Viggo loves us more than Jesus

Last night Lindz, of Scurvy Dawgs fame, spent the night at my house. I was awakened this morning when she came in and said, "Quick, there's people at the door and I don't think we want them!"

"Froggle," I said, eloquently, as is the wont of my sleepy self.

She disappeared into the living room and I sort of stumbled in after her, only to stop dead in my tracks when I realized that the people at the door were two young, earnest-sounding Mormons.

Mormons!

I felt crazy trapped. There they were, on the other side of the door, with nothing but Lindz standing between the two of them and my immortal soul. It was terrifying. Fortunately, she got rid of them rather quickly and efficiently by looking as sleepy, bored and unhappy as possible. And for those of you who don't know Lindz, I assure you that it's the most pitiful thing ever to see her unhappy. The two of them quickly gave her a little flyer and went on their way.

I never know what to do in that situation. They sounded so sincere! I know if they knew what my religious persuasion was they'd definitely tell me I was going to hell and feel really guilty about it if they couldn't convince me. I want to make them sit down and tell them, "Look, I'm not going to hell, you don't have to worry about me. In fact, you don't have to worry about a lot of the stuff you worry about because we're all creating our own realities anyway! And I'm very happy with what I believe, and you should make sure you are, too, rather than just parroting something somebody told you. Because I think not at least making an effort to know yourself and what you believe is blasphemy in the truest sense." But obviously that's neither the right nor practical thing to do. Nor would it do any good.

I wonder if blogging about internal religious frustrations like this borderlines on proselytizing? Hmm. Leave me a comment if you feel taken advantage of in any way and I'll conduct an informal poll.