Losing your religion is almost as painful as losing your virginity

To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I recall that I was born.

Okay, I don't really 'recall' that, as I don't remember anything about being born. Good thing, too. I don't need to remember seeing my mother's vagina. Ew. Talk about psychologically scarring.

I grew up with my grandparents as my parents were extremely young. Which, cool, they wanted what was best for me... And my grandparents were better equipped to deal with me than a couple of teenagers. My grandpa quit drinking quite some time ago, and as many addicts tend to do, he replaced one addiction with another. He quit drinking in exchange for becoming a born-again Christian. He calls himself a recovering Catholic, and is now a staunch Methodist. My grandma used to be quite wishy-washy about religion and is still a buffet Christian (which, for those who don't know, is a Christian who picks and chooses what guidelines they want to follow). But I was raised in a religious environment.

I used to be the prodigal child of the church. I'm still known by everyone there, and I do have some fond memories of some of the people who attend 'my' church. I used to beg off Sunday School to stay home and watch Ren and Stimpy. Now I beg off using my son as my excuse.

Which, 3 year olds? Best church-attendance buffer ever.

My son is baptized, mostly because it was something I felt I had to do. Because if I hadn't, I'm sure that I would've been badgered by my grandparents to do it. I'm willing to give him the option of exploring religion at his own pace, and if he becomes a Christian, I will support him. As long as he doesn't try to 're-convert' me. I believe that there is a God. I don't necessarily believe that it's the God of the Bible. I think the Bible is full of shit, I really do. Pretty much all of the Bible was written by people who were born after Jesus died. How the hell can we trust them? I mean, hey. You show me a book written by Jesus himself and I'll be glad to believe in it. I have faith. Just not in the Bible.

That being said, I had a bad experience with bringing my toddler to church. One that has tainted my view of attending services. I don't even want to attend the Christmas service anymore, and I used to LOVE going to that service. I just want nothing to do with it. I went a few weeks ago because the guest preacher was the old preacher who confirmed me, and I love the guy. He's awesome. But that's the only reason I went. And even that wasn't the same.

My grandma called me on Saturday night, asking me to bring Son to church on Sunday because they were having a 'Crossing The Bridge To Sunday School' ceremonial thingy. Whatever. I kept telling her I wasn't sure, calling me the night before makes it a little difficult to plan this stuff, and whatever. Truth being, I didn't want to go. I knew it would disappoint them to tell them I didn't' want to go. Son attends the christian daycare that's in said church. That, in my opinion, is decent enough religious exposure for a three year-old.

The majority of the kids that attend Sunday School are 6-7 years old and up. Way too old for a 3 year old to feel comfortable.

However, even if I tell my grandparents my viewpoint on religion, they'll still bother me about attending. Along with the ever-so-lovely guilt trips. "Where did we go wrong? We failed you." La-de-dah-de-dah. Nothing I want to listen to on repeat.

Because it wouldn't stop. It would probably cause them to redouble their efforts.

And no one wants that, least of all me.

Religion fucking sucks, dudes. *sigh*

In other unrelated news, the current score is as follows -

Inanimate objects: 3

Ashley: 0

I have, within the last 26 or so hours, lost three fights with inanimate objects.

I need to stop talking shit.

First fight was lost to my car door. It has this weird sharp curve in the back door, and when it's not wide open and I lean in to buckle up Son's carseat... It tries to shank me. So I have a bruise on my shoulder.

The next fight was against the doorknob on my closet door. It's a very pretty old doorknob, it's got some molded designs on it, and left a lovely bruise on my left thigh. Score, 2-0.

And today, Christine decided to try and off me again. I named my boss' car Christine, because it always tries to kill me. Usually it's a slowly tightening, never releasing seatbelt. Today, I hit my knee on the wheel well.

Score, 3-0.

I fail at life.