Church learnt me love is a choice. Except that it’s not, or I’m doing it wrong. I read a set of self-help books when I worked in a book shop and handed them out to friends in interim years, and coveted lives when they went against advice I lived by.
In the end, I went to church to meet men, and it’s truly a terrible place for that. Unless you’re into repression, and I was when my twenties were preparation for baby bodies and a promising career and husbands entertaining like Clooney. He’s only fun because he trades his girlfriends on eBay for new ones, on Gumtree, locally. I don’t do that because women aren’t choosers, in church, anyway, and no man ever picked me, because I didn’t read the Bible in a year. Started, my boyfriend wanted twice-day sit-ins of verses on Noah and Abel, wouldn’t fuck me; it was motivation-less study, sorry.
I Googled that label: “Emotional.” With a second word after. But I never believed or knew this was an actual thing, to be savoured or sucked like mouth Rolos (incidentally bought for myself). The line, for me, was a clarity head definition: to kiss is wrong, but chat’s just normalcy. There are men in the supermarket I’ve touched more, in the spice aisle, reaching for a low leaning Paprika glaze.
The future’s fucked. And not only environmentally. I’ve been looking for a Bible bus replacement service since 2006 when all my friends were like, “If you date non-Christians you’ll do accidental oral and Jesus won’t speak anymore and you’ll think that it’s good but it’s not because who marries sluts over virtue?”