It has been five days since I wrote "It has been five days since my last confession"

Here then is Part Deux.

So, when I last left me, I was getting ready to confess my sins to Zac Efron next to a bed in a seedy motel.

I'd committed a good half of the sins listed in the pamphlet they handed out, and when you add in the behaviors that result from years of being a slave to an addiction, plus my bad attitude and lack of respect for any authority figure I deem an idiot -- and I deem a lot of authority figures idiots -- well, I had a lot to talk about.

But first I had to get something off my chest, namely, that I was worried I was going to get booted out of the Catholic church because when you go to confession you are supposed to be sorry for your sins. I told the priest I thought gay people should be allowed to get married and that I wasn't sorry for thinking that. He said "Are you willing to pray to God about this?" I said yes. He said that was enough. I asked him what it meant if when I prayed to God, God told me the Catholic church was wrong, and I can't remember his response.

What I do remember is that I cried a LOT. I laid out every terrible thing I'd ever done, including the stuff that I am really ashamed of, the stuff I've told no one. The sticky, inky, stinky black tarry stuff that was weighing down my soul. I went on and on and on and ON.

As an aside, Father Zac Efron was wearing an Inspector Gadgetesque robe from which he would occasionally pull things appropriate to the moment. At one point he reached in and pulled out a crucifix and gave me the whole "JC loves you" spiel, which was really cheesy. But I went with it b/c part of the magic of the weekend was that I was able to keep my judgment to myself and just go with the flow.

But I digress. I'd gotten myself really worked up and emotional and upset and when I'd finished my long list, he said this to me: "Do you know what I think is going on, McPolack?"

"what?" I sniffled.

"I think you just don't like yourself very much."

It was only after repeating this story to a bunch of people that I realized how common my reaction was. I was all "Oh my GOSH. How did you KNOW?" Honestly, it was at that point that God entered the room for me, by which I mean it wasn't the priest I was speaking to, but the Divine. He gave me a mantra to say when I start telling myself I suck. And my penance was to read some scripture on a piece of paper that he pulled out of his go-go gadget robe. Then he put his hands on my head and worked that old Catholic magic.

And, just like that, I was redeemed. I actually said "That's it?" To which he replied "Are you kidding?"

I walked back to my room and laid awake for a long time. The next morning, I had terrible diarrhea. I think it was all that bad juju.

A lot happened for me in that motel room.

A lot happened for me that weekend.

For example, I got a new grandma, and she shops at the Babcia's Market Basket and has been in the Babcia's house. I'll tell you more about that tomorrow.