Columns

Girl:
 
What with the corporeally sober state I’ve been in lately, I took an interest in matters of spiritual concern and headed to a talk by an American rabbi on mysticism in the Abrahamic faiths. Aside from my interest in mysticism in general, I have always held the Jewish faith in a special place in my heart for a number of ill-researched reasons, ranging from my love of Jewish literature, to the fact that Jewish men are insanely good looking and I basically want to be Jewish so bad. So, with this longing in my heart and my positive stereotypes well in place, I literally ran to the lecture theatre. 
Well, Rabbi Goldstein didn’t disappoint, with a riveting talk on the incredible history of mystical Judaism. He even said that sex, within marriage, should be enjoyed and could even be elevated to a sacred act. Mazel tov! I was well into fantasy-land, imagining myself living in Manhattan, attending my synagogue and raising a flock of Jewish children who complain about having to learn Hebrew. Then I remembered one glitch in my awe-inspiring plan – my atheism. Usually a source of minor pride, it now proves to be a stumbling block on my road to true happiness. I just don’t know how to make it stop. 
 
Boy: 
 
“I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death,” Jack Kerouac tells us. If I were to fantasise about religious virtuousness, it would in Kerouac’s terms that I would do so. It was with this that I found myself back in Mou on a Wednesday night, idly drinking away with Bachelor #1 and a girl whom I’d met before, but have been too drunk to recall. Let’s call her Bachelorette #3.
We sat and flirted for a few hours, and went bar hopping. Bachelor #1 eventually left us. I left her at some point; as I gathered my body in the corner of the union arch, a girl passed me hand-written poetry and I wondered what kind of Ghost World strip I had wandered into. The kind where the younger girl has the older male friend and it all gets ‘out of hand’ in some sort of safe, suburban way. I couldn’t read her words anyway (too drunk), but being a good academic I gave a robust critique. “Too young and naïve.” Like Kerouac and religion, I used one (alcohol and critique) to get away from the other (religion and a girl), only to end up on top of it (her). Wait. That’s not right: I ended up on top of Bachelorette #3 while the drink dissolved.