neighbour

I still fart in India.

You know, in case you thought going to India meant I was the pure and holy type whose farts rise straight to the heavens like an offering of incense to God.

Nup.

All bodily functions remain intact… in fact, enhanced.

I was quite happily bundled up in my life of consumption until God rudely interrupted me. I thought I had taken my brush with poverty quite well. I’d rationalised my childish thoughts about “what would Jesus do” and all those annoying passages in the bible about the poor and decided that having a mortgage was what following Jesus was all about. I was #blessed I guess.

So anyway, there was that awkward moment when I was supposed to be all about Jesus and save the poor people but accidentally realised I was a bloated oppressor. Read on.

After praying a dangerous prayer asking God to help me to not be consumed with the things of this world and that I would know God’s heart and find freedom in him, I found myself walking into India’s largest red light district…

Consumption is my jam. I love consuming. I mean, before sitting down to pen this powerful prose I made myself a coffee… because it’s important to consume mild stimulants whilst waxing lyrical about the pitfalls of consumption.

I don’t want to talk about consumption. I need consumption. Consumption is the sedation I need, the antidote to life.

Don’t take it away.

Unless it’s kale. I don’t need to consume kale. No one needs to consume kale.

Consumption is my jam. I love consuming. I mean, before sitting down to pen this powerful prose I made myself a coffee… because it’s important to consume mild stimulants whilst waxing lyrical about the pitfalls of consumption.

I don’t want to talk about consumption. I need consumption. Consumption is the sedation I need, the antidote to life.

Don’t take it away.

Unless it’s kale. I don’t need to consume kale. No one needs to consume kale.