"We'll manage." they apparently said, six years before my birth, when my grandparents asked my parents what they'd do about their unborn, unplanned (and yet unconcieved) child's to-be religion.
Ms. Mom and Mr. Dad belonged to different belief systems, and each was more in love with their respective religions than the other. Also, their measurement of love for religion was directly proportional to how much they hated the other religion they were marrying into.
When I was eight, every Friday, Dad dropped me at a large creepy gate which led to a narrow staircase to an old blue room where children moved rythmically to noice and reading what they didn't understand. "What does this mean?" I asked once, the result of which was one week of aching knuckles and bamboo ring marks. I blindly followed and believed.
On Saturday, mom dropped me to an organization dedicated to drowning children in undecipherable, sing-song chanting. "What does this mean?" I asked again, and recieved a horde of coded expletives and a letter to my mother, which resulted in losing out on my favorite side dish at dinner for a month. I blindly followed and believed.
Every Sunday, I was confused.
One day, at school, I was introduced to moral science class, where my teacher, a woman with angelic wings on her shoulders and a forked tail in her backside asked me to tell her what God was to me.
I told her I knew there were two Gods who switched roles on Fridays and Saturdays. And on Sundays he was off duty.
The girl sitting next to me, who once a while treated me to her lunch, then invited me to attend a spiritual gathering on Sunday at her place.
They gave me sweets when they were done moaning.
I blindly followed and believed.
So now, there was a different God for every weekend and weekly holiday of the Gulf. Also, everyone reiterated there was only one God.
One day, when I was sixteen and confused, I decided, "I will have a religion".
I discovered marijuana.
You know what? Ms. Mom and Mr. Dad were right.