Posted by: theboyfromsmallville | March 5, 2008

An afternoon inside the confessional

…Actually, it was a makeshift confessional.

It was a carpeted, air-conditioned conference room, one whose walls hold the secrets of thos exe-com meetings held weekly to chart the direction of the country’s leading newspaper.

The Company (caps intended. Kinda like The Firm) usually holds masses during first Wednesdays of the month. This one was different in that the priest would receive confession after the service. I requested for a brief talk before the mass started. He obliged.

So there I was. Seated on a cushioned chair. For the first time since a meteor bummer-crashed the Jurassic party, vaporizing the T-rexes and velociraptors (and bleeping mind-blowingly spared the cockroaches), I was going to listen to a priest speak.

He took a seat in front of me, made the sign of the cross and then stared at me intently.

Priest: Are you ready?

Me: Yup. Can we do this informally? Like, can we cut through the formalities and stuff and just get right to the heart of things?

Priest: Sure. What do you want to confess?

Me: See, when I was a kid, I used to go to the neighborhood basketball court and imagine myself to be in the middle of a basketball coliseum that is packed to the rafters with screaming fans. I used to go when it rained. Because when it rained, there was nobody to share the court with. I’d throw three-pointers and listen as the ball would swish through the makeshift net fashioned out of chain-links. I’d make lay-ups and imagine that I was soaring for a dunk.


Priest: Is that a metaphor for pride? Pride is a deadly sin, you know.

Me: How should I know? You’re the priest. You should know more about pride and deadly sins.

Priest: Yeah, but you’re the writer. You should no more about  metaphors.


Priest: Are you going to confess?

Me: I just did.

Priest: Generally, when we do this, people confess their sins.

Me: Oh. You mean transgressions?

Priest. You’re the writer.

Me: Can’t we just, like, talk?

Priest: About what?

Me: About why I seemed to have doubts about my reason for being.

Priest: That’s usually just a sign that you simply need to dig deeper into your potential.

Me: I seem to have lost my reins on my temper, too.

Priest: Were you always like that?

Me: No. Before, when I was on the verge of losing my temper, I’d remind myself anger is a choice. That you can always choose to hold your peace. That anger and hate are not default human softwares burned into one’s genetic makeup.

Priest: Maybe that’s why you’re losing the battle with your temper.

Me: Because I remind myself that anger is a choice?

Priest: No. Because you remind yourself of that only when you’re on the verge of losing your temper. Taking vitamin C prevents colds. But taking vitamin C just before the onset of flu doesn’t really work, does it?

Me: Wow. Now you sound like a writer.

Priest: Well, “anger is a choice” sounds like something a priest would say.


Priest: Do you have anything else to confess then? Sins?

Me: Do you have enough time?

Priest: Can you nut-shell it within five minutes? I have a mass to celebrate.

Me: Okay. Here goes–

I’ve totally bleeped-up my life by breaking the ten commandments except thou shalt not kill with wanton recklessness,  you could pick up the pieces from the floor and no longer recognize one commandment from the other and to boot, I managed to rifle through the seven deadly sins and dedicate portions of my life to committing them with less remorse than a convicted killer on death row and I’ve trivialized those transgressions, or sins if you must, justifying them by comfortably wrapping myself in a religion-rebellious role where I declare that my faith is strong but the thought of adhering to a certain religion absolutely disgusts me and that there is no way I will subject myself to man-made rules written by the so-called pillars of the so-called church as long as I do good, which I even fail to do and I know that no matter how much I’m trying to reconstruct my life at this moment everything will be useless unless I learn to admit my failures. Or transgressions. Sins.


Priest: Too much coffee?

Me: Coke. Same thing, though, caffeine.

Priest: Okay. It’s one thing to admit your sins. Transgressions. But what do you plan to do about your confession?

Me: Change my header?

Priest: What?

Me: The header. Of my blog. See. I have this picture of me leaning against a basketball goal post that reminds me of that confession I made to yo… (noticing the strange look thrown at me). Oh. You mean my sins.

Priest: Yes.

Me: I dunno. What should I do?

Priest: Well, you could… (leans over to whisper something)

Me: (incredulous look) No way! Serious?

Priest: Yup. Or, you could also… (whispers something else)

Me: (biting my hand and then..) Holy shh…

Priest: Hep, your language.

Me: …eep. You’ve got to be kidding me!

Priest: Nope. In fact… (whispers again)

Me: WHOA! SHE DID!?!?!?!

Priest: Yup. You should try that.

Me: Okay. I will. I swear.

Priest: Good. Got anything more to confess?

Me: No.

Priest: Sure? I think it’s time for me to start the mass.

Me: Okay.

Priest: When do you plan to make your next confession?

Me: Maybe when the cockroaches are vaporized too.

Priest: What?

Me: Never mind.

Priest: You sure there’s nothing you want to confess?

Me: Well, now that you mentioned it, sometimes, at night, just before I drift off to sleep, I can still hear the crowd roar.

Priest: Crow..? Oh. I think I’d better go start mass.

Me: I think you should.


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