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Don’t let me get in my zone. Which is where I feel I’m heading towards. I’ve been on a huge Kanye West kick over the past 3 days. But it’s weird, because it feels like it’s been longer. All I know is I downloaded Kanye and Jay’s Watch The Throne on the 11th, and now I’m listening to 808s & Heartbreak and My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy like it’s my job. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I used to despise Kanye. I thought he was arrogant, dumb, and overrated. Nah, he isn’t. The music he makes and produces, it’s genius. Well, to me it is. But I thought he was dumb and ignorant, saying stupid things, having erratic outbursts just for attention. Yet, when I think about it (and I’m not the only one. just google the topic), Kanye West most definitely has Bipolar Disorder. Every off-the-wall thing he’s said and done, his creativity, drinking problems… It all fits with being in hypomanic and manic states of mental stability. I mean, I really can’t hate him. I empathize with him. Even though he hasn’t seen a therapist or been properly diagnosed, everything is all too familiar.
Well, here comes the second main point of this blog. This will probably come off very egotistical, very self-aggrandizing to most of you, but I can’t help that this how I’ve been feeling recently. As much talent and creativity that Yeezy has, I fully believe that I’m just as talented. Actually, no, not just as. There are many differences between Ye and I, and I can’t compare myself to him. Okay, so, bottom line is I’m really talented. Really fucking talented. Sidenote: I’m having a horrible headache right now. What is this? Hey, stream of consciousness writing. Brb, gotta take advil or some shit. Word. Low on Advil, so I took Aleve. You know they’re different? Well, duh. But like Advil : ibuprofin as Aleve : naproxen. Go figure. Anyway, yeah. I’m talented. I’m a great writer (I’m not going to be modest here). I am witty, smart, funny, etc. I can write a decently offensive rap that’s cohesive and has flow. I can play multiple instruments rather well, compose my own music, write rather decent lyrics, read drum notation. I have some of the best friends, family, and people in my life. They’ve stuck around this far, and those who haven’t don’t deserve to. There are some I’ve pushed away (not purposefully, of course), yet they love me enough to come back. Or to give me space when needed. Those who up and left, which really isn’t that big of a number, are I guess expendable.
You know, yeah this is rather self-aggrandizing. But you know what? These are the things I hold onto. They keep me going. They make me ME. They’re a blessing. They’re some of the only things that keep my self-esteem in check.
Yet right now, I feel like I have to explain myself to you. But I don’t. Yet I am, because this is a blog, and that’s what blogs are for.
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Alright, you wordpress people who follow this somehow (hi mom), I’m changing the game. Usually I’ll post something that I’ve thought writing in-depth and such. But that hasn’t worked for me lately. I’ve felt as if things have been stale. I just haven’t felt creative. But I feel like what I’m doing now is something fresh. Recently, and well all the time, my thoughts come in short, sporadic bursts. That probably happens with everyone. So I’ve written down these bursts, and just ran with them. It’s kind of tackled in the movie The Sixth Sense, where Bruce Willis calls it “free association writing”. Anyhoo, I’ve written the next two things on my tumblr, and it didn’t feel right that I couldn’t share these thoughts with the general public.
Knowing me, a lot of what I say is off-color or not PC, so if I offend you, I’m sorry. But this will maybe give me and you a better understanding on what goes through my head.
why is it that every time I rub my nipples, I get very existential? I get this sick sinking feeling that it just isn’t worth it. Living, y’know? And it all comes from rubbing my nipples. as childish as that sounds, I get this fear that I’ll end up and die alone. Yet, I’m not actually afraid of dying alone. If I die alone, so be it. But I don’t like actually taking the time to think about dying alone. that’s really sad. and I’m sure I won’t. I’m probably going to have a wife, a few kids, and live comfortably. well, I hope to. but there’s a part of me that says my life is going to end up on an A&E or TLC tv series about hoarding. shit, what if my wife is gap-toothed? and my son has a shitty bowl cut and likes the Disney channel? fuck, I don’t want my son to be like that. I want my son to be awesome. I want him to be fluent musically. and smart. and healthy. and more suave with women then I’ll ever imagine that I could be. and I hope one day, if my wife rubs my nipples, I don’t sink into another depression like I’m in now. well, this depression is due to my meds interacting with the codeine I’ve consumed over the past week. but a depression none the less. you know, this has always been something I’ve thought about. I’ve thought about writing it, too. but I never did. not until now. did you know that if you flick your nipple when it’s soft (and I refuse to say “flaccid” because the thought of the phrase “flaccid nipples” scares me), then seconds later, it’ll be erect? the world we live in is a scary place. there are wars being fought, tyrannies crumbling, children starving, and here I am, rubbing my nipples, and questioning if my life has meaning. I mean, does it? I probably won’t have a wife, or a kid. if I do, they’ll be a shitty wife, and a shitty kid. or maybe they won’t. I’m preparing for the worst, I guess. I usually feel the most existential about my left nipple. I mean, my right one is nice, but I’m right handed, and it feels natural for my right hand to caress my left nipple.
