Fire
In my view
Having babies was supposed to be something beautiful, not a duty. Something incredible, not role-playing. Bringing new life into this dying world, promising hope for a saner tomorrow. As I saw it, any expectation of sanity rested in a woman's womb. God should have given eve another chance. Instead he turned her away, no way to make the world better.
Regardless, barring blizzards or bouts of projectile vomiting, I attended Sunday services every week, and that week was no exception. Three solid hours of crying babies and uninspired testimony all orchestrated by bishops, presidents, prophets, and priests, each bearing a masculine moniker, specialised "hardware," and "God-given" attitude; of taking the sacrament, bread and wine, served up by deacons, all boys. The message came through loud and clear: Women are inferior. And God likes it that way.
Silly me I refused to believe it. Not only that, but I began to resent the whole idea. I had watched women crushed beneath the weight of dreams, smashed. I had seen them now down before their husband, and not just figuratively. I had witnessed bone-chilling abuse, no questions, no help, no escape. All in the hopes that when they died, and reached up from the grave, their husbands would grab hold, tug hard, and allow them to enter heaven. As I sat through that sacrament meeting, observing those women nod and kowtow, my warped little mind wondered if any of them ever dreamed about really hot guys.
