Dear Crazy Pants

Dear Crazy Pants,

How are you? How's life? I think about you sometimes. I think I owe you $500.

Being a believer was hard for me. Not hard in the practice was hard or the discipline was hard. Hard in the sense that I am an American, Crazy Pants and if I am going to be a believer I am going to be an American one.

I can keep my head covered with a baseball cap. I can be modest in jeans and a button down. Why must I wear a throbe? By the way, throbes are hot as fuck. And I don't hot like oh he's so sexy going to prayer hot I mean hot like heat. Like why is there so much wool in The Way? Isn't it a desert religion?

I love The Way. I really do. I still read The Quran - I have a version that took all the transliteration out so I can read it without seeing Arabic words. I like that.

I prolly won't ever go back, Crazy Pants. I am so far away from being right. I feel like Hades awaits me and I'm just delaying the inevitable by living. And I don't think The Way can save me.

Plus, fuck throbes. Seriously, The Way needs a serious fashion makeover. Stat.

Take care, Crazy Pants.