Bloggerstock: The Internet is Eating My...

It's bloggerstock day!  I'm over blogging my take at Mel's wonderful blog, Mel Learns her lesson.  Come visit with me.  Also, if you're unfamiliar with bloggerstock, please check it out.  In short, we're a blog ring all writing about the same topic.  We're opening the craziness to the general blogging public, and would love to have you play.  I'm excited today to be hosting Ella.  She's remarkable.  Read her bio at the bottom.
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My whole self. And I liked it.

I cannot run away,

something compells me to stay,

I don't refuse,

I give myself

to the Internet.


Am I addicted?

Am I obsessed?

Who knows

the

answer to that,

I only know,

that I want

more.

It is with this childish poem that I express my feelings on the topic.

It's just like the Riddler's machine, it's as if the Internet sucked all our energy and intelligence to blend it in a single place. Why do I want to continue with this, even being aware of this idea? I wish I could answer.

Everything I need is in here. That, except for food and drink.

If only my laptop fed me, I guess I wouldn't need to leave the room ever again.

How dangerous.

But dangerous is always fun. Yes, it's fun and that's why I will let the Internet eat all of me, until all there is left of me is my soul.

Ella Unread- Pedestrian between teen years and adulthood...  Terribly random and never afraid to show the way I feel...  Willing to be considered the modern Joseph Conrad one day.  Not an easy goal, I must admit.

The blog: From the STUPIDEST Corner of my Mind

Me in Threes

The truly worthwhile Risha (yup, the same who's got the list going with me) has tagged me in that list of three thing that's going around like the flu.  I'm quite pleased, actually, since I was being to lazy to think of something to write by myself.  So we're off.

Three names I go by:


1. Kris.  I almost shouldn't count this as I'm rarely called my full name.
2. Cristina.  Or some variation if I'm in Mexico or Qc.
3. Canada.  Because everyone gets their home country when they travel.

Three jobs I’ve had:

1. Construction assistant.  That was back in highschool, and again at a heritage villiage
2. Recreation co-ordinator at extended care.  Through a volunteer program.
3. Milker/farmhand.  Longest held to date.

Three places I’ve lived:

1. A school bus in Mexico.  Six months at most.
2. Marathon Ontario.  For three months.  Active little mining town on lake superior.
3. The Negev, Israel.  But only well I volunteered there for a month.

Three favourite drinks:

1. Freshly squeezed orange juice.  Peferably from Morrocco or Mexico.
2. Horchata.
3. Chia.

Three TV shows I watch:

I actually very rarely watch t.v.  When I do it's often a classic comedy or occasionally some form of reality, I'm afraid. We'll say,
1. Sienfeld
2. Project Runway
3. Friends

Three places I’ve been:

1. Bulgaria
2. Jordan
3. Laos

Three places I’d like to visit:

1. Peru.  Or South America in General.
2. Sudan
3. Cambodia

Three favourite retro TV shows:

Again with the t.v. shows...  Are these retro yet?
1. Sienfeld
2. Frasier
3.Nope.  Just two...

Three favourite dishes:

1. Thai curries
2. Anything my Mexican neighbors would cook.
3. chocolaty peanutbuttery cheesecakey stuff

Three things I’m looking forward to:

1. Moving into my house.
2. Creation Fest.  Hopefully.
3. Summer

Three people I’m tagging:

1. Bobby.  Inside the Mind of BooyaBobby
2. Joy.  Chocolate Chips & Vice Grips
3. Ella.  The STUPIDEST corner of my mind.

All right, guys.  Do your thing.  But I warn you, now that I'm done it's not actually a lazy blog post.  You'd be much better to spew off something poetic.

Also Mish and,again, Rish awarded me this!  How great is it that they rhyme?  There are some good links here.  Click, people!  However, I'll just thank them and leave it there since I've already recieve this one.

First Northern Lights

That brilliant green streaked its way through the night sky above us.  He drew me close on that icy granite monument.

