As a child growing up in a “spiritual” agnostic household, I craved the organization and – most of all – certainty of religion. More than once I converted to this or that, ate Kosher for a weekend, said a prayer at night with the intent of saying one in the morning, yet upon waking would either forget or “forget,” feeling stupid for even trying in the light of day.

I don’t believe in God. I don’t believe in “the meaning of life.”

I don’t believe things are always getting better, I don’t believe in trickle-down economy, I don’t believe they would tell us if it was really ending, they’d just dip down into their million-dollar bunkers and disappear. The solace here comes for me when I think about how often these bunkers include “staff.”

You really think, my dude, you’ll still be in charge once the world ends?

Evolution doesn’t advance the species; it only makes more prevalent the sexiest, most fuckable traits. Easily, it could carry us into extinction like anything else.

My daughter lately has been afraid of ghosts. Last night I sat her down and told her, “ghosts aren’t real, baby. They’re just not,” and I said it because I needed her to chill, and to go to bed, please, just go the fuck to sleep, but I didn’t doubt it either.

I used to want so badly to believe in something magical.

Coming into recovery they told me I needed a “higher power,” and the book had a whole chapter titled “we agnostics,” and one of the stories in the other book was about two drunks finding a bible when in need, just at random, and holy hell but I cannot help but laugh.

If you see the Buddha on the road, kill him.

One of the poor fuckers who tried to convert me to Christianity once argued at the end, “well, what if when you die you learn we were right? What then?” She said it so earnestly, stared at me after like she’d won, like I couldn’t possibly argue with that.

Literally no part of me feared this, and no part of me ever would. It’s like suggesting “what if when you die, you find out Santa is real? what then?”

I didn’t say that. I wanted her to just shut up already, because pity is exhausting, because we were trapped on this plane together for another hour and I wanted to read my book, so I said, “Lady, if you’re right after all, the Devil seems like better company anyway.”

It worked; she dropped it.

For a while I walked into meetings and when I shared I’d say it plain, “All thanks to my higher power, who I choose to call mitochondria, powerhouse of the cell…”

It often got a laugh. When it didn’t, I knew I was in the wrong meeting.

I don’t consider myself an Atheist. Atheism too seems ridiculous to me, the height of ego, just another attestation that you know what’s up in a universe none of us fully understand. I just also don’t think any religion has ever gotten it right. That if they even slightly did, it’s more likely to be some Stargate: SG1 shit than any kind of kind sky Santa granting wishes from on high. Ancient Aliens! But really, they’re aliens, they’re ancient, and they’re here to play God.

Why even fuck with that?

Yet I did. I totally tried to. I prayed and I attended services and I felt stupid, so stupid, the whole fucking time.

I looked around and couldn’t wrap my head around the notion we all weren’t just playing pretend; seeing who could hold out longest in the delusion of some kind of grand order. Or plan! God, fuck that. Fuck the idea of a plan, and of suffering being earned. You really telling me your gracious, wonderful God bothered to get you a parking space, yet lets every other hell go on, down here?

Fuck you.

It’s the same old shit. The same old need for us to know our luck, and believe it’s something we’ve earned.