Last weekend, the Sydney Morning Herald website published Angus & Robertson’s list of Top 100 Books of All Time. The list was compiled based on the votes of 26,000 readers and confirms my long-standing suspicion that people are morons.

Here’s my own little list.

Top 10 Reasons Why the Top 100 Books List is About as Definitive as a Cowpat:

1. The Harry Potter series stole first place. Has the world gone mad?

2. My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult scored 5th. This is one of those books I stupidly read simply because every idiot around me went on and on about how wonderful it was and claimed that it changed their miserable lives. So I read it, and then I tore out every page and wiped my arse with it. The plot of My Sister’s Keeper is based entirely on a single ethical dilemma: is it right to take an organ from one child (against their will) in order to ensure the survival of its sibling? After debating this throughout the whole goddamn book, and including many tedious courtroom scenes filled with ridiculously inappropriate behaviour from the characters, Picoult neatly sidesteps the issue altogether by killing the protagonist in a car accident and leaving all her organs up for grabs. I almost expected to turn to the last page and read, “And then they all woke up and realised it was just a dream!” Fuck you, Jodi Picoult, you wasted four hours of my life and I want them back. I could have used that time to read something better, like the phone book.

3. Rolling in at number 8 was Tim Winton’s Breath. Don’t get me wrong, I totally heart Tim Winton. I would probably have sex with him based on his writing ability alone, and Winton is about as attractive as a dog’s bum. But Breath just didn’t cut it for me. The plot was shaky, the characters confusing, and the ending unsatisfying. The one thing Breath proves is that even if your idea is shitty, you can get by on superb writing skills alone.

4. April Fool’s Day by Bryce Courtney slides in at number 25. Again, I love a bit of Bryce, but April Fool’s Day is hardly his best work. What about The Potato Factory, Jessica or Four Fires? They piss all over a (sometimes) whiney account of Courtney’s son’s death, punctuated by uncensored rants against the public health system. On the bright side, you’ll never shower without a raincoat again.

5. In 27th place is In My Skin by Kate Holden. In My Skin is a great read, but mainly for shock factor. Every bored housewife loves reading about a high class heroin-addict whore. Who cares if she can write? She’s exciting. Idiots.

6. A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini is ranked 29th. After The Kite Runner, I was expecting big things from Hosseini. Unfortunately, A Thousand Splendid Suns is about as engaging as a brick wall. I didn’t even finish the fucking thing.

7. In 32nd place is Atonement by Ian McEwan. What the deuce is wrong with people? Atonement the book sucked even harder than the movie! McEwan seems to have taken a leaf out of Picoult’s book too for the ending – after labouring through three hundred pages of meaningless romantic crap, you find out that none of it ever really happened in the first place.

8. Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist comes in at 57th. Oh god, now I’m really angry. The Alchemist is another book I read because everyone in the world recommended it to me. I thought it was a load of horse shit. This is by far the most boring, meaningless, mind-numbing novel I’ve read in the last year. Through Santiago’s journey, we are supposed to realise that no matter how unattainable our dreams seem, if we just have the courage and determination to pursue them, we will succeed. This, my friends, is why so many losers try out for Australian Idol and cry when they don’t make it through. The reality is you will probably never achieve your dream – that’s why it’s called a dream.

9. At number 89 is Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. WHY THE FUCK IS THIS SO FAR DOWN THE LIST? Sedaris is a goddamn genius. He’s the Einstein of the twenty-first century. In fact, I think SMH’s list should have consisted solely of Sedaris’ work.

10. This is not a list of the Top 100 Books of All Time. It’s a list of the Top 100 Commercialised Crap Published During the Last Fifteen Years With Some Token Austen, Bronte and Dickens Thrown In to Create an Impression of False Credibility.

• Glandular fever
• Pneumonia
• Cancer of the brain
• Arthritis
• Chronic Fatigue Syndrome
• Epilepsy
• Appendicitis
• Broken ankle
• Leukemia
• HIV
• Anaemia
• Receding hairline
• SARS
• Obsessive Compulsive Disorder
• Emphysema
• Alcoholism
• Insomnia
• Heart murmur

Me: What exactly does the groomer do for your dog that you can’t?: I bath her myself, but the groomer is supposed to give her a clip, clip her nails, express her anal glands, etc.