"What other firsts do we have?"

First song written for me.  First beard to run my fingers through.  First crush with glasses.  First time lying in someone's arms in the snow, or sneaking in at night past a sleeping roomate.

First time flirting makes me fully forget the job to be done or the fact that I care what people think.

First active lack of judgement.

First time forgiveness fails me.  First cold hard lies.  First time crying to my sister on the phone.

The vivid display fades it's hues into a black star-studded sky.  My head rests on his flannel shoulder and my trust is hopelessly gained.

"Let's have as many firsts together as possible."

Peel the Label

There will always be smokers cluttering the entrance.  Freshly exhaled nicotine wafting away in clouds.  I would step out with my friends to stand beneath the streetlights and discuss the crowds.  Escape the music and breathe the frigid night air.

Stepping back inside we'll drape our coats over a bar stool.  Everything a soft orange glow beneath neon signs advertising Labatt, Bud and Stella Artois.  Cheap hits play just loud enough so we have to lean in close.  Nelly Furtado, Les Cowboy Frigant, Usher.  We're all waiting our turn at the pool table.  No one is brave enough to step onto the ten by ten hardwood against the wall, yet.

I am aware of everything.  The way  I hold my beer, trying not to warm it as I drink it slowly.  The barmaids heels walking past my boots.  Laughing at a joke, biting my lip, running my fingers through my hair.

I'll drop a loonie in the table.  I'm usually the one with spare change.  This time I play a French artist.  We make a good challenge.  I'll break, loving that first tight shot.  The only one that always works.  Not really caring who wins, just how well I play.  I've learned to chalk my cue by rolling it with my foot, never doubting how cool this makes me.  My French friend plays well, although I banter with him about how he'll lose.  He is deep, that one.  Too deep, really.  I will miss him.

Leaning against the bar with the girls in my group we smile and talk about summers back home.  I sip their coolers and look back at the tables.  Brown bottles and green felt.  Beer and billiards.  It even looks good on a random who should really work out and wears slightly tacky t-shirts.  Or maybe I shouldn't order another drink.

We will walk down the street, our breath crystallizing as we hurry to that basement place where we can afford the two dollar cover.  Or maybe we'll go to the folky Rafiot with their live music, shandy and checker boards.  Regardless, we'll always stop at Tim Horton's on the way back.  I'll order a moyen Carmel Anglais for a dollar forty-nine and try to sit with whomever is still sober.  It ends up making no difference. 

Falling asleep on my rickety top bunk beneath that provided pink plaid comforter I forget to realize I'll never have a twentieth winter again.

Devil's Advocate

We know she's irrelevant.  We know she's irrational, opinionated and emotionally charged.  Or maybe she's just the devil's advocate.

Hard to live with, oh yes.  That quick smile and disarming blonde hair.  Wait 'till she turns on you.  Rips your words to shreds with that quick tongue.  She'll defend you mightily behind your back.  She's like that.

Oh, Rebecca.  Her questions hit your face like a wet towel.  She'll manipulate your words.  Play with them like putty, forming characters of her whim.  You won't understand what you've said.  Wonder what you meant.  And she'll love you hard.  She's good at that.  Crazy girl.

Give up on winning.  Becky knows subborn.  She knows a fight.  She knows how not to lose.  Make her yell.  She'll lose control and seeth in her own anger.  Make her cry.  That's your best chance.  Practice it.  Tune it.  Learn the chinks in her armour and the smooth white tissue underneath.  Pierce hard and you'll see that deep red seeping through.

That pale hair flowing past her thighs and her forehead on her knees.

She's like that, Becky is.

Now I have a list too

Besides the fact that it must be done, it seems like a good day to bring you my 101 before 1001.  Well, right now it's actually 84.  And many of those are do agains.  But that makes it even more exciting, because you can all send me suggestions for those last 18.  Coming up with 101 goals is harder then it sounds.  Especially when you'll have to cram them into 2.75 years and you know you're a chronic procrastinator currently short on direction.  Turns out I've already achieved most of my former lifetime goals, so it's time for some new ones.