Then again, it’s mainly my mom’s. She has as much as a Starbucks addiction as I do. She puts money on her gold card, which I keep while she uses her nifty Andriod app. Technology these days. Pretty neat. Anyway, it’s raining out today, and it’s chilly. It’s my second favorite type of autumn weather. My first favorite is dry conditions, but chilly and kind of overcast. That way, I can enjoy my hot Starbucks drinks (venti chai tea, or venti coffee -black, room at the top for cream and sugar (I sweeten it myself). So, anyhoo, it’s raining this morning, and I decide to take the scenic route home. I usually take rt 9, and some days I’ll take shore. If I take shore, it gives me an extra five minutes to reflect on my life, my choices, and to finish my cigarette. Today, I took the bike path, which adds more time on my trip. Which, I’m glad I did. I smoked, drank my hot chai tea, listened to empire! empire! (I was a lonely estate), and then that’s when I saw two kids, a boy and girl, younger looking, making out in the middle of the bike path, no one around them as a few cars drove by. Usually, tumblr, I’d consider myself as a lonely guy. Two of my relationships ended with the girl leaving me for someone else, another ended due to distance, and another bitched me out for telling my friends that we did sexy things on a yacht. That’s besides the point. Anyway, so here I am, lonely Max, driving by these two kids making out in the cold rain. And in that moment, I didn’t feel alone anymore. I felt happy. Happy for me, happy for them. I saw something in person that I’d probably only witness in some sappy chick flick, and never experience in real life. I saw something beautiful, I guess. Weather their relationship ends soon, or is long lived— it doesn’t matter. Because right then and there, three people were happy to share one moment. And tumblr, if we can be honest with ourselves, we’re all very, very sad lonely people. Don’t lie. I am. You are. And you know what? It’ll be alright. Recently, a lot of drama has happened between my core group of friends. Hearts are built when another is broken. And to some it seems like the absolute end of the world. But it’s not. It’s not. We’re young. We like, we love, we do sexy things on yachts. Most importantly, we grow. Our lives are filled with empty, shitty moments. And sometimes, it’ll help if you focus on the things that you do have. Usually, very easier said than done. Living with bipolar disorder, what I just said isn’t even a feasible option some days/weeks/months. But there are times where I remind myself that I’m only 21. And it will get better. Even if it’s a short time, or long lived. But when you’re in a moment where you feel happy, just try to remember where you are. What you were doing. Even if it’s something small, like driving in the rain, chain smoking, sipping hot tea, and listening to 90’s emo influenced indie music.
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Hurricane Irene edition 2011.
Aha, all jokes aside, this is what I’ve been doing, and will continue to do for the next few days.
I currently find myself home alone, as my parents and sister evacuated to Philadelphia to avoid Irene’s wrath. I voluntarily stayed behind, because I feel as if this will be a growing experience for me. My parents should be home Sunday evening, so I’ve got the house to myself for 2 whole days (kinda sorta). Irene, which prompted mandatory evacuations of all of Cape May County, and Atlantic County’s barrier islands, including the cities of Northfield, Linwood, and Somers Point (yet, those last three happen to be mandatory only for all areas east of US rt. 9. Seeing how I live a black and a half east of rt. 9, I fall under the mandatory category. Yeah, well, Chris Christie, consider this my written “fuck you” to your laws and demands).
But you know what? I’m excited. I’ve got all of the essentials. Food, non perishables, etc. Mainly, I have three packs of cigarettes and a 12 of Miller Chill, a car that will help power my cell phone, some Vonnegut and Palahniuk for reading materials, batteries and candles in case the power goes out, and my pets to keep me company. I’m golden.
