A lingering effect of my parents' decision to move the family to Phoenix when I was 12: I love the smell of wet dust in the air when it rains in the desert. It's kind of . . . you know.
I will leave it at that, as this is Not That Kind of Blog; plus it's Lent, and I've already been to confession once and I don't want to have to go again.
On the other hand, I have to go again anyway as part of my penance. Every three weeks! Ai yi yi. (For the same sin, my boyfriend had to say three Our Fathers. But remember: There's no such thing as patriarchy!)
Plus, it's Celebration of Female Desire week.
And I'm not a very good Catholic.
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2 comments:
I never had the opportunity to compare seriousness of penance prescriptions when I was still considering myself as a practicing Mackeral-Snapper(tm) (I was usually dating non-RC girls in those days, and now I'm attending services at the Episcopal Church and am married to a Militant Agnostic (sm) )
But somehow it doesn't surprise me about the disparity.
Remember, you can add the disparaging of and ill-feelings toward Phonenian in your catalog of Things To Repent Of, so it won't be a total loss....
So, let me make sure I understand this.
As penance for fucking, women have to...return to the confessional booth more...to confess to - that is, discuss...more of their...fucking.
I think I may have discovered the patriarchy's secret plan.
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