Anyway, the lovely Risha (from the equally lovely You Can Read Me Anything) was doing the challenge and welcomed the join.  If anyone is interested I'm sure we'd allow Another sucker motivated individual to take this up with us.  It's the hip thing to do.  Haven't you seen these lists on everyone's blogs?  You know you want to be hip...

So, read the list.  I'll keep this short so you can.  Trust that I'll be blogging about some of these as I check them off.

Top Ten Sexiest Accents

Let's face it.  Girls like boys with accents.  So, my countdown.

10. French-  Oh, I didn't want to put this one in.  I have nothing for French Men, and care little for the language.  But in interest of of girls everywhere I'll pretend I mean Quebecois artists.

9. Italian- Italians are a little dangerous.  Nice to look at, but that's all.  Actually, they're also a little nice to listen to.

8. Finnish- Had to include a Scandanavian country.  Fins are cool.  Plus, Finnish is mildly related to Asian languages.  Spoiler warning: I hope that lets me off the hook for not including any real Asian languages.

7. The Drawl- Let's be straight.  There's nothing hot about Texans, stetsons or cowboy boots.  Nothing.  What I'm going for here are Southern Gentlemen who want to treat you like a lady.

6. Canadian- Well, the Americans get the drawl, so I have to be patriotic here.  And there's something about a boy from home.  Besides, my good foreign blogger friend Mel says they sound nice, and I trust her judgement.

5. British- They just sounds better then us in the silliest of ways.

4. Australian- Again, probably not smart dedicated relationship material.  It's like summer fling on steroids to listen to.

3. Spanish- Not the Whiney Mexican accent that popped into your mind.  A deep Spaniard accent, all the better if punctuated with real Spanish words.

2. Jamaican- I don't know what makes them so cool.  Do you?  Sounding cool when you talk just ups attractive factor by quite a bit.

1. Scottish- Number one.  Period.  Now and forever.

My my, an award!

Well.  I pretend to be cool and scoff at awards.  And, it's true.  By their very nature every blogger should recieve every award at one point or another.  But honesty forces me to confess that I get kinda excited to see that comment that tells me I got an award.  I can't help it.  Who doesn't like to be recognized, linked, and have a pretty little picture to stick up on their blog?

Also, today is a pretty good award day.  I have neither the time nor energy for a real post.  So let's make this quick and painless.  I received today's award from the lovely Ella at The STUPIDEST Corner of my Mind.  Click that link.  It's worth it, 

This award comes with rules... (did I mention that I find it quite amusing that I won a positivity award?)

The Sunshine Award: The Sunshine Blog Award is awarded to bloggers whose positivity and creativity inspire others in the blog world. The rules for accepting the award are:


1. Put the logo on your blog or within your post
2. Pass the award to 5 bloggers
3. Link the nominees within your post
4. Let them know they received this award by commenting on their blog
5. Share the love and link to the person from whom you received this award
6. Share 5 things about yourself

I will use this as a usual opportunity to tell you who you must read...
Holly from Love Imagine Create is definitely positive.  She writes about very difficult life experiences, and overcoming them.
Christy is so damn ambitious and motivated that it's a little bit contageous, 25 before 25.
Kerrie has a blog I just found that's very pretty and has pictures of cookies over at She Wrote for the Sea
You want positive?  Man, Tasha's blog is called Cheers to Hope!
And Amber.  Yeah, her blog, Le Meh, isn't positive at all.  In fact, she'll probably be pissed if she finds out she want a positive flower award.  But, hey, we have to balance this thing out somehow.

Myself...
1. I don't like olives.  I can't help it.  I've tried to like them without success.
2. I never took a commercial flight until I was 19.
3. My first car had a beautiful handpainted flame job.  It was an experiment car.
4. I dislike screamo, most country, and a majority of electronica.
5. I once won a prize in hula hoop.

