Hey, Yom Kippur. I see you. Don't act like you're creeping up on me. Once that shofar blew on Rosh Hoshana, I've had you in my cross hairs. You don't scare me like you used to, and this isn't the first time I've fasted. This surely isn't the first time I've atoned for my sins. I'm not 13 anymore. I'm all grown up. The hunter has become the hunted.
And I will dominate you.
On the night before, I'm gonna eat so much pork and shellfish that I'm gonna puke. Oh that's not kosher? That's a sin? It won't matter once I dominate you.
I bet you think I'm going to be hungry during the day. I bet you'd love that. I bet you'd tell all your holiday friends about how I was checking the clock, waiting for sundown. Too bad I won't notice how hungry I am when I'm napping all afternoon. Yeah, that's right. Tell your buddy Simchat Torah to suck it.
Oh, and that "waiting for sundown to eat" bullshit. Seems like a lovely rule. It really does. But I'll be breaking fast at 3:30 because my cousins have to get back to Albany.
You call yourself the day of "Atonement." More like day of "shitty Keira Knightley period piece." Burn.
Go ahead, relish in the fact that I'll be sitting through insufferable services at my local synagogue. Well, I've got news for you: I don't belong to a synagogue.
Consider yourself dominated.
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