if i ever lose my faith….

Man, in its multi-gendered vastness, has, since the dawn of 1996, had an inherent desire to find an increased inner-peace, a raised level of contemplation. Some find their solace in drink, some in inappropriate couplings with inanimate couplings and some in hanging baskets. Each must find their own, and preferably legal path.
I must confess to being a huge slice of “Johnny come lately” in this particular cake of spiritualism, much to my chagrin. However, as with most late-arrivists, my religious abandonment has been monumental, but monumentally fleeting.
What was my vehicle for finding peace with our collective cognitive consciousness? As with many other,  largely male, mammals, I became a devout devotee of “layingwoodenflooringism”. Shepherded by the monks in orange aprons in the great cathedrals of DIY, they spoke and I listened, particularly to their 50% discount offers. My souls saw how revolting my threadbare pink carpet was and I knew it needed succour. And lo, I did magic 20 packets of flooring, miles of beading, gallons of glue and power tools I did not need but which looked ace. B&Q be praised.
Like most converts I dived in head-first with little or no thought, talked to anybody who came near me about my faith and then, over the space of a weekend, converted my dining room and living room. My primal language screams released my demons, the rusty nails embedded in the floor spilt my blood graciously. Yes there were some glaring flaws and gaps, but isn’t this the case in all faiths?
Alas, my candle which burned brightly, but all too fleetingly is hugely extinguished and now I never want to lay another fucking wooden floor board as long as I live. I have lost my faith…….

Hulk, Mad

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