Have a great weekend everyone!

I hadn't been back in three and a half years, until yesterday.  I'd driven past many times, pointed it out occasionally, but hadn't visited.  I'm not sure why.  I'd spent more time there then with my family for two and a half years.  I still refer to the time I was a farm girl.  And by that I mean many long cold mornings milking cows.  Yes, I was a farm hand once upon a time.  I have changed so much since then.

The first thing was the smell.  You would wrinkle your nose in distaste.  And justifiably so.  Entering the parlour was weird.  Always wondered, why call it a parlour?  It's far from classy or clean.  It is much was as I remembered it.  They have music now!  Bernie brought me tea, Cheryl talked to me about politics, Doug explained the farm changes, Scott told me how he'd hit something on the tractor.  It had been a long time, but these people were still the same farmers I loved.

I put on gloves and remembered so much more then I thought I would.  I recognized one or two cows they still have, and many many more that I named when they were still cute and little.  Visiting the new calf pens I let them suck on my fingers, like I always used to.  I came home smelly and happy.  There are things I miss.

I miss working outdoors, and the physicalness of the job.  I miss being so good at what I do.  I knew those cows backwards, every number, name and history just by looking at their feet.  I was in charge of entire elements of the farm.  I miss the morning sun as I left work, the people, and peacefully driving tractor for hours. 

In short, I should've gone to visit on a winter morning shift when the machines broke down and I could remember working by myself for hours.

Guest Post: The Best Thing About Being A Blogger

I am pleased to bring you a guest post from Nikki today.  We are both participating in a blogswap over at 20sb.  Did I luck out or what?  You can check out her blog here.  That is where you can also find myself today.  Enjoy!
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First off, I would like to say thank you so much to Kris for letting me invade her blog for the day. I very much enjoyed reading her posts and getting to know her through this blog swap. I look forward to reading more from her.

I know what you're probably thinking....1) who is this weird chick 2) what is an EVILFLU? 3) what's that smell?

and I will answer those all for you right now, just to get the awkwardness out of the way.

1) My name is Nikki and I blog over at http://www.evilflu.com/. My blog is a little bit of everything, but most of it boils down to the life of my son and I after his father passed away. 2) I really can't answer this question without a whole big long blog post (coming soon!) but I will tell you that it represents a change I went through in my life where I turned into a mean old shrew. 3) That smell is probably Oreos and worms as I do have a six year old who pretty much lives in dirt and chocolate.

I am really here to talk to you today about the best thing about being a blogger.

I began blogging back in 2002 when I was working at a boring office job. I would find myself just writing about anything and everything on my blog, mostly immature things that probably could have ended my boring receptionist career on the spot, but I was lucky and traffic was minimal to that blog. I had very few readers who got chuckles from my workday antics and then there were the "trolls" who said I needed to grow up.

Which is funny because I did end up taking their advice and grew up way too quickly. Soon I found myself blogging about childbirth, diapers, cancer, death, grief, loneliness and anger. Even after going through all of that in such a short period of time, blogging was always there as a place for me to let off my steam. I found myself going through the day pretending to be happy, and nobody knew how much it hurt to attend that wedding or hold that newborn baby. When I came home and blogged about it, there were my virtual friends there to let me know they were there for us.

I could post anything and there would always be someone that came by to offer up some encouraging words, excellent advice or just a shoulder to virtually cry on, even if they were all the way across the world. I mean there were the few jerks who would comment "show us your boobs" but some days even those comments were nice. It showed that someone cared (to see some boobage) even when I thought nobody else did.

There really is nothing better than being able to blog about your passions and have somebody be interested to read about them. The difference between telling my stories in person versus on my blog would be the fact that I am a "shy storyteller". I am usually uncomfortable when I make eye contact with someone, when they seem so intensely interested in what I have to say it makes me rush through everything I have to say. I usually end up forgetting the best part of the story and it is gone and forgotten shortly afterwards. I love being able to blog about my story instead and having it be in this virtual "book" forever, along with the reactions of the reader - without having to make awkward eye contact.

