The verdict is in. I took the test (link below) and I've been doomed to the 8th Level of Hell. This is what my eternity holds:
The wretched King Minos has decided your fate. His tale wraps around his body 8 times.
The sweet light no longer strikes against your eyes. Your shade has been banished to... the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge
Many and varied sinners suffer eternally in the multi-leveled Malebolge, an ampitheatre-shapped pit of despair Wholly of stone and of an iron colour: Those guilty of fraudulence and malice; the seducers and pimps, who are whipped by horned demons; the hypocrites, who struggle to walk in lead-lined cloaks; the barraters, who are ducked in boiling pitch by demons known as the Malebranche. The simonists, wedged into stone holes, and whose feet are licked by flames, kick and writhe desperately. The magicians, diviners, fortune tellers, and panderers are all here, as are the thieves. Some wallow in human excrement. Serpents writhe and wrap around men, sometimes fusing into each other. Bodies are torn apart. When you arrive, you will want to put your hands over your ears because of the lamentations of the sinners here, who are afflicted with scabs like leprosy, and lay sick on the ground, furiously scratching their skin off with their nails. Indeed, justice divine doth smite them with its hammer.
Take the test: Dante's Inferno Test
September 27, 2006
September 25, 2006
In The Wake Of The Reaper
Death. It’s not a subject people want to talk about, and it certainly isn’t one about which I profess to be an expert. But it’s hitting me like a ton of bricks lately.
Six weeks ago my brother died at the age of thirty-nine. It wasn’t a traumatic death, nor was he sick. Okay, I take all that back. His death has been very traumatic, and he was suffering from something unforeseen, even by his doctor. He just tipped over as a result of massive pulmonary embolism – blood clots of the lungs.
I’ve been doing a lot of crying these past few weeks. I only had thirty-nine years to get to know him and happy memories make me miss him to tears. Not only must I endure my own grieving, but I also have to bear the grief of my family. It is almost too much to tolerate, and yet we all manage to see the sunrise day after day. It doesn't seem fair that the sun is rising without my brother being around to see it.
Only within the past week have I found the slightest motivation to redevelop a daily routine for myself. The experts say routine is a good way to heal and to affirm our own lives, so I must be on the right track.
Just when I have assured myself that living my own life is not disrespectful to my brother’s loss of it, Boyfriend tells me his mother has cancer. This is not only the time I must pick up the shattered remains of myself, but I now have to go through another traumatic life experience, watching Boyfriend process the fact that his mother may be dying.
Things have definitely been put into perspective in the last six weeks. Not much gets me riled. I'm tolerant. I'm insightful. I'm empathetic. Will my edge ever resurface from beneath this all-loving persona that has taken over my body? The angry little me couldn’t have disappeared simply due to a couple of life-altering occurrences, could it? I miss seeing the stupidity in people while I behave calmly tolerant. Instead of angst I engage in and embrace serene thoughts of divine purpose and afterlife.
Have life’s recent events made me a better person? Or have I failed in being authentic to my impatient and cynical self as a result of some sentimental glitch in my circuitry?
Damn these mysteries of life.
Six weeks ago my brother died at the age of thirty-nine. It wasn’t a traumatic death, nor was he sick. Okay, I take all that back. His death has been very traumatic, and he was suffering from something unforeseen, even by his doctor. He just tipped over as a result of massive pulmonary embolism – blood clots of the lungs.
I’ve been doing a lot of crying these past few weeks. I only had thirty-nine years to get to know him and happy memories make me miss him to tears. Not only must I endure my own grieving, but I also have to bear the grief of my family. It is almost too much to tolerate, and yet we all manage to see the sunrise day after day. It doesn't seem fair that the sun is rising without my brother being around to see it.
Only within the past week have I found the slightest motivation to redevelop a daily routine for myself. The experts say routine is a good way to heal and to affirm our own lives, so I must be on the right track.
Just when I have assured myself that living my own life is not disrespectful to my brother’s loss of it, Boyfriend tells me his mother has cancer. This is not only the time I must pick up the shattered remains of myself, but I now have to go through another traumatic life experience, watching Boyfriend process the fact that his mother may be dying.
Things have definitely been put into perspective in the last six weeks. Not much gets me riled. I'm tolerant. I'm insightful. I'm empathetic. Will my edge ever resurface from beneath this all-loving persona that has taken over my body? The angry little me couldn’t have disappeared simply due to a couple of life-altering occurrences, could it? I miss seeing the stupidity in people while I behave calmly tolerant. Instead of angst I engage in and embrace serene thoughts of divine purpose and afterlife.
Have life’s recent events made me a better person? Or have I failed in being authentic to my impatient and cynical self as a result of some sentimental glitch in my circuitry?
Damn these mysteries of life.
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