Kahlee

Me: I’m sorry, I thought you just said ‘express her anal glands’??

Kahlee: They get stuff in the glands in their butts, and if they’re not expressed every 6 months it can be painful for them.. You kind of squeeze on their butt.

Me: Surely that’s not really necessary? Do dogs in the wild walk around with sore butt-holes all day?

Kahlee: Dogs in the wild don’t eat processed biscuits.

Me: Another tragic example of how humans have ruined the world.

My earliest memory is of lying naked next to my brother on the burnt orange carpet of our hallway in Candowie Crescent. I sucked on black jelly beans and cried silently while my parents rubbed a foul-smelling ointment into my skin. Holding my nose, I tried to ignore the revolting cream that was applied to my entire body from the neck down, but these things are hard for a three-year-old. This entire process was repeated for four consecutive nights, and then I was allowed to bathe as normal.

Years later, I realised my parents had been treating us with sulfur. Dad brought lots of things home from work, but scabies was the best – microscopic bugs that burrow under the skin, lay eggs, and create a red rash that resembles an allergic reaction in appearance. As the eggs hatch and the mites crawl around underneath the skin surface, the infected person develops a terrible itch, scratches the shit out of hisself, and often develops a secondary infection. My father had been working as a GP in a local nursing home in 1989 when they experienced an outbreak among the old folks. They treated the residents and doctors but didn’t think about the doctors’ families, even though scabies is extremely contagious and transmitted readily through skin-to-skin contact. For the remainder of my childhood, I would have an intense fear of insects. When I found out about bed bugs, I slept in the bathtub for a week.

My second earliest memory is of my father forcing me to solemnly swear to never practise medicine. When asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, for years I replied, “Not a doctor.” Teachers and creche workers were fascinated by my inclination to define myself by what I was not, or would not do, rather than the opposite, but that ended up being the professional direction I would take as an adult. It’s as if I have a giant list of every career possible and am slowly crossing them off one by one after each failed attempt to make a living. (Eventually, I assume I will be left with my dream job and a string of bad references.)

Dad only worked one job, but he had a hard life. He spent years building his practice and getting patients, and then the rest of his life trying to get rid of them. Admittedly, our number was never listed in the phone book, but do all other forms of advertising go completely unnoticed? An entire generation of Australian adults simply lived without medical care until they met my father at a dinner party in the eighties. Whenever I was dragged along with my parents, I would watch the other guests’ faces light up as they chatted to Dad. “Oh! You’re a DOCTOR? That’s so interesting, because I have this pain juuust heeere…” and they would reveal the body part that grieved them. Even as a child, I was always amazed at the rudeness of these people. If you met a hairdresser at a party, would you hand them a pair of scissors and request a trim? If you met an accountant, would you ask them to do your tax before dessert? If you met a cleaner, would you ask them to pop into the kitchen and tidy things up a bit? Fuck no. But people thought nothing of pulling my father aside at tupperware parties, trivia nights and bible study groups and making him inspect their genitals. Over the years, almost every family friend, relative and member of my parents’ church has adopted my father as their GP. Dad has dirt on everyone in the Hills.

My next earliest memories are of late-night trips to nursing homes to certify bodies. Mum was out a few evenings during the week and Dad couldn’t leave me at home by myself when one of his patients died, so he took me with him. The first time, I waited patiently in the home’s common area. I sat quietly and pulled leaves off a pot plant, but within minutes I was surrounded by gnarled geriatrics with glossy eyes. They shoved pieces of fruit into my pockets and tugged at my hair. One woman proudly introduced me as her granddaughter, then smacked away the hands of anybody else who tried to touch me. They drooled and moaned and hacked and couldn’t hear a damn word I said, which was probably a good thing as I was pretty feisty for a five-year-old. After that night, I chose to wait for Dad in the same room as the corpse.

