Greta Christina has been writing professionally since 1989, on topics including atheism, sexuality and sex-positivity, LGBT issues, politics, culture, and whatever crosses her mind. She is author of
The Way of the Heathen: Practicing Atheism in Everyday Life, of
Comforting Thoughts About Death That Have Nothing to Do with God, of
Coming Out Atheist: How to Do It, How to Help Each Other, and Why, of
Why Are You Atheists So Angry? 99 Things That Piss Off the Godless, and of
Bending: Dirty Kinky Stories About Pain, Power, Religion, Unicorns, & More, and is editor of
Paying For It: A Guide by Sex Workers for Their Clients. She has been a public speaker for many years, and many of her talks can be seen on YouTube. Her writing has appeared in multiple magazines and newspapers, including Ms., Penthouse, Chicago Sun-Times, On Our Backs, and Skeptical Inquirer, and numerous anthologies, including
Everything You Know About God Is Wrong and three volumes of
Best American Erotica. (Any views she expresses in this blog are solely hers, and do not necessarily represent this organizations.) She lives in San Francisco with her wife, Ingrid. You can email her at gretachristina (at) gmail (dot) com, or follow her on
Facebook.
Freud said “every dream is a wish.”
Clearly, you long for a basement.
I dated a woman for a couple years whose blood sugar would crash after any kind of physical activity (like sex) and until she had some juice and got her glucose levels back up, she would be quite incoherent. Once she said to me, “You better go down in the basement and feed the dinosaurs.” I said, “Honey, I don’t have a basement.” And she replied, “Of course you have a basement. Where would the dinosaurs live if you don’t have a basement?” 10 minutes later she had no memory of having said that and was sure I’d made it up.
She sure ran rings around your logic there.
So get yourself a basement and maybe it will all happen.
Odd coincidence: Last night I dreamed that Christopher Hitchens and Sam Harris moved into my parents’ conservative, suburban neighborhood in Indiana. They turned out to be excellent neighbors, and I had to bite my lip and not start arguments about the advisability of invading Iraq and why Buddhism is not what Sam Harris thinks it is.
Actually, you DO have a basement, but it is only there when you are asleep. The pointy people live there. Sweet dreams.
Now I want pizza.
I have a basement, but it has spiders. Many, many scary spiders.
The basement where the dinosaurs live and eat all the vegetarian pizza may not be real, but it is true.
This morning, I woke up from a dream in which I was hatchet-jobbed by a blogger. In the dream, they were someone I had used to read regularly, but I’d gradually stopped paying attention to their blog, and now they were going all-out against me — saying that my use of “ZOMG!!eleventy!” robbed my writing of all credibility, for example. People who had trolled my site then joined in, crowing that the fact I had deleted a comment of theirs once years ago demonstrated my moral turpitude.
Yeah, maybe I’ve been around the Internet too long.
Given a choice between a conversation with Richard Dawkins and a slice of vegetarian pizza, I think I could live without pizza.