Tag Archives: true story

My First Mairjuana Smoke

I took the following from a draft of an autobiography I tried writing around 2004 that turned out to be too preachy and crazy to do anything with. There were only a few salvageable passages and this is one of them. The first time I ever smoked marijuana. A magical day.

Around 1995, halfway through high-school, I bought a Phil Collins album but have rarely listened to it over the years. However, one song truly caught my soul: Both Sides of the Story, and the line, “Sleeping with an empty bottle is a sad and an empty hearted man, but what he really needs is a job and a little respect and to get out while he can,” has always stuck with me. I thought Phil Collins had figured out the secret to understanding life and the universe, and somehow condensed it into one sentence: “We always need to hear both sides of the story.” Shortly after buying the album I wrote a story based on a line, which I also called, Both Sides of the Story.

I had a friend at school during this time who was willing to admit to me that he smoked pot. I believe that up to this point, people viewed me as too straight-edge to talk about something like this, but since I’d started writing, I’d gained more self-confidence and loosened up some of my attitudes about things. At first I looked down on him for smoking weed, as I still had this preconception that only fools do drugs and that it wrecks your life and makes you lazy etc, etc. However, I supported legalization, because as brainwashed as I was back then, I still didn’t see the point of imprisoning people when they’re not hurting anybody but themselves.

At one point I told the stories about mailbox bashing and driving around with a laundry basket full of water balloons, soaking pedestrians. I hadn’t done any of this stuff in a long time, but talked highly of it, and how much fun it was. I was quite surprised when he told me those things didn’t sound like fun to him at all. I figured since he smoked pot, he would be antisocial in other ways.

“I just don’t enjoy doing things that hurt other people,” he said, and shrugged it off.

So this statement changed me somehow. At first it baffled me how someone who smoked so much marijuana, which was supposed to make you stupid, could throw out such a simply profound and intelligent statement, and pass it off as simple common sense. It was so simple, yet somehow I had never looked at my actions in quite the way he presented them.

So I rethought my whole outlook on drugs. Perhaps they caused a person to slack off and become stupid… (except this didn’t seem to be the case with my friend as he got better grades than me.) but drugs didn’t make you a bad person.

And with the advice of good old Phil Collins, when my friend dropped me a note in class, asking me to ditch (I saved the note all these years and scanned it for you here) I decided I needed to see both sides of the story.

We are kidnapping you as soon as we can escape from this class. We promise we won't hurt or abuse you!
I still have this note in my box of mementos in my closet.

So we drove to a friends house, and at first we smoked off a joint. I was highly nervous, but my friends were so calm and non-chalant about it that they reassured me that we wouldn’t be caught. I took some hits, but couldn’t keep any down, coughing with the slightest inhale. We tried shotgunning (taking a hit from a person’s exhale, so the smoke is diluted) but nothing worked for me. I coughed everything out, no matter what we attempted.

(Around this same time Bill Clinton was claiming that he’d tried pot but didn’t inhale, then changed his story to say he inhaled but coughed it out. To his credit, he wasn’t lying. He was being totally honest; he was just totally ignorant of how marijuana works. Taking it into your lungs is all you need to get the effect. If you cough it out, it doesn’t have much less of an effect than taking a successful hit. I can totally picture Bill Clinton being totally stoned, probably shoving food into his face, laughing, and carrying on, all the while having no clue that anything’s different.)

So we went back to school . I kept saying, “I’m not feeling anything,” and they kept saying, “we can tell you’re stoned.”

I sat in the back seat, and one of the two said, “Hey, you wanna put Kalin in a bubble?” He put his fist to his hand and turned back toward me and began blowing, like he was blowing up a balloon. They actually had the joke coordinated pretty well, the driver flipping off the radio just as the other tied the imaginary balloon. They then pretended to have a conversation with exaggerated hand movements, moving their lips silently.

I kept saying, “Okay, very funny. I know this isn’t real.” But somehow it felt real, just the same. Then after persisting in the joke for several silent minutes, he turned again and popped the balloon, screaming “BANG!”

We went back to class, and found ourselves doing research in the library. I decided to just slack off and hang out. I kept saying that I didn’t feel anything, and my buddy was getting nervous that someone might hear. I was so confused. I’d expected demons or ecstacy or a profound vision. This strangeness… this differing perspective was not at all what I’d expected… the world looked a bit different somehow… but still I insisted I hadn’t gotten stoned.