Not only North-West Sydney’s preferred medical health professional, my father was also the go-to guy for household injuries and neighbourhood emergencies. I probably set the precedent when, one night in the early nineties, I jumped out of the bathtub and ran naked through the house. Still wet, I slipped and cracked my forehead open on the cement step in our kitchen. Instructing my brother to clean the pools of blood off the floor, Dad made me lie on a beach towel in the back room and calmly stitched my face back together. Years later, getting up to pee during the night, I would see the exact same scene happening in the kitchen after one of my brother’s friends fell off his motorbike. People regularly arrived at our door with sprains, burns, grazes, cuts, dog bites, stuffed backs and split lips. Friends seemed to bring to Dad what they were embarrassed to take to the medical centre. He once dug a small bug out of a girl’s eye with a Q-tip, flushed a bead out of a boy’s nostril after he intentionally inhaled it, and sedated a friend’s son after he had tried to scrape their mashed kitten off the road outside their house. Dad was brilliant during emergencies and could treat his own children without batting an eyelid, but when it came to general illness or ailment, my brother and I always went to our mother. Mum had cool hands and stroked your hair; she made you honey tea and prepared hot packs or cold packs or steamy rooms; she rubbed Vicks on your chest and dabbed calamine lotion on your mossie bites. My father, on the other hand, only ever had one piece of medicinal advice for us: “Take two panadol and lie down for half an hour.” Nevermind the fact that I couldn’t swallow tablets until I was ten – lying down for half an hour is practically impossible when you’re a kid. No matter what symptoms we had, Dad’s advice was always the same. It was as if he couldn’t take us seriously unless we were bleeding or bruised or broken. I spent seven years complaining of headaches before Dad sent me to a specialist. Mum received even more useless advice than me – whenever she complained about an ache or pain, Dad simply said, “Aww that’s no good.” One day, Mum snapped. “Eight years of medical school and that’s what they teach you? THAT’S NO FUCKING GOOD?” After that, Mum started seeing a female GP at one of the surgeries Dad owned.

Through eavesdropping on my father’s phone conversations over the past twenty-two years, I like to think I’ve gleaned quite a bit of medical expertise. (Although I once overheard him tell a patient to “take two panadol and get a divorce.”) Dad was always stupidly giving patients his home number, and they’d ring every night the minute we sat down to dinner. I listened attentively as Dad rattled off medications, dosages, statistics and warnings. I also disgusted myself thoroughly by reading his medical journals and learning far more than a child should about the body. At school, I showed off my drug-company pens and notepads (Zoloft was way cooler than Mambo!) and surveyed the playground carefully at lunch time. Whenever a student fell or injured themselves on the monkey bars, I dashed over. “Don’t worry,” I would reassure the growing crowd of spectators, “My father is a doctor.” And they would make room for me accordingly. Then I would inspect my classmate, poke them in various places and ask if each one hurt, nod gravely, and escort them up to sick bay. There I briefed the school nurse on the incident and offered my diagnosis before she rolled her eyes and kicked me out.

The problem with my Dad is that he’s too nice. He treats all our friends and family for free, even though he would never dream of using their accounting, consulting, plumbing or basket-weaving services without paying them. Even when he does things through the books, Dad accepts “alternative forms of payment.” One of his patients, a greengrocer, gives us boxes of fruit after each appointment. An elderly Philippine lady with no medical insurance pays Dad in bizarre desserts (green things with jelly and spaghetti and mousse.) Most of the time, he just bulk bills everybody, even the “struggling” retired couples who request vaccinations before their overseas holidays and then drive away in their sports cars. Dad genuinely cares about his patients though, and he always puts their safety and wellbeing before his own. One day his most annoying patient, a recovering alcoholic, showed up to an appointment blind drunk and twirling his car keys. Rather than letting him put other road-users in danger, my father drove the patient home, stopping on the way to buy him KFC because the lush hadn’t eaten in days. After dropping him home, locking up his car and tucking him into bed, my father then walked the 6 kilometers back to the surgery. In January.

As a side project to general practitioning, my father regularly taught sexual education at a local highschool. This meant that while he usually sidestepped awkward father-daughter chats by cutting a relevant article out of the newspaper and leaving it on my desk, he thought nothing of sitting me at the kitchen table and placing a condom and a carrot in front of me. “Practice makes perfect!” he declared, while I looked up at my mother pleadingly. I was thirteen.

Despite the scabies, career limitations, dead bodies, phallic objects and constant interruptions to daily life, having a father who is a GP has its perks. I can get scripts for anything, we have enough medication in the house to kill a rhino, there’s some great gear on hand whenever I have an emergency fancy-dress occasion, and people assume I’m rich. Unfortunately, I also have an unusually high tolerance to panadol…

It’s 9am and I’ve been up for four hours. I woke up at the butt-crack of dawn because I had a bad dream where my brother died – the fourth in a string of nightmares this week involving dead animals, cutting off my face with a razor, and being raped by wild bush-pigs.