So I guess, in a way, I owe my sanity to my blog. To me, the best thing about being a blogger is knowing that someone else is there, encouraging, loving, and caring (about seeing your boobs) and having this space in this virtual world to share my passions - and not my boobs.

Who, What, When, Where, Why

How was she supposed to know?  Tell me that and I'll tell you why.  Why it happened all at once.  Why she believed.  Why now, and why then.  What useless point it catered. 

How was she supposed to know?  Tell me that.

You know.  I know you do.  And I know where.  Where the time took place.  Those seconds dragging by.  Look back with me.  It all passed so quickly.  When.  We know that.  Don't we?  You and I.  We should, you and I.  Who, what, when, where, why.  And how.

How was she supposed to know?

Let's look back, now.  So happy.  Endlessly happy.  'Till then.  So instant.  Playing it over a million times.  Why?  I'll tell you this.  She doesn't know.  She should, but she won't.  Why won't you answer me?  Tell her now.

How was she supposed to know?

I Believe I'm Sorry the Season is Over

Today will definitely be our last day.  There's not doubt about that.  It's been a good run, despite my sojourn to southern states halfway through the season.  However, it's also been brutal.  You see, "Carving" is an essential skill in snowboarding.   One I'd ignored for, oh, a couple months seasons.  Prefering to look like a five year old, or maybe preferring not to compact my spine I'd always wimped out and just alternated my lead foot.

This is not me.  This is my brother.
He is far more talented then I am.

So, my first time out this year went something like this.  We didn't get snow until late, so craving a little board action we decided to drive up a summit and hike from there.  I, being brilliant, agreed to invite a friend of mine.  It was actually a very bad idea.  Mostly because only family members should be allowed to see me act like I did.  This form of behaviour could best be described as "spoiled brat".  It kind of built as we hiked in our boots, with our boards for two hours and slogged out through trees and powder.  Was good for one thing, though, I realized I needed to quit being so lazy and learn how to carve.

Well, my next trip was to a beautiful hill with sixty dollar tickets.  I wasted had a productive day killing myself in an attempt to learn.  I thought I never wanted to strap a board on again, and came home convinced I was too old for this.  However, through sheer pain I managed to master this skill by the end of the season (aka, today).  Now I'm trying to do little bunny hops.  I never learn.

But, and I do want to say this.  I am talented, people!  Twice I have pulled tricks that no one else I know has ever managed.  And people are impressed everytime I tell them. 

First, I hit myself in my head with my own snowboard.  Come now.  Mad skills.  that thing is only a few feet long and strapped to your feet.  I don't wear a helmet either.  Mostly because I'm a stupid person who takes risks... until I get a concussion/have my car stolen/enter senerio here.

Second, I caught both edges in a single fall.  When you catch an edge, you fly through the air and land on your head, or knees, or assosiated.  It hurts.  I did both together, somehow.  I'm still not sure how, but if I ever learn to repeat I may just make it my signature move!  "Hey guys!  Did you see that?  Kris just did her double-edge-catch!"  I can hear it now.

Artists

I don't think I could do it.

Never wander around, the prisoner of brilliance.  Broke and drunk with ideas.  Passion overcoming practicality.  Romance trumping reality.  I already know it.

My white walls are covered with dynamic magazine pages tacked with painter's tape.  My bottom drawer is full of blue jeans. My fridge holds Orange juice, one percent and a Brita.  I spend on things like snowboarding and Sony stereos on which I occasionally listen to the countdown.  I like Van Gogh's work because his colour and style is beautiful.  I hate Picasso's because it's ugly and doesn't make sense.  I usually sleep at night.  I like being in control of how I feel and how I'm acting.  Anger makes me want to swear, shout and punch things.  Not create a masterpiece.  I read Peanuts and Calvin and Hobbes.

