Perhaps the largest source of sporadic anger in my life is the past I share with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, more commonly referred to as “Mormonism.” Since leaving the fold some 9 years back, my attitude was akin to unbridled, faith ruining fury, played out in fantasies where I soar from temple to temple, exploding holy structures with the mere suction of my mighty leaps, like Ang Lee’s HULK. However with age, comes wisdom, and I’ve learned that my time is better spent not imagining super hate crimes. Instead I settle for a passively deep pity for those who still believe, and save the rage for family gatherings and Prop 8 news. So the beast lay buried, until two fresh-faced missionaries approached me on a day ending trip from job to truck. “Would you mind if we shared a message with you?” I obliged, figuring the walk to be a short one, and hoping at some point to let these boys down gently, that I might head home directly to smoke pot and watch Simpson’s reruns in prodigal peace. Heck, maybe the message was even something I needed to hear, like “don’t forget to pick up eggs,” or “get that sore checked out.”

I listened to their faithful re-pitching of the religion I once knew, much the same way an adult might listen to a 5 year old excitedly describe pizza. (“…and there can be pepperoni on it…and when you die you go to a heaven planet…”). Were I to rejoin, I’d be like Cypher from the Matrix, played by the incomparable Joe Pantoliano, turning my back on reality to live an ignorantly comfortable life. I told them of my history, and how I hoped to write a movie about the faith so jarring, my parent’s would finally see the truth and leave the church. They likened my story unto “Alma,” who “murdered people with his words.” I felt vaguely flattered, and followed up with “Well call it what you will, but basically, I don’t need an unseen force to dole out my mercy and shame, as I am perfectly capable of doing that myself.” They blinked at me like stunned puppies, and finally offered to come by sometime and show me how to make milkshakes. “No thanks,” I responded. “I’ll just ask the Internet.” They bid goodbye, and I am still lonely. And most importantly without a good technique for making milkshakes.

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