I Feel Like If I Die A Christian Death
I feel like if I die a christian death, if I believe in all that stuff by the time I die, (I'm pretty fickle) as I reach the gates of heaven st peter will pull me to one side and ask me, probably quite politely, 'We've been trying to figure this out for the last couple of hours… Is this stuff for real?'
He'll point to an open folder on his net book full of my image macro's.
He'll ask me 'But like… What did you feel like you were achieving by making these and posting them on tumblr?' And 'Is this all you contributed to the world?'
I'll tell him 'I was in a couple of bands when I was a teenager…'
He'll look at me the same way a teacher looks at a student who they know is playing dumb and I'll tell him 'Well it wasn't just me, there were a few of us, actually… It had something to do with branching out and relating to people on a level that I don't really understand any more, it's been a while since I was doing that stuff because of the internet going down and everything. Also if you run into any of the others don't tell them I said that, I don't want to feel like I wasted my time but I feel like It might have just been a big joke or something, I don't know…'
St peter will ask me if I knew that I was, through my sheer complacency, 'perpetuating the mining and the exploitation of less powerful nations/peoples and their mineral wealth?'
I'll say something like 'I kind of did but it was too much information to process at the time, what with the internet at my fingertips and all of the information that allowed you, I just wanted to live my life.'
St peter will nod sadly, but knowingly, and ask me to wait while he goes to get the required paperwork…
I'll think about how some of them were funny but most were just kind of odd, how I thought I was part of something but was never quite sure, then I'll think about the way I just died (I don't know how I'll die yet, but I have a feeling it'll involve me not going to get checked out for some blemish or growth or something) and I'll regret being so stubborn/unmoved by whatever it was that eventually killed me.
St peter will come back with papers and I'll fill them out at a desk with thin, black, tubular legs, sitting on a seat made of the same cheap piping. (I imagine heaven to be government funded, I don't know why, it just seems fitting)
It'll take about 30 minutes to fill out the forms, after which I'll be sent into a waiting area.
Tony Blair will be in the waiting area, but he won't speak to me, he'll look annoyed while he flicks through a thick binder full of important looking documents. There'll be a few empty seats, about 12 in total, a coca-cola vending machine with an A4 note taped onto the front stating that it 'only takes old 50's', there will be some posters on basic Christian principles stuck to the walls with blu-tack and sellotape, a surprisingly healthy looking spider plant in the corner, and not a great deal else. Tony blair's thumbs will be bleeding from flicking through the binder so aggressively, he'll have been waiting for 27 years by the time I get there and he'll still be waiting by the time I leave.
In regards to heaven and hell I'm not sure where I'll end up, I don't even believe in that stuff right now but it's fun to think about.