It has been subtly suggested that I publish my name, so there it is, right in the header: Peter. Which, I might add, is a horrible name for a child, considering all the stupid rhymes and jokes that can be made for it (especially if your middle name also happens to be Richard). As a teenager living at home, my name was always Exhibit A in the stack of evidence that my parents hated me.
Speaking of them, earlier today I had to break the news to my mom that I wouldn't be hopping back to their house for Easter. Coming out was surprisingly easy compared to telling them I'm agnostic and don't feel comfortable around them on religious holidays when they get all Jesus Freak-y on me. It's bad enough I have to listen to goddamn James Dobson's daily radio dispatches when I'm home for Christmas.
Somehow, I always have more fun amusing myself on Easter anyway. In college, my roommate's family visited us every year and we'd do the church thing together, the dinner thing together, and then the porn shop thing together. Nothing makes a former Dutch Reformed kid feel quite as dirty as playing with dildos with his best friend's sister on a holy day.
The year after he graduated I had nobody to accompany me to the porn shop, and going to look at straight porn alone just didn't sound like fun at all. So I made Jello shots in plastic Easter eggs, hid them around the house, and invited a bunch of friends over for an Easter egg hunt.
Jesus must be rolling over in his grave.
