I would like, for a moment, to talk about the Christian girl who was a part of my upper-division Medieval Lit class. My feelings will be expressed in prose worthy of her delightful subtleties, similarly embodied in the fashionable model included to the left.
I call it:
The Martyrdom of an Underclassman Saint
Across the room she sits upon her tiny derrière with sunglasses donned, for the light of our sins has wounded her gaze. Her every movement is perfectly dainty, although this might be due as much to the fiberglass bone structure that tapers her face downward in disapproving — yet appropriately modest — pouts and sighs.
Again her hand is raised, wisdom offered willingly to us heathens, the gospel’s glory so powerful it shines through the veil of “suggestion.” Oh how poorly her queenly virtue is concealed, betrayed by browline creased by worry for us, her unenlightened peers!
How grand it is that she graces us with her presence, how gracefully she dares but nibble on grain bars of Kashi whilst we in ignorance seek heaven in the devil’s syllabus — how dainty she is chancing nary one baby carrot from the jar beside her bookbag, perched atop the table betwixt the navy binder and pencil case of woven pastel linen.
Thanks be to she for reminding us what Jesus would have thought of Chaucer’s implied opinion on premarital sex; blessed is she who stands strong in the margins of public opinion as we discuss stories inspired by such secular nonsense as the Holy Roman Empire and the Crusades. It is her steadfast resolve not to look at us while we claim that King Orfeo’s grafted tree is Celtic symbolism rather than God’s tree of life — for shame how Christ’s glory has been so corrupted by our liberal educations that she must reach out and remind us of what all should see so clearly!
tl;dr
Unless you’re sitting in a building that doubles as a prayer room on weekdays, your evangelical princess routine isn’t as endearing as you think it is. Put down your hand please.
I call it:
The Martyrdom of an Underclassman Saint
Across the room she sits upon her tiny derrière with sunglasses donned, for the light of our sins has wounded her gaze. Her every movement is perfectly dainty, although this might be due as much to the fiberglass bone structure that tapers her face downward in disapproving — yet appropriately modest — pouts and sighs.
Again her hand is raised, wisdom offered willingly to us heathens, the gospel’s glory so powerful it shines through the veil of “suggestion.” Oh how poorly her queenly virtue is concealed, betrayed by browline creased by worry for us, her unenlightened peers!
How grand it is that she graces us with her presence, how gracefully she dares but nibble on grain bars of Kashi whilst we in ignorance seek heaven in the devil’s syllabus — how dainty she is chancing nary one baby carrot from the jar beside her bookbag, perched atop the table betwixt the navy binder and pencil case of woven pastel linen.
Thanks be to she for reminding us what Jesus would have thought of Chaucer’s implied opinion on premarital sex; blessed is she who stands strong in the margins of public opinion as we discuss stories inspired by such secular nonsense as the Holy Roman Empire and the Crusades. It is her steadfast resolve not to look at us while we claim that King Orfeo’s grafted tree is Celtic symbolism rather than God’s tree of life — for shame how Christ’s glory has been so corrupted by our liberal educations that she must reach out and remind us of what all should see so clearly!
tl;dr
Unless you’re sitting in a building that doubles as a prayer room on weekdays, your evangelical princess routine isn’t as endearing as you think it is. Put down your hand please.