Fuck.

01 - Fuck Off.

The first time I realized that I might be an atheist, was sitting in the front pew of a church -- controlled by forces that I couldn't realize weren't there -- listening to the choir sing "Amen" for the 17th time in a row. I was just turning 7, all decked out in a fancy Easter dress that poofed out way too much and made it uncomfortable to sit. My mom and dad sandwiched me in, quietly humming along. At first, I thought I just didn't get it, and I would understand later.

I never understood it.

It wasn't until my fourth Fred Hammond concert that I truly realized that this whole "God" shit was ridiculous. Maybe it was the girl with the dyed red hair with a giant cross dangling from her neck that kept hitting my side, or maybe it was my parents wearing a cross and swaying back and forth, but I hated it. I hated every single ounce of it.

At some point in your life, you realize that your life is a story that is told about you, not one that you tell. Naturally, you pretend to be the author, but in reality: you’re just a background character. You’re a toy that gets left on the side of a desert road, a speck of sand that flies in your eye. You’re somewhat noticed for a brief second of time, but then easily forgettable the next. Most people, at this point in their life, being to pray for some miracle to happen. For them to be able to remain ignorant to their impending fate with faded promises of an after life and eternal happiness. Others, like me, repel this and become hopeless and skeptical.

Sometimes, it makes a lot of sense why people believe in some sort of god. You want to pretend to be the author of your own story. You have to. You say to yourself, “I want to go to lunch right now,” while you hear the high-pitched squeals of a school bell, demanding you to leave the classroom you’re in and go eat. You keep chanting this to yourself as a sea of your peers file into the same room all at once, all going into the same lunch line to eat the same, boring meal. Deep down, you know that you’re actually controlling absolutely nothing. It always makes me wonder why people would believe in such an artificial being in the first place. It feels a lot more free to think that at least in the cosmic sense, that you have control over your own life.

I bit into an apple. I didn’t like thinking about the pure thought of once being alive only to be eaten by some bigger, larger apex predator, so I tried to not to think about what I was doing. Which, in itself, is thinking about it. I took slow bites into my food, letting the voices of the cafeteria drown out the restless thoughts floating around my head.

“Casey, you are going to share that, right?” My best, and probably only true friend, Xena pointed to my untouched granola bar. Xena is a charmer. Unfortunately, the only thing she seems to charm are snakes. It’s a wonder how she allows herself to be so emotionally available to anyone and everyone. The blue tint of her blonde curly bob of hair sparkles as she sways her head back and forth, with her ears plugged into her phone, probably blasting something by Joji.

I shrug, knowing that with Xena, she would take it even if I had said no. I don’t think she’s ever taken no as an acceptable answer from me. We had that sort of twisted relationship; I couldn’t have it any other way.

I looked over to my left, where an overly excited Badar, holding the latest issue of her new comic book series stood, or rather, bounced. She was the resident fan girl of our group. I hardly got half of the references she spewed out, nor did I get her bizarre sense of humor. To be fair, nobody really did. I guess she liked it that way.

I analyzed the cover. This time around, it was actually fully inked and colored with her freaking India ink and Copics. She must be really committing to the story this time. Hah, who was I kidding?

“It’s called Tales from the Morgue, and it’s about this Muslim girl named Lia who is living right after 9/11, and has to cope with being shut out from society. She has to think if she really wants to wear her hijab, and she starts to question her faith to Allah.” Badar said, making weird arms movements, as if she was doing the wave all by herself.

“That’s pretty dark, and unlike you at all. Wasn’t your last story about puppies or something?” I raised one eyebrow -- which I recently mastered, mind you -- and took another bite into my apple, chewing softly on the disgusting, bitter fruit.

Badar stuck out her tongue. “The Adventures of Darcy the Dog was in the 4th grade! I wanted to be serious this time, so don’t stick your religion into it Casey!”

I couldn’t really say I was offended, but I still reeled back. “Atheism isn’t a religion. In fact, it’s the absence of a religion. Also, why do you think I would bash your comic book just because your character is a Muslim?”

Badar rolled her eyes, as if it’s a no-brainer that I’m an asshat. It probably is, but I didn’t want it to always sound that way. “Remember the 7th grade when it was Ramadan and I tried fasting for the first time? Or when I decided on wearing the hijab in the 6th?” She waved her finger in my face. I was slightly impressed. Not impressed at her scolding me, that was probably everyday. I was moreover impressed that she could even remember that. Badar is in no way known for her photographic memory, or having a good memory in general.

I set the apple down on my Styrofoam tray, letting my fingertips linger a bit longer than necessary. “I just thought it was stupid to starve yourself and cover your hair for some random god. I didn’t get it.” My eyes stared blankly into hers, my eyelids lower than usual with the same dull expression I seem to give everyone nowadays.

Badar narrowed her eyes, her suspicion evident. I blinked. She sighed, slumping her shoulders and sitting at the table. Her chestnut brown eyes dulled, ultimately defeated. We never continued arguing for more than a minute. My calm, level-headed logic contrasted her emotional, instantaneous feelings.

Xena finished of my granola bar, the flakes still sprinkled around her mouth. I pulled out my old handkerchief, giving it to her. Note to self: Don’t take it back. It’s a wonder why people used them. They’re disgusting and unsanitary. The handkerchief was only some momento from Bible camp, which I would have thrown any if my mom didn’t ask about it every other week, asking if I needed to wash it. I would just say I lost it, which wasn’t entirely false. I lost it to possibly getting sick with someone else’s germs.

My head hurts. I need a coffee. Right now.

Xena and Badar are discussing something again. I would join in, if I knew what in the world they were talking about. To be fair, I didn’t know what was going on the majority of the time. Random snippets and phrases drifted by my ear, inaudible whispers and secrets that I would never know or be able to learn. That was, until a few words were directed at me, and I had to respond.

“Hey Casey, are you going to Sabbath tonight?” Xena asked, nonchalantly. I raised an eyebrow. Xena knew full well I didn’t want to associated with anything religious. I mean, it’s been pretty well established that I’m an atheist and an asshole, my only two defining character traits.

“What? No.” The whole ‘What?’ part wasn’t absolutely necessary. I knew what she said, but people do these things when they communicate anyway, so who am I to change that?

Xena rolled her eyes. “Not like that. It’s one of those underground hipster teen nightclubs. Come on, Joji is performing there tonight.” Xena had a matter-of-fact tone in her voice, as if I had been frozen in time for the last 20 years and was still trying to figure out why nobody used Windows message boards anymore.

I sighed. I didn’t really have a choice in the matter. It was go to this stupid club, or go to this stupid club. There were no alternatives. I’m pretty sure I already said I didn’t have a choice.

With one defiant shrug of my shoulders, I said, “Maybe. Depends on what plans I have for today.”

By the way, I didn’t have any plans.