Now, knowing me, of course the title of “weathering the storm” has a double meaning for this post. Duh. That’s how I do things. Seeing how this is my first post in quite some time, I’ss briefly go into detail about what’s been going on in my life. I know, you’re totally excited.
So, it’s been a year since my run in with Atlantic City’s Psychiatric Intervention Program ER. I’ve changed mostly for the better, I feel. Yet, still, I have my dips, my set backs, and whatnot. Every week brings something new to the table, be it good or bad. Or both. Things are funny like that. One step forward, two steps back. Cliche after cliche after cliche.
You know the deal.
I had a month of what felt like a never-ending depression, jam-packed and fun-filled with rapid cycling of my moods and extreme bouts of anxiety. My manic episodes weren’t the “shit I’m super fucking happy!” type. They were the “I’m a mushroom-cloud-layin’ motherfucker, motherfucker” type. Yeah, I quoted Jules Winnifield. That’s how I felt. During these times, I also did the whole avoidance thing, where I stopped hanging out with a good amount of my friends, stopped going to my youth group, etc.
A lot of the time during this depression, I drank. You know, because drinking totally helps the situation (it doesn’t) and it made me feel so much better (it didn’t). Recently, I’ve cut back on my drinking a whole lot. Tonight being the first time I’ve picked up a beer in three weeks. Go me.
I had a long-distance girlfriend for two months. She was a very nice and sweet girl. We’d talk on the phone occasionally, and text a whole lot. Yet, we never met, so now we don’t date anymore. So it goes.
Over the past few days, my Zoloft was re-upped to 100mg, and for the past 4 days, I was completely out of my wellbutrin and lamictal. An antidepressant and a mood stabilizer just completely off the map. I was beginning to feel a shitstorm a-brewin’,. I didn’t feel good. I felt weak. It was weird. Yet, yesterday, before things got any worse, I got a weeks worth as I await my original RX to come in the mail. And so on.
So, here I am. Weathering one storm and facing another.
And things are going to be just fine.
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I’ve just learned that I’ve been blogging for over a year now. My first post was June 2nd, 2010. That’s pretty neat.
Anyhoo, I really haven’t been writing as much as I used to. It could be because I’m lazy (most likely), or because I really don’t have much to say anymore (which isn’t true. I always have a lot to say. I just don’t feel like typing it. Yep, I’m lazy). But hey, I thought, why not put a little quip up on here for funsies.
So, few things… I conquered my fear of fireworks. The 4th of July was a lot of fun, thanks to Greg, Dave, a $6 fifth of Kassers vodka and a 2L of Dr. Pepper.
Since the 4th, I really haven’t drank anything at all, which is why what I’m about to type doesn’t make much sense to me.
I haven’t been sleeping. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep. Unless falling asleep at 3 or 4am, and waking up at 7 or 8am is normal, then I’m doing it right. But let’s be real here. Shit ain’t right. Another thing that has been bothering me are my mood swings. I’ve been way moodier than usual. Over the past three weeks, it hasn’t taken a lot to set me off. People, people in public, things I have control over, things I have no control over, big things, and even the most insignificantly small things will trigger these swings. The biggest trigger is anxiety. When I’m feeling anxious, it just turns straight into anger. It goes from “Hey, uh, guys, I really don’t feel comfortable at all, I think we should go” to “Jesus Christ, someone is about to get hit.”
No me gusta.
I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. When I get like this, if I avoid you or don’t talk to you, it’s because I’m avoiding everyone who isn’t my mom, Greg, Dave, Jackie, and Carolyne. For everyone reading this: I’m offline. Please leave a message after the beep. I’ll be sure to return within a few weeks.
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Well, it’s been a month since I posted last (which was my Ethics final, which I hope all of you enjoyed/were offended by). Recently, I haven’t had that much to write about. Things have been relatively good, and have been on a steady pace of goodness for about (well, going on) three weeks now. After what seemed like 2+ months of being in a depressed slump, I’m finally, finally coming out of it. Will it last? Nope. But while I have it, I’m going to cherish every single moment of it.
So what’s new in the world of Maxy?
