• Okay, you know that whole last entry about religion? Well, fuck all that. The funeral today it was.... something. It was definitely something. And I know evvvveryone's been posting about death lately, but fuck all of you, Quit_Lollygagging said it better than any of us could. But hey, I wanna write about this shit that happened today, and (obviously) it was mainly about death. Although it also included talking about Dane Cook at the dinner, re-enacting so many driving memories, smoking weed and drinking beer with my grandma sitting right next to me. What a wild, wild night. Back to the whole melancholy death thing, though. This funeral was kind of a new experience, the was a preacher there (unlike the last three I've been to), and that wasn't so unordinary.. but what WAS unordinary, was that it was my old preacher. The one who turned me away and ignored all my questions. The one who pushed me away from God, rather than enlighten me that God loved me as his child, too. I looked at him when he first walked in, thinking maybe he just showed up to be polite, but no, it wasn't long after he had overstayed his strange welcome that I realized that he was going to be in charge of this memorial. It's not that he was ever BAD at PREACHING in front of the congregation, (although he was properly boring) he's just one of those people who are afraid to be called out on something they aren't educated enough about. And sorry if I offend anyone on here, but Baptist preachers don't know shit. Really. Truly. Everytime my little fragile ass would bound into his office, mind filled with questions, he would immediately shut me down or send me on my way. I couldn't understand, so one day I just stopped going. Just like that. I still see some of the old ladies from church every now and then at the store, but they just give me that stare, you know? The one that says "We understand but we can't show it." I understand, too. They have a reputation to maintain. My grandma is the same way, although she allows herself to be seen with me in public. In a little town like this, it's basically a crime to not attend church. I could safely say I am the only teenager within a 2 country radius that doesn't go to church. And believe me, people let me know. My once-preacher, Gary, did a outstanding job at the funeral tonight though. Not only did I cry from grief, but I think it was also from a... a higher being beckoning me? Haha, it sounds so surreal saying it (typing it?) but believe me, I know what it's like to cry from grief, and this was.. something different. I can't really explain it. I felt so..vulnerable? I felt like something was tearing away at my wall, my shield I've carried so well these past few years. Maybe it's just that the more people die, the harder it gets to hide your tears. Gary also said something about tears being like an airbag, the cushion you in times when it really matters, but I think that's a fucking boldfaced lie. I've learned to despise my tears and I curse myself everytime I cry now. I think I cry far too often. More than you'd think. The fact that tears are your "cushion" mean nothing to me. Tears now just remind me that people are getting ripped from me everyday it seems and there's nothing I can do about it. Absolutely nothing. I'm nothing special. Nobody is, anymore. And that's what sucks about life. And death. Everyone's dying lately; it's the new fad.

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