My friend was so nervous of getting caught now that we were back at school, as I seemed to be talking about it quite openly. I wanted to stand up and tell everyone in the library, “Hey, marijuana isn’t evil. I thought it was all along and I just discovered it isn’t. It doesn’t rape children and it doesn’t blow up your brain, and it doesn’t bring any sort of irresistible ecstasy. It’s just a thing. That’s all it is. Just a thing.” But unfortunately, I didn’t do that.

Then it was lunchtime, and I ordered my regular meal, and sat with a bunch of friends, mostly girls. I always ate with similar groups of friends at school, but never had tremendously active parts of the conversation. I felt they saw me as background.

But today was different. I was more comfortable with everything. I scarfed down my sandwich, then got up to buy more food. I got up twice more during the lunch period for more food. I kept talking about how much I love to eat, but didn’t mention to anyone that I had just smoked pot. In fact, I didn’t even consider the idea that it was affecting my actions until much later. I started talking, and I don’t remember about what. It could have been profound intellectualism or nonsense, but more than likely it was a combination of the two; I don’t really remember. But I do remember how it seemed like these girls were hanging on every word I said. I remember a couple had been in very bad moods when they sat down but by the end of the lunch period, they were laughing and carrying on in this conversation that for once, was centered around me.

For many months after this experience, I thought I hadn’t gotten high. I thought it had no affect on me. However, I found myself with an increase of self-confidence after the experience. School became easier. My grades improved. My social skills improved. I allowed myself to relax a little.

And of course, I almost immediately began to apply my new found perspective to my writing.

Why I Need to be Outspoken About Atheism

Someone posted this on my Genesis Bible Commentary page and since I don’t get too many comments around here, I thought it warranted its own post.

I must confess that I have not read you commentary, just seen some of your pages while looking for something else.
But  I was just wondering why someone who clearly does not believe in God go to such extreme lengths to proof it. Like someone building a plane to proof that a plane can not fly.
Just let go! If you carry on reading and studying like this you run the risk of becoming a believer! Enjoy your carefree life, I mean, if you are dead you are dead, why worry.

Hi Josua, thanks so much for stopping by and inquiring. It’s a fair question, but it would also be fair to ask a MADD member why they want to stop people from drunk driving or why an interventionist keeps trying to get people to go to treatment or why social workers are always trying to convince people to end their abusive relationships. Because we care about people other than ourselves.

You must understand, I’ve seen some pretty awful things happen in the name of religion, and I had some very intense, insane, and in retrospect, terrifying experiences during the couple years I was a believer. I also had a friend who put a knife to a woman’s throat over a religious disagreement. I had another who jumped off a bridge because Jesus told him he could fly. I’ve had two close friends (two that confided in me about this, anyway) who were depressed and borderline suicidal because they were convinced that God hated them and wanted them to suffer. I have seen enough effects from religion to know these are not just isolated incidents.

And finally, I had a next-door neighbor, whose family actually introduced me to God when I was a kid, who murdered six people in the name of Jesus in 2008.

It’s hard to see all this needless suffering and not want to speak up to try to make a difference. I feel sometimes like I could have saved those six people if I had just wandered to the end of the road and given my neighbors grief for what they believed. I was too respectful, or too shy or young, or just didn’t care. Maybe I never could have made a difference, but I’ll never know. I don’t ever want to feel like that again, so I decided that I wasn’t going to hold back in my fight against the insanity.

I totally respect and care about all the religious folks out there who are being victimized and don’t realize it, but I don’t feel obligated to respect a religion that promises to “draw people toward goodness” and pretends like it’s bringing communities together, then turns around and directly causes this much suffering in my friends and neighbors. I do, however, feel an obligation to speak the truth and help others avoid that suffering.

The Night I Became a Writer

My life magically changed overnight at the end of the first semester of sophomore year of high-school, and the source was tremendously unexpected at the time.

My English teacher required us to read one thousand pages of books per semester. We could read anything, but to get our credit we had to sit down one-on-one to prove we’d read the book. I could have cheated, but he played it up like he was a master lie-detector and I bought it. I put it off until the last two weeks of the semester, and finally it came crunch time, and I knew there was no way for me to pass the class unless I started doing some serious reading.

I started with a book by David Eddings called The Ruby Knight, not realizing that it was the second book in the series and I needed the first to understand what was going on. I forced myself to read for four to six hours each night, and for the first night it was hell, but the second night, as I figured out what was going on in the story, I actually started to enjoy it. When I finally finished it, I remember thinking to myself “Damn! That was a really good book.”

