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.
To clarify, for those of you who just tuned in, I’m not talking man in the clouds kind of God. Not the God of the religions of the book, or the God of girlhood prayers. I speak not of the God of dogma, the God of fears and judgments, of empty ritual and proselytizing. That God is born from the pettiness of men’s minds, not the lived experience of throbbing sensation animating absolutely everything. There is