No, I haven’t been smoking crack before bed every night. I’ve been wearing nicotine patches.

Nicorette is possibly the greatest legal substance I have come across in the course of my adult life. Nobody knows you’re wearing it and you get all the wonderful benefits of nicotine seeping directly into your skin without the pesky process of smoking, smelling like an ashtray, and the various safety risks associated with holding a flaming object in your mouth. I can wear my nicotine patch on the bus, in restaurants, at the office, around babies, and right next to the bar when I’m out drinking.

The problem is that rather than overcoming my addiction to nicotine, Nicorette has simply shifted the mode in which I absorb it. While wearing a patch, I am calm, relaxed, energetic and productive. The second the patch is removed, I feel antsy, yell at coworkers, pick fights with my boyfriend and cry. I also smoke cigarettes.

Over the past four months, I’ve noticed a developing pattern in my nicotine use. From Monday to Friday, I wear patches (approx $20 worth), and try not to think about cigarettes. It’s hard work, especially when a lot of my friends smoke, but I often make it through the whole week without smoking once. This is not only due to Nicorette, but also stems from a strong sense of self-control, my ability to overcome temptations, and my incredible resolve. I like all these qualities in myself so much that I want to reward myself for them at the end of the week. I do this by having a cigarette.

Oh yes, as soon as 5pm rolls around on a Friday, I pack up my desk, rip off my patch and smoke until I feel sick. This is sometimes achieved within 2-3 cigarettes, but if I’m planning on drinking over the weekend, I usually just buy a deck in anticipation that I will be a walking chimney until the following Monday.

Now I’m no accountant (hang on, yes I am) but if I used to smoke two packets of cigarettes a week (~$26) and now I wear 15mg patches 5 days a week and smoke one packet of cigarettes over the remaining two days ($20 + $13), I’m really no better off financially.

Why is this stuff so fucking expensive? I run out of money, try to go patchless, SMOKE and then wind up right back at the start of the Nicorette 16-week goddamn program. Sure, I fall off the bandwagon every now and then, but isn’t that to be expected? God didn’t create the world in a day – he created it in SIX days, and then he took a cigarette break.

1. City Rail (aka “Shitty Rail”)
2. Weight loss patches
3. Applicator tampons
4. Every single Harry Potter movie
5. Valley Girl work-pants
6. Limp Bizkit
7. My childhood friend’s pledge to never ditch me for a boy
8. God
9. University
10. Three mobile
11. South Africa
12. The stray dog I took in and nursed back to health, who then attacked a family friend and had to be put down. Good one, Rocky.
13. Lindsay Lohan, although she is still totally fit and I want to sex her
14. L-shaped nose rings
15. Acupuncture
16. Nylon underwear
17. Flu shots
18. Hillsbus
19. LG
20. Ciaran Leahy of late night Hotel CBD fame. If you don’t know what Facebook is (“Face what?”) you are too old to date me. I wonder whether this will come up the next time he googles hisself, if he knows how to. I do not want to sex
21. Trellini’s
22. Canned corn (beetle included)
23. $4k worth of orthodontic work
24. Berocca
25. Fitness First
26. Recovery Magazine
27. My body
28. The St John’s Ambulance staff at Livid 2004. Thanks for leaving me unconscious on the ground while my 90-pound girlfriend dragged me out of the mosh.
29. Merrick & Rosso
30. Alanis Morissette
31. The heating in my ’89 Corolla
32. The seatbelts in my ’89 Corolla
33. The speakers in my ’89 Corolla
34. The clutch in my ’89 Corolla
35. My brother’s friend, “Donkey”, who was too fat and broke the driver’s seat of my ’89 Corolla
36. Hair removal cream
37. Proactiv
38. Everyone I’ve ever dated
39. Augusten Burroughs – I still love you though and I would sex you if you were not gay
40. ILS. Why does your second album suck so hard?
41. Excel
42. Psyllium husks
43. Limewire
44. Every recipe I have ever tried to follow
45. Daniel Johns – how could you get married to somebody who was not me? Let’s sex.
46. E-Tax
47. My gag reflex…huh??
48. The Sex & The City film
49. Florence. Why are all the shops closed on Sunday? Some people are a $2,000 flight away and only have one day to spend in the city.
50. Yamaha
51. Johnson’s holiday skin. If that shit works, I’ll eat my own head.
52. Bar Bellino – what happened to your coffee??
53. Bleach
54. Jose Gonzales – remember what city your concert is at, champ.
55. Garlic
56. Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Scar Serum
57. 96.9
58. Sydney Community College
59. Stingoes
60. Nerves
61. Many, many cigarette lighters
62. The weather
63. Google desktop
64. People who can pay for their own drugs next time
65. Ezibuy
66. My $30 alcohol breath tester
67. Spell check
68. Dr King
69. Caffeine
70. Broken guitar strings