So I was optimistic when I picked up the piece of literature that would change my life forever: a book called The Kingdoms of the Wall, by Robert Silverberg, a truly classic science fiction writer who I’d never heard of before. It didn’t get very good reviews from the critics, but somehow the story and characters caught me like magic. It’s a story of a group of forty primitive people from a shapeshifting race, who climb a massive mountain that encompasses half a continent because they believe their gods live at the top. If you ever plan on reading this, I suggest skipping the rest of this section because I’m going to give away some secrets. (I highly recommend Robert Silverberg, but if you want to read something of his, read A Time of Changes, which was more highly regarded by critics.) I read the first one hundred pages of The Kingdoms of the Wall the first night, and wasn’t too impressed. It didn’t seem like this book would come close to the David Eddings I’d just finished.

However, the second night, once they started moving up the mountain, and the months started passing in the story, I became more and more involved. I dreamt about it at night. I felt the character’s presence during school, and on the third night I couldn’t wait to get home and continue the story. I was one of them, sleeping under the stars, trying to get along with my companions, trying to agree, trying to avoid danger, and fighting each day to reach the top of the mountain. I remember having only three CD’s in my player while I read this book, which I played on random again and again, not wishing to change them because it would take time away from the story: Pearl Jam’s Vitalogy, Nine Inch Nail’s Pretty Hate Machine and Genesis’ We Can’t Dance. These albums all still bring me back to the world of Kosa Saag. I finished the book on the fourth night, about 11 PM, exhausted from reading for four hours straight every night for a week, and I recall coming to the climax with my hands shaking, to have my heart torn when discovering what truly lay at the top of the mountain. The CD player chose Fading Lights, off We Can’t Dance to close out the last few pages, as the theme of the novel sunk into my psyche.

“It will be our task to build wagons to carry us between villages, and then sky-wagons, and then star-wagons that will take us into the heavens; and then we will meet the gods again. But this time it will be as equals.” The theme was that no matter how hard anyone tries, they cannot find God. They can think they’ve found Him, but they can never truly find God. Instead of putting our faith in Gods, we humans must put faith in ourselves and use our two hands and our brains and muscle to make the universe a better place, and to accomplish our goals.

So as I got up to take a shower and go to bed, I found my knees weak, and I was barely able to hold back tears. Once in the shower, I found myself in a shocked daze, amazed at the disappointment of it all. “They gave their whole lives,” I said to myself. “They gave their lives, they lost their comrades, they tortured themselves… all for what…”

And I just had to stop, and hold myself up with a hand, and tell myself, “It’s just a book. They’re not real. None of those people are real. It’s just words on a page.” I repeated that to myself over and over. I knew it to be true, but I just couldn’t quite make myself beleive it. “Just words on a page. Little markings of black ink. That’s all it is, little black ink markings on a tree that’s been processed into sheets.”

And I stopped and thought to myself, Hey, I can make little black markings on paper too…

I knew in that moment that I wanted to be a science fiction writer and a writer in general.

 

My 6th-8th grade Hairstyle

Here’s another true story that actually happened to me.

In sixth grade I entered a period where I cared about my hair. I styled it every morning into the silly style that I’m sure you’ve seen from the sixties, with the part on the left and the right side combed up to form a wall at the front of the head. My hair was hard, and for some reason, after the gel dried, my hair felt wonderful to the touch, and I’d sit around and just feel my hair. As a result, people thought I was obsessed with it, and insisted that I was constantly checking it to make sure it wasn’t messed up, when in truth it wasn’t so much about what it looked like, I just liked to feel it.

My hair quickly became a big topic around school, and every day people would ask me about it, make fun of me and try to mess it up. A few people, however, supposedly liked it. When I entered seventh grade, I started thinking twice about styling it every day, so I made a deal with myself and the rest of the school. I decided that if a single day went by where no one at school mentioned or purposefully messed up my hair, I would simply quit the hairstyle. (I got the idea from an episode of Head of the Class.) To my dismay, my hair was such a topic, that at least one person would mention it each and every day. I paid close attention, and every day someone would say something to me, usually within the first half hour of school. I went the entire seventh grade putting gel in my hair every day, and every single day had comments about it.