So I can't be one of them.  Them with their misbuttoned sweaters, bleary eyes and corduroy.  Loosely masked anarchy, cold apartments, bespecled lovers, ironic welfare cheques.  Sensitive, deep and emotional.  They're closer then me, and they know it.  They're just misunderstood.

I may try, but I won't succeed.

Creating Security

There she is, looking back.  Appearing naked, dishevelled, raw.

This skin, not yet sunkissed.  Curving down her neck, over collar bones.  Yet taut, admittedly.  Soft and clean.  Moisturizer, foundation, concealer and a fight with the shade above her cheeks.  Pale skin and sunblock infused bronzer.  She runs fingers beneath her chin, attempting a seamless meld.

Those cheeks.  Full and prompt to redden with reason.  A brush on the apples.  Blending up and out.  Midnight Rose, today.

These lips.  Capable of forming words to any end.  Needing to be kissed.  Bitten, pursed, twisted, smiling.  Twelve colours to consider.  Lined and dabbed.  "Barely Nude".  Subtle, or so they say.  Stashing the tube in her handbag for emergencies.  A glass of wine, maybe, or absentmindedly licking her lips.

And eyes.  Looking so dull, now, on this face.  The soft gray of pussywillows.  Contacts already in.  Framed by brows she shapes and colours.  She's been told her eyes convey intelligence.  Now she will line them, shadow them, paint the lashes black.  They will stand out.  An artist and her canvas.

Finally genuine.  Ready to face the street.  No hint of last night's late discussion, or the teenage scar on her brow.  Smiling, Crest has taken care of party cigarettes and morning coffee.  Framed by hair carefully sprayed to fall in place.  Straightened to deal with dangerous waves.  Highlighted to look natural.

She's made herself beautiful.

Recently I had a huge thing for Channing Tatum.  By huge I mean that I'd watch Youtube fan videos.  I know who he married and dug dirty deatils like his stripper past out of Wikipedia.  Fortunently I don't get celeb crushes very easily, and when I do they're easily worn out.  In fact, the only other current celeb I remember googling for my own interest was Avril Lavigne.  I'm actually sorry.  I was sixteen and she was still pretending to be cool.  Other then that I've never cared for celebs.

Except... You know those black and white prints you find in trendy retro shops?  I can't help but love the aura of that era.  I used to crave saddle shoes and get my Mom to sign Buddy Holly cassettes out of the library.  I rarely have the patience for a classic movie, but I do love stills and reprints of original posters.  Audrey Hepburn, Clark Gable, Marilyn Monroe, Steve Mcqueen.

Which leads me to confess my other, longer lasting, celeb crush.  That's right.  James Dean.  Really, though.  Who wouldn't love that leather jacket and smouldering gaze?  An immortalized rebel without a cause.  To bad Wickipedia told me he was gay.

"Live fast, die young and leave a good looking corpse" -James Dean

Today the old gray hoodie I'm wearing smells like pesticide.  Such a contradictory smell.  It makes me sick.  I recall trying to shower it off behind the tarp of my parent's outdoor shower before crashing out in the back of the bus.  I wore this hoodie too often on those early mornings.  I haven't washed it enough since.
Today I walk to the edge of a lookout.  The mountains are hidden in an upside down bowl of fog.  For some reason I'm convinced it's snowing and wonder where the line will drop to.  I push my hands deeper into my pockets.  Why does it look like the end of autumn?  The beginning of winter.  Looking out my eyes follow the back road, the river gully, endless orchard rows.With a jolt I realize I'm standing directly above the fruitstand I worked at last year.  The trees right below me were sort picked a few short months ago.  Laughing with gristly old men who let me take the easy branches.  Sitting on overturned bins I'd eat mini culls and drink lukewarm coffee before returning to the stand to sort and sell the apples.
From here I can look farther back.  Cherries.  I have five of those seasons on my record.  Across the valley I make out the block of orchards I hit last July.  I can outpick some of the hippis, now.  I'm still not a highballer.  Quebecois dreadlocks and Mexican accents in the rows next to me as I affixed my stickers on wire handles.  M17.  They claim to pick faster stoned.  They may well be right.  Walking down the road I felt like society's rebel in my canvas harness and Thai pants.
Today I stand in this brush taking it all in.  Wrapped in this damned hoodie that smells of poison and yesterday.

