The worst thing about being a fake convert is that this stuff, it follows you home.
Two rosaries are hanging in my hallway. One was employed as a prop when I walked into the Catholic bookstore to begin my fake conversion. The other actually looks pretty nifty, it’s got wooden roses as beads and I can wear it as a fashion peace and pretend to do so un-ironically. Then there’s the plain wooden cross hanging on the wall above my bed. It’s just there. For show, I guess.
Funny story: I went through the “Rite of Welcoming” back in November. Pre-baptism hubbub. My very religious Catholic grandmother answered my invitation to attend this pointless ritual. She deserves her own post, so we’ll talk more about her later. Afterword, we had breakfast at a diner across the street from my apartment. That very apartment came up in the conversation, naturally, and I realized, to my horror, that in my haze of not giving a fuck before ten a.m. on a weekend, I had forgotten to stash away my alter. This is very obviously an alter, by the way. There’s a black book with a pentacle and candles and acorns and it doesn’t look innocent. I’m proud of myself for making an excuse awesome enough to validate ditching my grandmother and her boyfriend at this diner to run out to stuff the alter contents away better than you hid that porn you stole from your dad that one time. I even stuck some knickknacks on the otherwise awkward table and dashed back like a secret pagan super hero.
So proud of myself. End hubris.