tavie.com

Wait, I have more things to say.

Maybe it's because of Easter or something, but I've been comparing myself to Jesus all day. I realized I have a tendency to do that. It's not a God Complex so much as that I think it highly humorous that someone as pasty and sad and, to date, generally pathetic as myself might compare themselves to Jesus. There's not just the hankering to play Jesus in a production of "Godspell", but today I drew that enormous chalk portrait of myself in Gina's driveway just because I felt I should have some sort of giant graven image of myself somewhere for imaginary disciples to gather around.

There's really nothing at all Jesus-like about me. I was thinking about it. We don't have a thing in common. Not one thing. He's a man. I'm a woman. He's dead. I'm not. He's, allegedly, the son of God. I'm the daughter of alleged civil servants. (They COULD be international spies.) He had a beard. I suppose I have enough
male hormones in me to be able to grow a few wisps, but probably wouldn't allow them to remain, for cosmetic reasons. Jesus couldn't care a fig about cosmetic reasons, if what they say is true. He looks good in white. I do not. He is the basis of one of the largest religions in the world. I am the basis of A Cult Of Tavie, which consists of myself worshipping myself, secretly. Sandals give me blisters. I could go on and on, but it would just depress me more and more. I am so not Jesus. I'm not even entirely Jewish.

Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:21 AM | shower me with attention