Church of Denial

I have had a couple of inquires as to whether I went to church this past Sunday. I don’t know how to answer this.

I mean, “church” is such a loose term, really. So I didn’t make it to an “official” mass… I did attend a meeting of the Church of Denial. Counts, right? Worship included shameless procrastination of otherwise immediate tasks, reckless unacknowledged imbibing, perpetual over-stimulation as avoidance technique, and complete denial of the fact that I was in denial. It’s part of the membership.

I do, however, have a fabulous story to tell from my Church of Denial ritual; a tale of the high seas, near-death experiences, dolphin sightings, sailboat fetishes and life-saving leg warmers. Trust me, it’s a good story.

But I can’t tell you. As part of my new-found religion, I must deny my readership the story. In fact, I must deny it ever happened. Wait – what? Deny what ever happened? What story? What are you talking about?

Onward…