I've been thinking.

If Jesus were alive today, he would have dinner with transvestites, AIDS patients, illegal immigrants, gays, and Arabs. There is so much intolerance taught by the Church. Just like there was two thousand years ago in Israel. Didn't Jesus come to teach us to love one another, to accept one another just as we are? Why, then, do people hold the cross as a banner over them as they hate and loath and teach their children to do the same? Why haven't we learned to accept and cherish one another, flawed as we are? Why can't we just be? I think it is incredibly Unchristian to hate people, especially based on things they cannot change. But it still isn't okay to hate someone because of the choices they make. I don't care if you think being gay is a choice or not, it is wrong to hate people because of their sexual orientation. There have been so many people since Jesus preaching love and coexistence. Martin Luther King Jr. Ghandi. Why can't we actually emulate them like we claim to? We say we have fixed all of our race issues, all of our religious intolerance. That's bull. We're just as hateful as we were two thousand years ago when God decided, "These people need to be taught a lesson!" Let's hope that if He decides we need more teaching, that it is another example, instead of a punishment (i.e. The Flood). What I'm trying to say is: Love others, you jerks!

Why?

She would sit in her chair, and I would wander around the room, touching her things. I never looked at her, never studied her. I had assumed she would always be there. I would sit at the kitchen table and ask questions.
“Why do you have butterfly stickers on your window?”
“So the birds don’t kill themselves trying to fly in.”
My favorite thing was to walk around the house. The kitchen and living room were banal to me; I had been there so many times. I was very interested by the dining room, though. No one ever went in it, so when I did, I felt like its discoverer. The basement also fascinated me. It was dark and dank and scary. It smelled old. My favorite room was the children’s room. The room where my mother hid under the bed, unwilling to do her chores. The room where my mother and her cousin laid in bed and listened to the weather reports, praying for snow days. I have not seen that room, or the dining room, or the basement, or even the kitchen, in almost seven years. When my mother and I are nearby, we’ll drive past the house. It is different now. It seems to miss her, that woman I took for granted.

Camp

Is interesting. It's supposeed to be this big thing, where all these famous writers wrote their best work, but I just can't concentrate. Maybe it's the new environment. Maybe it's the awesome people. Maybe it's the fact that I'm dead tired. Who knows? I have started this really weird story that's going nowhere. It's about a guy who killed his wife and daughter, and then hangs himself. I don't know how I came up with that. Blah. Yawn. I really liked the Duck's song. I think that can relate to a lot of people. I mean A LOT. Like, every country singer ever. They're always crying their hearts out over so-and-so. They seldom have happy songs. I wonder why? With pop, it's more of a balance: some happy, some sad. Maybe all country songs are depressing because country itself is depressing. It sure depresses me. Sorry, Horse, if you are reading this. I know you love country music. That's just your preference. I'd take it over rap any day. I'd rather have hang-youself-music than I'm-going-to-hang-you-then-rape-your-mother-music. Okay, I'm done. You're all probably centering your sniper rifles on me by now. Auf Wiedersehen!