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When I was in 5th grade my parents had made the decision to have a trial separation. I had no idea what that was. All I remember is that my parents sat us all down at the dinner table, told us something important, and some of my older siblings started crying. I was probably daydreaming about Super Mario Brothers or something because my mom later had to explain it to me again.
That night I helped my dad load his clothes into the car and watched him drive away.
It was a new chapter in figuring out what the hell life is all about. Just a year earlier I had learned what it meant to have sex, now I was learning about separation, divorce, family counseling, and learning what it's like to live in two different houses in two different neighborhoods with two different churches.
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Three years after my parents separated, they moved back in with each other. I was 14, hormonal, and a complete asshole. I hated my parents. It felt like they were playing games by getting back together. Before this point I had pretty much thrown in the towel on their marriage and was waiting for the divorce to be final, and now, here they were, changing everything up again.
I didn't believe them anymore. I gave up on trying to understand them or be nice to them, and I gave up on their God. I became Satanic.
If you're not laughing, you should be. There's only one thing funnier than a real Satanist, and that is a wannabe Satanist.
I didn't know what it meant to worship Satan, but that's what I told people that I did and what I believed. I hated reading, so the Satanic bible was out of the question, and I was too lazy to look up any Satanic Churches in the city. BUT ONE DAY... I was gonna do it.
I would also tell people that God doesn't exist. Only Satan. I drew pentagrams and anarchy symbols on everything including a little study bible that I had, and drew over pictures of Jesus with fire and horns while making him tell the children around him to "DIE."
My parents and I were not getting along so well. We'd argue all of the time. One Sunday I got into an argument with my mom about going to church. I didn't want to go anymore.
"I don't even believe in God!" I remember screaming at her. The anger and pain in her face after I told her that was sad enough to make Vin Diesel cry. She yelled at me and told me to stop arguing with her.
So I gave up and kept going to church.
My passive-aggressive means of getting back at my mom was to grow my hair long and go to church wearing my most offensive metal shirts with a dirty flannel shirt that was held together with duct tape. If I had to go to church, I wanted to be an embarrassment to my mother.
At the same time period, during the middle of the week my mom would drop me off at Wednesday night church class. I would bring a bag of weed and a pipe, and me and a friend would sneak off into the woods to smoke pot until class was over and our mothers came back for us.
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