The Reverend's Gutted Bible

Ha ha…

Ha.

Hm.

“Hmmm, tough call bro. Have you tried gouging out your eyes so you don’t have to see all those bodies anymore?”

“wut”

“What?”

“Shouldn’t you tell them to… stop dressing like that or something?”

“Don’t see why. It’s not their fault that the fact that they have bodies makes you a fucking sinful horndog. Gotta fix that problem yourself, buddy. Go on, blind yourself.”

“Uh….”

“How can I avoid like, an accidental slip of the hand when…they’re dressin like that?”

“Cut it off.”

“wut”

“Cut it off. Your hand. If it’s a problem, stop having a hand.”

“wut”

During this conversation, she asks me if I’m in school, and I say yes. I tell her about how exams went, as they were near that period, and told her I had a Biology exam that was over genetics. And she looks me straight in the eyes, with seriousness of a heart attack being read in every wrinkle of her white soccer mom face, and says: “Oh, I’m a Christian, I don’t believe in genetics.”

Flabbergasted. My eyes do that spinny rainbow thing that Apple computers do when theyre buffering. A second goes by. I’ve gone through all stages of grief at this point, but haven’t reached acceptance. I have to say something, I have to say SOMETHING. If I just stare at her through this, she’ll know I think she’s fucking dumb and she might get angry, and I don’t need that. Two seconds have gone by. I have stopped scanning groceries at this point, and am just being violently shot back and forth between two sections of the galaxy. I can feel my body taking leave of my soul. Three seconds. I have to say something.