Do you know where I can get some boxes?

When we found the new apartment, that little corner came into focus again.

Just a tiny jagged corner to get around. The one where you have to tiptoe around broken glass and rusty lockjaw-promising nails, while people are sling-shooting massive turds at you from every direction.

This little corner involved seeing the apartment and feeling my weak hope swell up from a buried place in my stomach and come up into my face and take over my mouth and my eyes, turning me into an infidel to my own good reason and experience. It involved sleepless nights of pretending it was from all the coffee I had drunk and not from the worrying that we wouldn't get it, that it wasn't all going to turn around for us, that the person that had it on hold would end up taking it.

Once it became ours for the taking, it involved hours of worrying that we would get our drawers yanked down -- once again -- by greedy mother fuckers, like the time we made a full price offer we couldn't afford on that flat in the old Jewish quarters and they said they now wanted more. (Side note of vengeance: three years later that flat sits unsold. And I try very very hard to push away fantasies of that fucker's skin rotting off and being unable to afford a dermatologist cause he can't sell his stupid flat). Or when we found the perfect penthouse on the Alameda to rent and they called us and said the flat was ours for just 300 more bucks a month. (And I try very hard to dismiss the images in my mind of the person's face getting the shit rocked out of it by my imaginary fist).

On tippy-toes we cut through the mine field armed with not caring too much if we lost another limb. Yup, just me and Stumpy. We can get by feeding each other with the toes we still have left between the two of us, we don't need anything more than this. Besides, I'm actually starting to think that the cockroaches the size of dump trucks that hang out everyday in our bathroom are kinda cute.

And so, pretending we were indifferent, shoving the feeling that bad luck was somehow following us into the back of our mind, pretending we weren't expecting lightning to strike our goddamn pen, we signed the lease.

I've been unable to sweep my thoughts up into the dustpan and find, amongst all the dirt and cat hair, the tiny missing screw holding my fucking life together.

But I think I can get to sweeping now. As soon as I get all this shit packed.

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Historical agnostic icons can suck it

The funny thing about Jesus and his super potent sin-cleansing blood is that he can forgive anything, except not believing in him. His blood can wash away any sin except ditching him at the bar and leaving him alone with those douchebags the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny, while you flirt with Charles Darwin right in his face and then go off to play darts and order two rounds of Mind Erasers without even asking anyone else if they want one.

But Darwin is totally hawt and stuff. And he totally gets you. Like, his shit just makes sense. You can just tell he's well read and has thought his shit through before he goes babbling on about some theory. Jesus, on the other hand, just kinda throws stuff out there and everyone gets all quiet and awkward and it used to sound all poetic and stuff, like when you first started going out, but now it's sometimes like, "Srsly, dude, what the hell are you talking about?"

So you decide to ditch the chastity belt and ask ole' Chuck to come back to your place to kill a bottle of Captain Morgan and listen to that really sweet Phish album, 'cause OMG-- he's totally into Phish too. I mean fish.

You don't really remember how it all went down but you can pretty much assume the sex was totally NOT awesome.

And now you're all kindsa hung over and throwing up that slice of pizza with a side of ranch that you don't even remember eating, like all over that blanket you got from Urban Outfitters and your hair looks like a rat's nest and your breath smells like sour rum mixed with diet coke and extra cheese and nicotine. You can tell Darwin is starting to feel all uncomfortable, his eyes darting around and he's fishing for his keys and you can feel him wondering what his responsibility is here. And he starts putting his pants on kinda sneakily and and he's all, "Well, I'm gonna take off, I gotta go help my buddy move. So…I guess I'll see ya around. I'll give you a call n stuff."

And you think: Fine. Just leave me here in this pile of vomit. Asshole.

I swear. It's just like that time when you totally got it on with Karl Marx at that bar in Nogales, after he came up to you and totally rocked your world with that pick up line about the 'opiate of the masses'. But when the going got tough and, due to unreasonable amounts of tequila, you required a short nap in a Mexican toilet stall at 2:00 in the morning, Marx was nowhere to be found to help scrape your ass off a disgusting tile floor.

Historical agnostic icons can suck it, 'cause they don't do jack for the soul or forgive sins or any of that crap. What a bunch of dicks.

So you're left all alone with your own vomit-stained soul with nothing but piss-warm beer and a shot of tears for breakfast and you can't even find the keys to your truck which you don't even remember where you parked anyway. And who the fuck knows where your wallet is, not that there's any money left in it.

And now you're all: Duuuude. Jesus totally would've spotted me like 20 bucks and would've gone to get me a sesame seed bagel and would've acted like I didn't call bullshit on every story he told last night, embarrassing him like that in front of Satan and Yahweh and all those guys. Jesus would've loaded a bowl for me and been all, "Wake and bake! This will totally cure your hangover, babe!" with a big forgiving grin right before going to get me some breakfast and then making me a hemp necklace.

Face it. You completely dogged Jesus, dude. And so now it's time to play god to yourself and forgive yourself for all the stupid philosophical bullshit you said before you fell off your bar stool last night after those Mind Erasers. And you're trying to wash out the puke stains on your soul with a glass full of blood, which apparently worked for Jesus, but you don't know what his secret is because that shit just creates further staining. So, you try to nail yourself to a cross to let bygones be motherfuckin' bygones but it turns out it's actually a two-man job and you've exhausted the phone number list that is thumb-tacked to the communal bulletin board in the kitchen and nobody is even willing to bring you an Egg McMuffin right now, let alone come over and help you crucify yourself.

So it's just you and your sins. Buck up, shithead. You'd better put on your big girl panties cause you can't find your chastity belt fucking anywhere, yo-- maybe you left it in the car. You best roll up your sleeves and dry your tears of self pity and learn to forgive yourself for ditching Christ and your religious family and all the other sins that have come post-bubble that no omnipotent beings are gonna be around to cleanse and wash away.

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