I have just finished reading The Deserter's Tale.  In short, it tells the story of a former American soldier in Iraq who fled combat and was, at time of publishing, seeking asylum in Canada.
Let me begin by saying I am trying to personally attack no one, here.  I have nothing against the individuals who have served time overseas.  I'm know it is not easy.  I also believe many joined the forces with nothing but the best of intentions.
I am also not a passivist.  I do believe there are occasions where international aggression is warranted, as a means of protection.  Either for specific countries or citizens in general.  I just don't think Iraq is an example of that.
I think Iraq is the result of a war hungry president.  There was never any indication of WMD.  This result is a horribly mismanaged war, which flies directly in the face of human rights.  Let me say this.  Americans are not better then Arabs.  Christians are not better then Muslims.  Drawing these lines will cause humanity nothing but pain.
Certainly terrorism exists.  Sept. 11th was a cowardly, unprovoked act.  Which is why I, originally, agreed with Canada's support in Afghanistan.  Iraq had nothing to do with potential terrorism.  Nothing has been found to justify the deaths of thousands of individuals. 
Democracy is a functional system.  For us.  Cultures differ greatly.  I must remind myself constantly, even well I was travelling in countries belonging to others, that just because I function one way doesn't mean that will directly apply itself to another.
So allow me this political rant.  I have spoken with soldiers who served in Iraq.  I talked to an Arab woman who travelled in Afghanistan.  Always, always consider both sides.  I don't believe, at all, that we have any right to be ripping apart countries because they're different.  And ripping apart is what's happening in the Middle East.
There is one point in this book where Joshua realizes that they have become the terrorists.  It is a potent read by a patriot ex-redneck.  I can't begin to explain in a post what he writes.  But this is not a book review.  It's a platform to extend my distaste with this pointless war.  I just thought that needed said.

Today I want to apologize.  I try to be honest with you here, so today I want to be honest about this.  It's remarkably hard to write, but important.  Don't judge me here and I'll return the favour.
"Dammit," you're thinking, "another religious nutcase."  I know most of my readers don't believe like I do.  I don't often talk so upfront about it, but allow me this.  Don't leave yet.  Give me a chance to say sorry.  I am.
I'm sorry for hurting you in the name of Christianity.  For using it to grab power.  For burnings, crusades, selling indulgances and witch hunts.  I'm sorry for the missionaries that tormented South Americans and for residential schools.  For televangelists, superchurches, and that they steal from far to many Grandmas.  I'm sorry in fifth grade some pastor's kid thought he was better then you.  He wasn't.  Niether am I.  I regret to admit that church and state are often not seperate, and that our religeous leaders too often are neither religeous nor good leaders.  I'm sorry that children starve well we drive jacked up trucks and take resort vacations.  I hate it as much as you do, and I hate that I'm associated with it.
But I have to personally apologize as well.  I'm sorry for times I've acted like a hypocrite.  For not loving everyone like I should.  For the people I've wrongfully hurt, the ones I've hated, and the ones I've dominated.  There's the lessons you've watched me learn.  There will be more.  I'm sorry for my pride.
I am not naively innocent.  My experiences have led me to believe that two thousand years ago Jesus died because he was who he said he was.  That I won't apologize for.  If I believe it I have to act on it.  If it's true it's the most important part of life.
So please forgive me.  I hope the true beauty of Christ reflects in me at least a little bit.  I hope this won't change things.  I still like you.  I'm just trying to tell the truth here.
That is all.