Three years ago, I sold my Yamaha Pacifica. I was living out of home, studying full-time, working part-time, drinking heavily, and dirt poor. I really needed things like bread and dental work, so I flogged my guitar on eBay for $150.

To be honest, I had no regrets at first, as I had purchased Francine mainly to hold while I struck rockstar poses in front of the mirror in my bedroom. She was also useful for creating extremely loud and distorted noises while my parents attempted to hold bible study lessons in the living room. But apart from that, I didn’t play her often. Sure, she was soft and sleek, but I always seemed to come back to my Maton acoustic because he complimented my voice better.

However, now that I’m getting older and more experimental with my music, I really miss Francine.. She allowed me to do so much more than Mate, and was smaller, thus allowing me to dance more freely while playing.

The worst part is I don’t even know where she is.. I have no idea who bought her, because I made my friend sell her online, not having the guts to do it myself. I simply told her that I needed a “break” and that she was going to spend a little time away from home.. then I collected the cash, had a boozey night out in the cross, and awoke the next morning fully dressed with a splitting headache and a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my thigh.

I’m really worried about Francine. She could be sitting in any old geyser’s garage in Australia, cold, alone and unsatisfied. I’ll bet whoever bought her has put his filthy hands all over her.. By now he’s probably stroked her neck, removed her g-string and touched her entire body. Thank god she’s not acoustic or he might have put all kinds of things in her sound-hole.

I guess I just have to hope that Fran has gone to a better place. Perhaps she’s in a nice house in the country, surrounded by a loving family, romping through fields of daisies under a bright blue sky.. Or maybe she is the pride and joy of some young budding guitarist, the next Nathan Cavaleri, and will rocket him to early stardom..

I will never know for sure. I just hope she’s okay.

Last week, during a quiet moment at the office, I completed a “Dating Profile” Quiz on OKCupid.com. After I filled in my age, gender, sexual orientation, and general views on dating etiquette, I came across the following question:

Who would you rather walk in on you while masturbating?
a) your mother, or
b) your father

I’m sorry, what? Where is secret option c) – I’d rather tend bee hives naked with a daisy in my arsehole?

The wording of the question wasn’t crystal clear either. Are my parents barging in with their hands down their pants while I calmly sit and drink peppermint tea, or am I wanking with the door open? And which scenario would require the greatest number of therapy sessions to combat the resulting drug and alcohol addiction and chilling nightmares?

When I completed the quiz, it told me I was “The Window Shopper.” Apparently, I am slutty with my eyes, and then discerning with my hands. I figure that’s better than the other way around. But then this high-brow evaluation told me, “You tend to obsess over men who you have only recently met.” I snorted and shook my head in disgust, then read every wall-to-wall Facebook conversation of the guy I picked up the weekend before.

Unless I appoint myself a title, I generally do not like to be assigned labels or slotted into any particular category of society. Earlier this year, I announced to my boyfriend at the time that I was planning on stopping smoking. (Note: “Stopping” sounds easier than “quitting”, as I stop things constantly – my car, the dryer, anybody unbuttoning my jeans, etc – while “quitting” implies defeat, and “giving up” has connotations of abstaining from something desirable. I am fussy with my verbs.) “Don’t worry,” the boyfriend said supportively, patting me on the head, “You’ll smoke again. That’s what smokers do.”
Smokers. Excuse me? Who’s a smoker? Admittedly, I enjoyed the odd cigarette – up to half a pack a day – most days since I was fifteen, but that did not make me a Smoker. Did it?? When asked whether I smoked, I would usually reply, “Only socially. And alone.” There was nothing false about that statement, but it generally did not sit comfortably with others.