So in eighth grade, I figured I’d made myself a deal and I couldn’t go back on it, so I kept styling my hair and people kept discussing it daily. I started telling people about my deal, and the reaction was always the same: “How do you expect me to go an entire day without talking about your hair?”

But one day, it finally did happen. An entire day without a single mention of my hair, and I felt a massive sense of relief. So after that I just let my hair fro out and stopped touching it. I continued paying attention, though, and every day for the rest of the year people asked me about it, and the same people who’d make fun of me and tell me I was making a fool out of myself for styling my hair, were now asking me to go back to the old hairstyle.

It always amazed me that people who’d been on the planet for thirteen years, being the future of America and the world, while there’s nuclear weapons and threats of war, and all sorts of issues that effect the rest of the human race, we would have nothing better to talk about than Kalin’s hair.

 

Classic Rock

Another true story. This one rather dumb and pointless, but it shows how even totally common knowledge can go unknown if a person just by chance is never introduced to it.

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I was drinking with some friends around 2002 at a pub on a crowded friday night when a peculiar song came on the jukebox. At first I simply noticed that it was an oddly mellow and distant tune. As the minutes passed, however, the song slowly built and became more complex, and for a moment I wondered who this was. It continued building and blended into something faster and more energetic, and somehow just continued building cleanly and smoothly from its humble beginnings as a half-hearted ballad to a pounding barrage of intricate and professional guitar and drum workings.

I had to get to the jukebox. I turned to my buddy Peter. “Let me out!” I shouted over the music and crowd. “I gotta find out who plays this song!”

“This song?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “This song kicks ass.”

“This is Free Bird, Dude!”

“Free Bird?” I shouted back. “Who are they? Do they have anything else I’d recognize?”

“No, Free Bird is the song.” He looked at me with a scowl, as though I were a fool for not knowing this.

“I’m not up on new music these days,” I said. “I’ve pretty much only been listening to classic rock stations for the past few years. So do you know who did this? Are they new?”

“This is Lynard Skynard!”

“Lynard Skynard? The Sweet Home Alabama guys?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“They’re making new music?”

“This is a classic Dude! What the hell are you talking about?”

“If this is a classic, how come they don’t play it on the classic rock stations?”

“It’s one of the most overplayed songs in history!”

I shook my head. He was just messin with me. “Come on–Seriously, man. Our society could never agree that much with my taste in music.”

The Arctic Rose Tragedy – The Conspiracy

So I wrote this post several months ago and have been sitting on it, afraid to post it because I feel guilty for not talking about this earlier and also because I’m embarrassed that it might all be totally false, someone just pulling my leg, and because some of my facts may be wrong. Then last night, April 2, 2011, I saw a news program talking about The Arctic Rose Tragedy:

So I guess it’s been ten years as of yesterday since this occurred, so I think this is a good time to finally publish this post.

—————————————

Around the turn of the century I was working for an all-you-can-eat fish and chips restaurant, up in Bellingham Washington. We had some of the best and the cheapest fried Alaskan cod in the city.

One day I saw on the front page of the local paper a tragedy had occurred up in the Bering Sea. A ship called The Arctic Rose went down, killing all 13 on board. The ship had been from Bellingham. If you look at this link you’ll see it’s considered “the worst fishing tragedy in U.S. waters for 50 years”.

However, at first I didn’t think anything of it. People die on the highways every day. There’s no reason to think arctic waters are any safer. But then, the manager mentioned the incident, and seemed surprisingly upset about it, and said, “we don’t know where we’re gonna get our fish now.”

“We were buying our fish from the Arctic Rose?” I asked.

“Yup.” He put his finger to his lip. “But don’t say anything. It’s kinda hush-hush… we kinda… well… it’s kinda our fault this happened.”

“I don’t remember reading anything about this place.”

“Of course not. It wasn’t on the books.”

“I read they got way off course or something.”

“Nope. They were right where they were supposed to be, fishing for our cod. Officially though, they were supposed to be miles away fishing for Sole. How do you think we keep our fish prices so low? By not paying taxes or obeying fishing laws. John and the captain of The Arctic Rose had a special agreement.”

“So the investigation is completely off base?” I asked.

“They’ve spent like $100,000 on investigating this, and they don’t even have the basic information about what was going on. They’re probably gonna say officially it was a navigation error which sent them into stormy waters, which is just ludicrous. What we think happened was they over-filled their hull with a big catch, the freezer went haywire and the ice accumulated and they didn’t want to call for help because their hull was filled with illegal fish. They got greedy. But we’re certainly not gonna say anything. John would have a fit if he knew I was telling you about this.”

