean, really.

The truth is, my entire life has been steeped in madness; my body the tea bag. (Here’s a bit about that, if you’re interested.)

So, it’s really high time I confess. I’ve got to come clean about this profane orgy of sacred realization, and let you all know the truth: I’m utterly gushing over the simple vitality of what’s only ever always happening. I swoon for synchronicity, go weak in the knees for the subtle play of paradox present at all times, and become only *slightly* mad when sensing the all-pervasive truth penetrating manifest reality. Naturally, like anyone with a dirty little secret, my shame is to blame for my silence of late: it is the muzzle I have begrudgingly worn, the straitjacket with which I was unknowingly bound, the depressed mute button on my voice box.