There's a (Slight) Chance I'm Going to Hell

Lucy and Steve, like many a married couple, scored a shit-ton of sweet swag when they got married. Which, in turn, means I also scored a shit ton of swag, just on a smaller scale. Lucy got a shiny new blender, I got the old one. New ceramic containers? Score for me! No more keeping my flour and sugar in the bag like a schmuck. Mixing bowls, knives and wooden knife block, etc., all those things made their way into my kitchen after the blessed event.

Now, I consider the wedding registry thing to be a necessary evil. Sure, on the one hand, its seems a bit presumptuous to just tell people what you want then to buy for you, but then again, If I by chance ever happen to sucker some poor schlub into a life of wedded miser-uh, bliss with me, I’ll be damned if I have to return three blenders, sixteen sets of pot handles, five crock pots, and two vacuums.

There are still those who print out the registry and go, “WHAT? You don’t need an iron, I’ll buy you something you can REALLY use, like a diaper bag or a deep fryer!” and proceed to buy random shit you don’t want or need.

When Lucy and Steve left on their honeymoon, I happened to have a spare key to the place and I planned on surreptitiously sneaking in to do a load or two of laundry. I thought I was being really sneaky because I technically hadn’t asked. I justified it by telling myself I was just doing laundry, not having a wild sex orgy in their living room, right? Right?

I walked into the living room, kicked off my shoes (not being rude, this is actually an apartment rule), and all around the living room and dining room were the signs of wedding aftermath. Boxes of bottles of wine were stacked in the corner (I made a mental note to ask for a few bottles later); a popcorn maker, two Spot Bots, and various other already-opened wedding gifts were lying about. The magnum opus, however, sat propped up on Steve’s bean bag chair in the corner. I stared at it with mixed awe and horror, all I could utter were the words, “Oh…my…God…” That's right. To ensure my sister's house would be a blessed, happy, holy place, someone had given her a big dead Jesus.

Now, imagine you’re me for one second here. Your standing in the religious spectrum is shaky to begin with. The last time you went to mass, some Mexican kid with a bowl cut crawled under your chair and the Asian family with four kids (all under age five) sitting next to you wouldn’t shut the hell up, you walked out before you pulled little Eusevio out by the ear and screamed at the Asian kids that the devil was going to eat their faces if they didn’t shut it. I’m pretty sure my reserved parking space in Heaven was revoked when I was nine and looked up “sex” in the dictionary. I already felt guilty because I was technically using my sister’s washing utilities without asking, and now I have this, sad, bleeding, face to remind me I'm going to spend the afterlife in eternal suffering, probably being forced to watch reruns of Jersey Shore or Twilight movies.

The only reason I have agreed to return to the apartment since is that BDJ now graces the bottom shelf of the coffee table. His little sad, plaster eyes can't pierce my soul there.

*NOTE: I went back to edit the post and the past paragraph wasn't working to my liking, I naturally went into a murderous rage and snapped, "Oh my MOTHERF***ING GOD!"

...and that, my friends, is why I'm going to hell.