————–

I payed attention to the story after that, but kept my mouth shut about what I’d been told. In fact, I haven’t really talked about this until now, and I still don’t know what to think. The manager may have been talking out his ass, making up stories. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen him tell a lie, though I had never seen him lie simply for the fun of it. I certainly never discussed this with the owner. However, we did have problems getting fish after that, and we raised our prices shortly after.

I knew if I talked about this, and it wasn’t just a lie, I would lose my job. I was just a prep-cook, and certainly didn’t have the programming skills I have now so keeping that kitchen job was necessary for my well-being.

So over the years since this I’ve thought about what it means to my anarchism.

If not for our system of capitalism I could have talked about this years ago without the fear of destroying my ability to feed myself. If not for our economic system, they never would have had a motivation to fish in such a dangerous and environmentally damaging way in the first place. If not for the fear of governmental retribution, we all could have been open and honest about this incident.

Then I think about all the people out there who think conspiracy theorists are all wackos, that it’s simply ludicrous that, for example, someone in the White House may have known about 911 before it happened, or that the average police officer occasionally frames innocent people.

I was a prep-cook, making $8.50 per hour, and I was–possibly–a part of a conspiracy where 13 people died. Just imagine what kind of conspiracies are possible with people who are trained in the art of deceit and dealing with millions of dollars.

New Friday True Story: Intro to Capitalism

Today I posted another Friday true story called My Intro to Capitalism.

First I should say that this is one of those stories that is so crazy and happened so long ago, that I have to shake my head and wonder if it actually happened, particularly since I’ve never talked about it with anyone until today. It’s something that profoundly affected my whole life, but I don’t know if I exaggerated things in my head. Either way, what I wrote is how I remember it.

I wonder if people are going tell me that the title isn’t fair, that the story is about feelings of ownership, and since there’s no exchange of money, it’s not really about capitalism. This is true, but I decided to give it this title, because that’s how I think about it. I believe this may be the first incident that caused me to start thinking about how we distribute possessions and wealth in our modern society, which for us, is capitalism.

Now, selfishness is one thing. You can argue selfishness would still be around without capitalism or law, and you’re certainly correct, but without capitalism it wouldn’t have the open-ended right to flourish. We also wouldn’t go to the extremes as we do in our society, where we feel the rules of capitalism are more important than human feelings and interactions. Laws and rules become an obsession sometimes, like a religion, and as you see in this story, our sense of humanity and common decency can be lost as a result. The concept of capitalism is just an extension of the idea of property ownership, placing a dollar value and deed of ownership on everything while ignoring the real-world human value and  usefulness of the objects in our world.

Now in this story, I was technically the bad guy. I was the one committing a crime, and there’s no way for me to argue against that. But did I really do anything wrong?

Last Week’s story, Amtrak Weed

I haven’t been posting much this week because I’ve been working on my short story called Pioneers, about a bunch of children colonizing a planet. I probably shouldn’t talk too much about it since you’re supposed to have to figure out that they’re children as you’re reading 🙂 and because if all goes well, I won’t be posting it on this site. I’m actually gonna make an attempt at getting published again.

Anyhoo – last Friday, as promised, I posted another true short story called Amtrak Weed, and didn’t bother writing an entry about it until now.

So this story’s overall theme–other than the drunken humor–is about how easy it is to diffuse tense situations if you simply come at it from the right perspective. So spoiler: in this story I’m on the Amtrak and I somehow get between this guy with a knife and the dude he was threatening. Huge, screaming, possibly dangerous fight seems eminent. Long story short, I ask if they want to smoke some weed, crack a few jokes, and I laugh off the little knife-threatening incident like it’s just a childish fight. This all catches the knife-dude off guard, and his emotions and perspective suddenly shifts, as often happens with drinkers, and suddenly everyone’s friends again.

However, law-enforcement types would have come into the situation with force, never stopping to understand where the guy was coming from or what was really going on. They would see that knife and see him as nothing more than an enemy, and not as a person. Knife-dude never would have had the perspective shift. He never would have shaken hands with or apologized to his victim, and ultimately everyone would have been more traumatized by the whole situation.

This is one of the core reasons I am an anarchist, because I believe there are far better ways to address scary situations than war or police force.