Uhm, well, I’m on my summer break, officially. My friends are home. We go to bars and have good times. The other night, I cut my thumb from a broken beer bottle (Thanks, Lauren, for not knowing your own strength) at Maynards in Margate, and proceeded to bleed all over my phone. Woke in the morning, and the right have was covered in dried blood. Gross, right? Looking back, yeah, it was gross, but during, I couldn’t help but think how bad ass it was. I also apparently cleaned my thumb off at the bar with a napkin dipped in beer (my logic being “Hey, beer is alcohol. It’s sterile, right?). That night was interesting because we (Greg, Davem and Greg’s roomie Steve) pregamed with Barton and Kessler vodka (both bottles costing under $10). So, I felt like we were already in cruise-control drunk mode while Greg’s mom drove us to Maynards. In the car ride, we happened to say offensive things, as boys do, which Mrs. Greg’s Mom seemed to enjoy. We only stayed at the bar for like an hour and a half, and then sat, walked, shenanigan’d around the pier across the street. We had a nice conversation with Da’Hir (spelling?), who wasn’t able to get into Sofia’s, due to him forgetting his I.D. at his home. It was around this time when I noticed how my group of friend’s demographic is 100% Caucasian, and that we need diversity.
Last week, my band, Back Seat Riot, opened for Mansions at the Hangar 84 in Vineland. I’m a huge fan of Mansions, so getting to talk to Chris, vocalist for the band, was rather legit. Cool dude. Creepy stalker fan status here on my end. BSR played really well, we had a lot of fun, but I didn’t get to stay for Mansions, due to the venue booking like 7 bands, running behind schedule, and my lack of remembering to take my meds. Whoops.
Also, yesterday, the new Limp Bizkit album, Gold Cobra, leaked, and found its way into my possession. When I heard the news many moons ago that there would be a new LB album, I became stoked. Limp was my angsty middle schooler band before I even knew what being angsty was all about. Three Dollar Bill, Significant Other, Chocolate Starfish… All of those album. Amazing. As nostalgia set in, I realized that LB has never been good. From Durst’s awful, childish lyrics and awkward white-boy-rap delivery, to Borland’s stage appearance, they’re just a… They’re just not good. Does that matter to me? Not one bit. As bad as they are, they’re beyond awesome. Awesomely bad. Which is what I expected from Gold Cobra, dumb lyrics, awkward rapping, and probably the same chug riffs. What I’m listening, as I type this, exceeded expectations. Are the lyrics dumb as fuck? Oh hell yes they are! But Wes Borland’s guitar work is just awesome. It’s heavy, it’s creative, and it… It just pumps me the fuck up. My middle school self and my 21 year old self are living harmoniously together, being angsty as shit, and enjoying every single minute of it. I won’t be surprised if this album ends up on my 2011 Album of the Year list.
So, uh, yeah. I guess this is where I leave you guys. I’ll try to maybe write twice a month, and keep whoever reads this semi-informed about things.
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Since a few of you asked to read it, here it is. I’m done emailing peoples. Please enjoy and try not to get too offended.
Out of all the issues we’ve dealt with this semester, I feel that the most pressing issue is freedom of speech. Freedom of speech is the theory that we’re free to say whatever we want, and basically get away with it. No censorship. In theory, this seems like a great idea. We can think, feel, and express ourselves without limitations. Yet, many people oppose this, by adding limitations to free speech. It’s really confusing, but I will try to clearly go into the subject as best as I can.
Now, I would like to start off this final paper with my opinion on freedom of speech. To me, freedom of speech is wonderful. Why? Well, because
(yes, I actually had a page break. it was about a page and a half-ish of just blank space. this sentence was not a part of my essay. neither are the periods. those are place holders for the blank space in the middle of my essay)
See what I did there? I’m free to say whatever I want. Yet, just because I can say whatever I want doesn’t mean I have to. It’s a wonderful, mysterious thing. I’m free to say (and not say) as I please.
Yet, people will put limitations on free speech. What I did just there will probably affect my grade on this paper, and probably for the class as a whole.
So, essentially, freedom of speech isn’t free. If you have to put a limitation on something free, then it really isn’t free. So a limitation of free speech just kind of makes it… Speech.
One of the big limitations of freedom of speech is the usage of “hate speech,” or using derogatory words and phrases that are meant to bring someone down, make them feel sad, and just bum out a whole lot of people. There are an insane amount of words and phrases that fall under the category of “hate speech,” which include, but isn’t limited to: Nigger, kike, faggot, spic, coon, towel-head, camel jockey, cunt, bitch, whore, dumb slut, dyke, greedy Jew, retard (context is important on that one), so on and so forth.
