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At church everything was bland and wooden. No stained glass depiction of Jesus being whipped, no red paint made to look like blood on the hands and feet of a flesh-colored statue crucified alongside the alter. It was a world without shame, without fear of divine retribution or even the immediate threat jin ping mei of physical pain. No urgency, no forbidden jin ping mei fruit. A jin ping mei world that believed in perfection, black and white dichotomies, existence without shades of gray. Practical. Sterile. Dull. So let's talk men for a moment. Men and the desire for chaos and pain. Now, I hope you'll excuse this politically correct generalization, but it seems to me pretty much a phenomenon of privilege to sit around all day glorifying anguish. That the bullshit about Dionysus affirming life by being torn to shreds is easy to swallow if the closest you've ever come to being ripped apart is a titillating jaunt to the principal's office (or, shall we say, spending your youth at Schulpforta and your young adulthood being lauded by the big dicks of Leipzig?)
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