Love Songs to Jesus

Love is in the air and I have fallen into full on obnoxious-romantic-mode. Which means a whole lot of scouring the radio for the perfect song to tell her just how much she means to me. Something sweet and simple about how “she’s my strength” and how “nothing is better than being loved by her” and maybe something with just a hint of “I’ll buy you flowers if you let me touch your boob.”

But recently I have stumbled onto a bit of a problem. Every time I think I have found the most romantic song in the world, I take a good look at the lyrics and realize that the song was written about Jesus.

Not quite the wingman I was looking for.

Not quite the wingman I was looking for.

Now there’s nothing wrong with writing songs for Jesus. I’ve got some love for the J-Man. We’re buds. But nothing slams the brakes on a romantic moment faster than your favorite singer reminding you that Jesus is watching and he’s not happy about where this night is heading.

These songs are sneaky. They lull you in with their smooth guitar and their smoky vocals. You’re already lighting candles and spreading rose petals on the bed before you realize that the “you”  the singer is so devoted to is a 33-year-old carpenter with a messiah complex, not the lovely woman who likes to hold your hand on long car rides. Be cautious around vague pronouns.

 “Are your hands getting sweaty or is that just my stigmata acting up?”

“Are your hands getting sweaty or is that just my stigmata acting up?”

It’s hard to get the magic back after the subtle Christ-allusions stampede into the foreground. Suddenly those hands you’re holding are just a bit holier. There’s a little sand in that hair you’re stroking. That little bit of cleavage you keep casting glances at is now the hair covered chest of the man who died for the sins currently on your mind.

I don’t think Jesus is trying to mess with my mojo or anything, but I have always been told that God works in mysterious ways. Maybe I should stop trying to find these super romantic songs and just come to terms that Jesus wants me to use my lips for praying. Or maybe I should just listen to John Mayer or something. I don’t think “Your Body is a Wonderland” will be rockin’ the service anytime soon. Or maybe I’ve just been listening to it wrong all these years.


Let Me Love You

I have this need to say “I love you” at least once a day. It’s like a tic. Like I might go crazy if I don’t say it at least once to someone. Anyone. Well not anyone. I don’t tell the barasitas at Starbucks that I love them. That would be chaos.


Dude, it’s just coffee.

But I do tell my parents, my sister, some of my friends, my stuffed dog Bosco, certain television characters….

Sometimes I’ll just text people randomly in the middle of the night things like “Hey, I love you. I just thought you should know.” Which is always met with the response, “What’s wrong? Are you dying?”

My favorite thing about being back at home is just being able to tell my mom I love her as many times as I want. At school, I have to jump through hoops to get my fix. But at home, I just let the “I love you”s fly.

So much so that I think she’s grown annoyed by my constant affection. I don’t even have conversations anymore. Just a steady string of “I love you”s to break up the silence. Most of the time she smiles, but after about the seventeenth “I love you” of the hour she just kinda tunes them out. So I have to throw her off speed pitches, hiding the “I love you” with elaborate set-ups.

“Hey mom, I read this really cool article today. It said that scientists at MIT have finally determined that I love you.”

I have fun with it.

I don’t really know why I feel so compelled to constantly say “I love you.” I think somewhere in there I am scared that if I don’t constantly say it, I might never hear it back.  So I just say it all the time.


Don’t Fall in Love with Your Therapist

It is very difficult to turn the conversation from your parents’ drinking problem into a proposition for drinks. And yet the thought has legitimately crossed my mind at least once or twice over the course of my involvement with the latest intern at the revolving world of SCAD Counseling and Student Support Services. Why I’m there is not important. What is important to take away is that you should never fall in love with your therapist.

Nobody looks sexy as they whine for half an hour about their theater director being mean to them in high school. It is hard to portray yourself as the height of desire and masculinity after you get done talking about how you inexplicably started sobbing during the trailer for the Titanic 3D re-release. But still I spent countless hours before our meetings trying to find ways to tie in my recent bout of nightmares with ‘your hair looks pretty today’.

Needless to say, I am no Casanova. However, there was something so intriguing about having a beautiful woman know all my deep dark secrets and still seem to want to talk to me. So I entertained this idea, this weird little dream that maybe in some 50/50 type scenario that patient ends up with the therapist. You know, that classic tale all the young boys dream about growing up. But sadly I’m not Joseph Gordon Levitt. Therefore I wasted both of our time.

I should have spent the time to talk in depth about my rampant anxiety and social fears but what I did do was spend way too much time talking about our mutual love for the show Smallville. I should have practiced being assertive in my daily life. Instead I tried to decide if it was weird to show up to an appointment with flowers. It is.

I felt bad though. I was letting some flight of fancy get in the way of her being able to do her job. It felt sexist and weird on my part. Like I was a bad person. Like it was something we should talk about and explore. But I was too busy trying to figure out if that ring on her finger was a wedding ring or a family heirloom.

I was caught up in something new. There had never been someone who knew me on that kind of level. She knew all the skeletons in my closet. The things I don’t tell my best friends, the things I don’t tell my parents, the things she figured out that I didn’t even know. That was a form of intimacy I’d never experienced and yay, bonus, she’s a pretty girl. So my tiny 20 year old boy brain says, “Hey, this is love” and proceeded to make the rest of my time with her an awkward mess. I became very well versed in the ethical implications of the doctor/patient relationship but no closer to becoming well versed in the inner workings of Chase Wilkinson.

It wasn’t a total waste, obviously. There was a good month of quality venting and self-exploration before I started ordering horse drawn carriages and wrangling doves. But the problem started when I stopped trying to figure out who I am and began creating someone that she might want me to be even though her job was, in part, to help me figure out who I am.

I’ve never met a person who went to therapy and became more delusional.