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Tomorrow comes another true story that has influenced my anarchism called My Intro to Capitalism

The Scientologist Job

Over the past year I’ve sort of built up a collection of short true stories to post on this site. I started posting one every Friday which will go through March, April and possibly to the end of May. Last Friday I posted Just a Coincidence, a story about the time I had what other people would claim was a psychic occurance when everything in my life broke down at the same moment.

Anyway, some of the true short stories I wrote were so short that they didn’t justify their own page, so I’ll make simple blog entries and post them randomly to supplement the bigger true stories I post on Fridays. Here’s one tiny little true story about Scientologists:

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Around 2007 I got an email from the church of Scientology. They had been searching for a Flash developer with UI coding experience, and found my portfolio at www.kalinflash.com. They also noticed that I liked to write science fiction.

The email didn’t specifically mention an interview process, and the wording seemed to suggest they already knew they wanted to hire me. They were offering competitive wages, though they didn’t mention the specific rate. I would need to move to California, but they offered several thousand dollars in moving expenses.
The creepiest part of the offer, which they seemed to see as one of the most attractive features, was that my salary would include room and board.
I did not reply to the email.

Paralyzed Without Fear – Benefits of Atheism and Logic

This is the first and only time this has ever happened to me, but a few nights ago I had a very strange occurance. I woke up at about 4:00 AM, in the near pitch-blackness of my bedroom, and found myself paralyzed. I tried to sit up, but couldn’t. I tried to lift an arm, and could not, so I started trying every little part of my body that I could think of, and somehow, nothing was working. My mind and body had been disconnected.

This reminded me of that scene in ET when the kid wakes up to see the alien and can’t move and he tries to scream and his throat is all dry. I thought to myself, that’s what’s happening to me. Somehow, some connections in my brain simply misfired. Since we all got here through evolution, which is basically a system of randomness, naturally, our minds and bodies would be a disorganized and hacked together hodgepodge of different technologies. In the programming world, we call them “kludges”, some code you write that works, but you know it’s not the proper or organized way to do it. Well, if you really study the human mind and body, you will find kludge after kludge after kludge, which somehow all works together (for the most part) due to millions of years of intense QA testing, or as the scientists call it, “natural selection”.

But once in a while, our mind or body hits an unforeseen situation and it just glitches out. As I lay in my bed wondering how long I would be trapped and helpless, I realized this was simply a glitch in my programming and I just sighed internally. Then I thought, you know, if I was a superstitious or religious person, I would be terrified out of my mind right now, and I’d almost say I laughed at the thought, even though I couldn’t make any movements or sound.

Then I heard voices. Whispering.

My first thought was that I was hearing someone upstairs or downstairs talking. I focused, but no, the sound was clearly whispering, coming from somewhere just behind me. It got louder and louder, and I focused on it, trying to make out what the voice was saying.

Is someone playing a prank on me? I thought. One of my buddies broke into my house, gave me a paralyzing drug and is now whispering in my ear to give me a good scare.

No, none of my friends are that creative. It’s just a glitch of the mind.

So as I listened to this whispering, I tried again to move, and could not. My body was frozen. I tried to scream, hoping maybe I could get the neighbors to come down. Or maybe if I just heard some noises from the neighbors it would snap my mind out of this trance. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make a sound.

I thought maybe I could just wait it out, but decided that it would probably be better for me to keep trying, hoping I could find a different perspective on the situation that would force my mind to reload whatever software it uses to control the rest of my body.

But throughout this whole thing, I was thinking in the back of my mind that this would be a completely different situation if I was spiritual or religious. This would be a sign from the devil, or some evil presence trying to steal my soul. A spiritual believer would have been traumatized for days over this, but because I’m an atheist, it’s just another funny story about how evolution did not create a perfect or even logically organized creature.

Then, all of a sudden, something changed in my mind. I can’t put a finger on what it was exactly, I just suddenly knew that I was no longer paralyzed. The voices faded away. I tried moving my arms, and bingo, they worked. Then I tested my legs and they worked. A moment later I was crawling out of bed to walk around my room, making sure my body was back to normal. I went to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat, and that was that.

So that’s what it’s like when you’re an atheist and something scary happens. You don’t get scared unless there’s an actual, logical reason to get scared. I can’t tell you how much of a benefit this has been for me over the years, knowing that I alone command my life and emotions. It breaks my heart to see so many people still living in fear of things they know don’t exist and know could never happen.