How many times does one need to commit an act before being assigned a title and stuffed into a pigeon-hole? I have kissed girls, but I’m not a lesbian. I have prayed, but I’m not a Christian. I have stolen, but I’m not a thief. I’ve taken drugs, but I’m not a junkie.

To be honest, I find it offensive that the internet so often requests me to define my entire self by ticking a bunch of boxes. And whenever it graciously allows me the freedom to “describe myself in a few paragraphs”, I usually respond with the only thing genuinely applicable:

I am Annik.

While I was growing up, my family did not put up the Christmas tree for five consecutive years. I’d like to say that we were progressive non-traditionalists who scoffed at commercialised pagan rituals, but in truth we were simply lazy. My mother, especially, believed that if something would only require undoing in the near future, there was no real point in doing it in the first place. (I suspect that this, along with being overweight, is the reason all her pants had elasticised waistbands.) I’m now wenty-two years old and I still have no idea how to make a bed. When I was a child, my mother furnished my bedroom with a mattress, a pillow and a doona. During summer, she would simply remove the doona and leave me with its cover. It never presented an issue until I began sleeping over at friends’ houses. Then I would secretly pack a sleeping bag and lie inside it on top of the bed, terrified of wrinkling the sheets. “Oh sweetheart,” my friend’s mother would say as she poured me an orange juice the next morning, “You didn’t have to make the bed!” Unbeknownst to her, I never unmade the damn thing.

My family has never really been into festivities. Last week I had a birthday, which was largely ignored apart from the household making the effort to eat a meal together. As a present, my parents agreed not to force me to pay for my own car insurance and registration for another twelve months. Two days later, I came home from work to find a book sitting on my bedside table. My brother had stuck a post-it note on the front reading: “Dear Annik. Happy thingy. Chris.”

As far as Christmas is concerned, over the years we all gradually began copying Chris’s method of purchasing gifts, tying the top of the plastic bags in which they were packed by frazzled sales assistants, and writing the intended recipient’s name on the front using a permanent marker. Then we stacked them in a messy pile underneath the coffee table and prayed that the cat would not urinate on top of it.

A month before my 18th Christmas, my father came home one day with a fibre-optic tree. “There!” he said, propping it up in the corner of the lounge room and plugging it into a power point, “Now is anybody feeling enthusiastic enough to flick a goddamn switch?”

The sad thing is we weren’t.

Religious people really hack me off sometimes. I live with a bunch of Jesus-praising, bible-studying, grace-saying, hymn-singing, sexless-til-married, loving, caring, forgiving Christians. I look like a pretty shit person in comparison.

Don’t get me wrong. My family are very tolerant of my “heathen lifestyle”, as they affectionately call it. My mum sometimes even spins cute little phrases around it: “If that plumber comes on time, then Annik’s a virgin.”

The thing that gets my beef going is that every opinion I have is immediately tainted in the household’s eyes on account of the fact that I have “fallen away.” When really, my views should be worth twice my family’s because I have lived both as a Woman of God, and as somebody capable of thinking for herself. I gave God a shot and he didn’t come through – as soon as I developed my higher reasoning abilities (about the same time I started smoking pot) the whole thing ceased to make sense.

Even Gilbert Grape could tell you that Christianity doesn’t reconcile with free will. Allegedly, God has graced us with mental autonomy, yet he has total control over every pre-destined whisper of the universe, and then he punishes us severely for exercising our “free will”. Where’s the fucking sense in that? On a similar note, concepts such as infinity and immortality are about as plausible as City Rail arriving on time. Any time I raised these concerns as a teenager, I was told that “mere humans cannot understand that.” Excuse me? Baking powder? That’s the biggest cop-out I’ve heard since Warnie’s mum gave him the tablet. If you undermine the entire capacity of human logic like that, then isn’t anything possible? Pigs might fly, Britney Spears could make a come-back, and Telstra might actually employ real live people to answer their customer care line instead of having a recorded voice that takes you from lengthy menu to lengthy menu before cutting you off in mechanical triumph.

I’ve been surrounded by Christianity my whole life. My entire family are devout Anglicans. 80% of the student body at my highschool and 100% of the faculty were Christians. I was one too for fifteen years. I understand that some people spend their whole lives studying the bible and are still putting the pieces together but shit, if something doesn’t grab me in less time than it takes to reach puberty, I’m not interested.