That's the best line from a rap song ever. It was funny when Dr. Dre said it, even funnier when Ben Folds sang it in harmony after going on for verse after verse of bitches, shit, hoes and tricks. It's on my mp3 player. It makes me laugh every damn time he says it. And oh it's not really as bad as I write about though it makes for good dramatics. It still sucks though. Although visiting "the country" is nice, I much prefer a more urban lifestyle. I'm telling you the country and the city are like night and day. I was born in the sprawling metropolis of Houston and lived there 10 years, where the city stretches as far as the eye can see, so it must be in my blood or something-- because just being here sometimes is like to make me die of restlessness. It's SLOW out here. And forget going incognito. I miss the great anonymity and spontaneity of the city. I do like making cookies, however. Really I do. I also decorate the cookie cakes, and that's always fun. Today I made 9/11 themed slices, an American Flag, an I heart NY one, and an FDNY chocolate and red icing. No wonder I have gotten fat. Ha! The mornings in the Mall are interesting, and totally different than the nights. You know how you hear middle-aged parents bitching about the punk-ass kids hanging out at the mall? ...Just give it 20 years and you'll be there too. Old people come just to hang out at our mall and talk to each other about the weather and shit.. Seriously. Just like the high school and jr. high kids do at nights. Only the old people come at 10 in the morning and are asleep by the time the oh-so-scary emo-goth-kids show up at the mall, ha. And I bake the cookies and serve Dr. Peppers for the people. It's really a nice concept for a job, I mean, I bake people cookies man. Everyone loves cookies and that kind of shit. So I'm happy to make them happy. You get to know all the people that work in the mall and that's cool too. I just wish "the cookie lady" made more money.
Yeah.
I've been to church twice this week. We're having autumn Revival at my small East Texas Baptist church. We had a Black preacher come preach for us and he was AWESOME. I adore Black preachers. I don't know what it is but they keep it real and truly "bring it." And I needed it to be brought, desperately. On Tuesday he preached about being shackled. He did the whole sermon in handcuffs as a literal illustration of those things in life that hold us back. He spoke about addiction and fear--it was as if he were speaking straight to me. He spoke of grudges and forgiveness. Sometimes the only way to break the shackles of hatred is to forgive the hated. This struck me somewhat deeply. A few days ago I cried out in no uncertain terms that I was very angry with the people that sexually molested me as a small child. What you must understand about this situation is that these were people I didn't know--female daycare workers--and that my childish brain repressed all memory of the incident, although it was a big deal and the cops were involved and everything. I always felt there was something wrong with me, and that I wasn't good--but I never knew why. Until I was 18 years old. That's when my mother told me the whole story. It was so surreal. Something you never think could happen to you already did. It took me a few years to really come to terms with it because with no memory it was just a story about my past self. I finally came to grips with the reality of what happened when I had a memory through clinical hypnotherapy. It was the best day of my life, because for the first time, it was real. It wasn't just ME that was inherently wrong...someone hurt me and took that away from me. What I remember most in the memory I did have in my subconscious was the fear. The incredible terror. Like falling out of a plane or going downslope on a roller coaster. I hadn't been able to forgive those people for doing that to me because I have no memory of who they are or anything. Nothing. I wouldn't recognize them if we ran into each other on the street. When the preacher started talking about forgiveness, I spontaneously choked up. It's those people still holding me back. It's those people I must forgive to finally be free of the shackles they put me in, for better or for worse. I knew what I had to do. At the end of the sermon, the preacher broke free from the handcuffs and tossed them to the side of the room. During the Invitation, I went to the altar and fell on my knees to pray. I prayed that God would help me forgive those people, so that I may break free from the chains I find myself in. Well that amongst other things. As I rose to retake my seat, I saw the handcuffs lying on the floor and stopped sh
ort. I looked at them hard. Without real knowledge of my actions, I picked them up and looked at them even harder. Slowly I turned around and carried them over to the altar of my Lord, and dropped them there for Him to take care of. I made my way back to the family pew with a satisfied smile on my face. God was the key. He always was and always will be. It was the first of many shackles to be broken.