Now, I will admit, my friends and I are guilty of using some of these phrases. My friends and I, well, you may consider us bad kids (warranted), but we merely say such things for shock value, and because it’s funny to us. Our one word that we use constantly is “faggot”. Now, there’s a catch. We don’t use it as a derogatory slang term, using it to attack and put down our gay friends. We follow the rules laid out by famous stand-up comedian, Louis CK. To him (and to us), “faggot” doesn’t mean “gay”. We use it in a sense that if someone is being a little bitch about something, we call him/her (yeah, ladies aren’t safe from this either) a “faggot”. Not because they’re gay, but because they’re… Well… being a little bitchy faggot.
Now, my friends and I aren’t stupid. We have common sense. We know to use it in private conversations. Yet, in public, like at a bar, or something, if we say it, we try not to say it so everyone can hear us. And if we do say it in public, it tends to slip out. We know not to say it, but we say it so much that it’s a second nature thing to us. You might consider that to be a bad thing, seeing that we use such a bad word on a daily basis with no qualms. Looking back on that last paragraph, yeah, we really need to tone it down a bit. But we’re boys, and we have a certain mindset, and have plenty of gay friends, so we feel validated to get away with it.
Same goes for the word “nigger”. Only thing is, we don’t say “nigger”. We say “nigga”. It’s also second nature for us. Yet, if someone actually says “nigger,” we tell them to cool their jets. For us, dropping what we call the “hard E.R.” is against the rules. If the “hard E.R.” is dropped, then everyone in the room just feels awkward. Trying to reinstitute regular conversation after the droppage of the “hard E.R.” tends to be a semi-difficult task. It’s almost like when you’re in a room full of people, and suddenly the room goes quiet, yet there’s that one person who says something in the silence. You know what I’m talkin’ about. To come back from that is quite the task.
Now if I could quote Uncle Ben’s character from the first Spiderman movie, Ben said “with hate speech, comes hate responsibility”. Well, I think that’s what he said. I’ll have to double check. But it should make sense. If you’re going to publicly use hate speech, you better be prepared to deal with the consequences. The members of the Westboro Baptist Church aren’t allowed in Canada due to their usage of hate speech. Now, if one of us were to use the words “faggot” or “nigga” in public, and one of the two groups of people overhear us saying, and don’t know our modus operandi with words, well, they’re most likely going to get mad at us. And then we know we have to deal with the consequences of our actions, and try to find a way to get out of the corner we’ve backed ourselves in to.
Now, could my group of friends stop saying such words that may make others mad? Of course we can! Are we going to? Probably not. We’ve got such words assimilated into our vocabulary, so to just exile the words out of our lives will most likely be impossible. We’re a group of 21 year olds, and we feel invincible. We don’t feel prone to scorn. Of course, we know what we can and can’t do. Yet, we’re badass, and we do whatever the fuck we want. And we say whatever the fuck we want.
Why? Because we have freedom of speech.
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Easter Sunday edition!
I saw a billboard from these guys on my way to and from Philadelphia, promoting that the end is nigh; and when I say “nigh”, I mean that Judgment Day is this upcoming May. The 21st, to be exact. (Please be advise that it is only Judgment Day, and not the end of the world (which I like to call “End of the World Day 2011”) which is apparently supposed to happen in October. Go figure, eh?)
In the case of emergency, please remain calm, and find yourself to the nearest exit.
Which, I believe that this morning, I did.
Today was a very, very good day, filled with many good things; eggs, family, champagne, and church.
Yep, I went to church this morning.
Which to some may no big deal. Oh, Maxy, you went to church on Easter. Good for you, har har har.
But it was different this time around.
As some of you may know/care, I was raised Roman Catholic. But due to some circumstances, I totally just dropped off of thine holy grid.
The last time I stepped foot inside of any kind of church was Ash Wednesday, 2010. Exactly 405 days ago. I can not even tell you how many times in that period that my parents begged me to go to church with them, and how I protested.
Yet, last night, my mom asked me simply if I’d like to join her by going to the new non-denominational Christian church in Ocean City, The Calvary Chapel.
A month ago (almost exactly), I tweeted in a semi-joking-slash-semi-serious manner, saying “hey, maybe I need some sort of spiritual guidance. Thanks, Relient K!”
