Sin Part 1

Sin. A three letter word that holds so much power. It controls most people. It puts fear into their very hearts. Not me. I don't believe in being pious. Never really have. I was born wayward. Other little girls had imaginary friends that were princesses or other saccharine little girls and I always felt like I had the devil by my side. My parents sent me to catechism which I loathed. I would never pay any attention. We used to sit in a classroom that was occupied by the Catholic school children during regular school hours so all of their stuff was in their desks.There books, pencils, stickers. I would always snoop through the stuff and steal their shit. One day we were told that we had to go to church for a mass. It was before Lent started. I had a magenta marker in the pocket of my shorts and I made sure to keep it clandestine because I had a plan once we got to the chapel. I told the instructor that my tummy ached, so she sat me in a pew with three other kids. It was like sitting with not one but three morons. I sat all the way at the end of the pew, grabbed a Bible and hovered over it. I was pretending to read but in actuality I was scribbling all over the pages and writing the words lies, bitch and fuck over all of the verses. John 3:16...For God so loved the world that LIES LIES LIES LIES BITCH FUCK LIES. You get the picture. Flipping through the pages something really stood out at me. I was only six at the time. Romans 3:23- For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Who is this fucking God dude? Who is he to decide what is right and wrong?  I don't want his glory. I don't even know him. I circled it. 

Next week when I went into class, it was requested that my mother join me. We were escorted into Sister Lucia's office. The tainted tome was presented. How did they find out? It turns out Stephen Hawking sitting next to me and his para dimed me out. My mother was mortified. She was asked to give a donation to keep me there and I had to go into confession to confess my sins. The whole way home my mother cried while I sat in the backseat playing Tetris on my Game Boy.When we got home my father beat the living shit out of me. I remember my little hands trembling. Tears that felt like icicles pouring out of my doe eyes. I hated my parents and I hated God. I vowed then to never have a relationship with Christ. My parents of course tried to impose religion and morals onto me, which only aided in my disdain for all things holy. When I was seventeen I started getting into mischief. I was cutting school, drinking 40oz. St. Ides, getting into fights with cheerleaders for fucking their boyfriends while they were vacationing in Naples over the summer. It was my senior year and they decided to send me to an all girl prep school. Catholic, of course.

 I tried to make the best of it. I rolled my skirt up really high and the dyke dean would always give me demerits but I knew she loved staring at my underage, supple ass. I had a hard time at that school. It was full of cliques and I was an outsider. The one friend I made was a cute chubby girl named Genette. She was super rich and we would go to her house after school to lay by her pool and drink her dad's Glenfiddich with the college boys from next door. Her parents were always gone on business. I started to think this girl was an orphan. Anyway, There was this one boy that always hung around. His name was Nico. He had that whole brooding, mafioso look to him. Thick raven black hair, Sinewy arms, A smile that could melt ice cream in the winter. Genette told me that he liked her and she wasn't interested in him but I had this sneaking suspicion that it was the other way around. One night, we were all partying and I got really wasted and had no one to take me home. Genette suggested that Nico drive me.We jumped into his navy colored work van and we talked. He was so intellectual and deep. He confided in me his secrets. There was a profound sadness to him. He was broken. I understood him. When we got to my door I turned to say goodnight and he kissed me. The most innocent, yet passionate kiss I had ever felt on my lips. My knees felt weak. I felt as if Iwere turning to butter. For the first time ever I felt conflicted. I felt guilt for betraying my friend. Like Judas to Jesus. All I knew was that I had to confess to her what I had done. I could not sleep that whole night. Part of my insomnia from excitement over that kiss and the other part guilt. "So this is what guilt feels like?" I thought to myself. I had this feeling of regret and doom in the pit of my heart and soul. I kept thinking about how I may have hurt Genette. I put my hands together, got on my knees and said "I know I am bad but can you please just understand me and help me this one time? Can you help me and forgive me, God?"...

To Be Continued

How Do You Feel?...

"How do you feel?" I wake to find the ugly face of strangers hovering over me. "How do you feel, miss?" It takes me a total of forty two seconds to assess the situation. I make up that I have passed out. Right here. Houston street during lunch hour. I ignore the faction. I finally pull my heavy body up, I dust the dirt and pieces of Manhattan from my dress. I pull a piece of sticky, stringy cerulean colored gum off my ass, grab my purse and yell "fuck you!" to my urban knight and shining armor coalition. They stand back in horror and disbelief of my ungratefulness. I begin to walk away. I hear their shouts. I ignore them. Why should I give them the satisfaction and a verbal medal of valor. Dinner table colloquy. No way. Undeserving. I keep walking in my prodromal state, picking up pace. The click clack of my stilettos sound like some erratic jazz song. Too fast and too abstract for anyone to pay attention. "How do you feel?" those four words ruminating in my head. Over and over. A bedlam of voices. Some high pitched, some low. Some soothing, some unnerving. All asking the same thing "how do you feel?" I feel faceless, nameless and alone. Like a stray kitten in the rain looking for a home. A home like the one Norman Rockwell created with brushstrokes. I begin to cry. My teardrops black like oil from my mascara. I start to think about my childhood as I gaze at the children playing on the monkey bars in Sara D. Roosevelt playground. I look at the mother's coddling their children. Putting band aids on scrapes, kissing the bloody knees of their own little messiah. Worshiping the very words that fall from their baby bird lips. Bragging to the other mom's about admission into Horace Mann. I overhear one mother showboating about the way her son plays violin she ascertains that it is the sound of heaven and how it moves her to make her want to be better. Maybe I should take the kids number. I could use a little motivation on how to be better. I feel an impending sense of guilt for being jealous of children. Kids. Human beings that probably just learned how to wipe their own asses. I can't help myself. Perhaps if I would have had parents who threw me a party every time I swiped a crayon over a piece of construction paper I wouldn't be walking around SoHo at 1:30pm looking like something that crawled out of Dina Lohan's pussy after nine months. I continue on, click clack scooby da be bop bop blah blah blah. My feet and my psyche ache. I feel supine from passing out.There is a group of Spanish teenage boys on the corner of Broome, they make a comment about my ass. All I hear is ass, haha, mami, sexy. It then dawns on me that I have been walking around with my posterior as an advertisement for Wrigley's. Fucking dried up piece of gum on my Alaia dress. Perfect. I hail a cab at W. Broadway and pretend I hopped into a submarine. I pretend that the passerby's are schools of fish swimming about. Unaware of the dangers that lie ahead. Lovers like sharks and friends like fisherman looking to sink their hooks into your very existence. I take some time to quiet the riot in my brain and try hard to remember why I experienced that episode of syncope. I vaguely remember seeing some new head shrinker this morning. He asked me why I was at his office for a visit. I explained to him that I was lonely and he was much cheaper than renting a whore for the hour. He laughed and then proceeded to ask me "How do you feel?" and that is honestly the last thing I remember before waking up on the unpure face of Manhattan.