So, I felt that the timing was right. Go to a new church on Easter Sunday, with my mom. I make her happy, make Jesus happy, learn some sort of message, and we all win.
This morning, I posted this status on my facebook:
So, we get into the church, which is very nice. Air conditioned, no pews, comfy chairs, and a stage with instruments. Interests: piqued. Also, I won’t forget to mention that there were a few pretty girls there. They don’t hurt.
My only gripe with that… Everyone in there was so happy. Due to recent times, being surrounded by so much happy made me feel like the biggest, introspective downer imaginable. But hey, promised my mom that I’d go and hold no judgments.
Earlier in the morning, I made fun of my mom for listening to the stereotypical overly-Christian praise and worship music. If there’s one thing I cannot stand is stereotypical overly-Christian praise and worship music. Why? Because, in my honest opinion, it’s cheesy. We get it. God loves us. Jesus died for us. Praise Him. I honestly have no idea how many records can be written with that being the only topic of conversation. I told my mom that the good Christian music is found when the singer/songwriter writes about his/her introspective struggles with faith and questionings of said faith. But then again, that’s just me.
Hey, if you actually enjoy praise and worship music, that’s totally fine. I wont knock you for it. Yet, unless your name happens to be Penni D’Aulerio, and you happen to be my mother, be prepared to feel ashamed for listening to such drivel.
Okay, drivel was a little mean. Again, opinions. I have them.
Anyhoo, band comes to stage, we’re asked to stand. They begin to play. Guess what they played? Yup. Stereotypical overly-Christian worship and praise music.
Yeah, I won’t lie, I cringed. But their drummer was not bad (a little stiff, and not as creative with his fills and syncopation as I would be, but hey. He did what he could. He provided a solid foundation), so I was able to stomach it.
Dear stereotypical overly-Christian worship and praise music… You’re not that bad. You’re not that good, but not that bad. I’ll get used to it eventually.
Then, the pastor came out and delivered his sermon. My first impression of the guy was that of which he was kinda like the-latest-season-of-Dexter-Jordan-Chase-kind-of-character, where you suspect something is fishy about him, but you can’t be too sure (*SPOILER ALERT* Jordan Chase was a bad guy). Then again, my feelings toward the guy could be due to my recent bouts of paranoia, not being able to trust anything foreign, and the distaste of the Catholic church.
Well, turns out that the pastor is very smart, rather funny (in a witty “Hey, I’m a pastor who likes to joke around and have fun!” pastoral way), and feels basically the exact same way as I do. That the church never promoted to have your own personal, spiritual journey and connection with Jesus. It was around this time where I began to feel “Hey, I like this place. And guy.”
So, after the sermon, the band came out again for their last jamboree. During this time, the pastor asked for any new members to maybe make the call to be prayed upon, and be saved, and welcomed into the new church.
And there I stood, rooted to my spot.
No one walked up.
He asked again.
A family walked up, and people clapped.
And there I stood. Nope. Not going anywhere.
That’s when he said it.
“Maybe you feel like a prodigal, making your way back…”
And that’s when it struck me.
My facebook status, where I joked about being the Prodigal Son on Easter.
No idea. But it was at that time where I turned to my mom, and said “I want to go up.”
It was too weird to just deny what happened. It was meant to be. It just had to be.
So, my mom, not only ecstatic that I dragged my sorry ass to church at 8am, began to well up with tears (DENY IT ALL YOU WANT MOM. I’M NOT DUMB) as we stood at the front of the audience.
So, I guess I was saved on Easter.
Pretty cool, eh?
After the service, my mom and I went up to the pastor. I needed to tell him about my facebook status from a few hours before what went down, and how I mentioned being the Prodigal Son via a small facebook joke. What did he say to that?
“Yeah, mentioning being a “prodigal” wasn’t in my notes. I felt the need to say it.”
Then he prayed over me to start my new journey off on a good foot.
It was then I felt something inside me change. But I felt happy. And loved. And appreciated.
Feels good, man.
Now, do I fully believe that I’m “saved”?
A single prayer and church service wouldn’t make a dent in some of the shit I’ve done/said/believed (or haven’t done/said/believed).
But hey, it’s a start. And I’m ready to change things for the better.
And I’m ready to join a church band. That’d be kinda cool.
I do believe that