The Seven Deadly Sins Read Online Free PDF Page A

tripe.
    Real nachos are an event, a glorious commingling of meats, cheeses, peppers, chipotle, sour cream, guacamole, and crispy
maize saucers for two or more people bent on abdominal destruction. Nachos should be a mountainous conflagration, a majestic Tex-Mex experience in which every bite is delicious yet no two bites taste the same.
    Movie theater nachos are a fucking lie. They are a public travesty to all things edible, a moral distraction brought on in an attempt to reshuffle a stagnant menu produced by an industry pigeonholed by their own narrow views of “snack time.” It is not our fault their most popular items are the same three we have had for years—popcorn, soda pop, and candy. But they did it to themselves. If they had started out with a wider array of foodstuffs, we would not even be having this damn conversation. But I will not let my beloved nachos fall victim to this. I will fight with every breath to keep my nachos pure and disgustingly elaborate. Every breath, motherfuckers!
    Good, now I am pissed, so it is the perfect time to talk about wrath.
    You know the feeling. Darkness boxes your line of sight on either side. Your vision itself gets blurry; you can almost see demons in the trails your eyes trace across the room. There is bile that seems more like venom than saliva in the back of your mouth. Your fists clench and unclench until the palms of your hands tear open, and blood starts a sad journey to the ends of your fingers, mapping out the events that led to this debilitating state of mind. Psychologically, you can shift several ways. You can become loud and abrasive, abusing friends and family, cursing, regressing intellectually. You can also slip into a deadly silence, the calm before the storm, suffocating the world with the quiet known only before all hell breaks loose. One thing will always remain the same: As passion goes, wrath—or rage—is
nearly indistinguishable from love in its intensity, the two epic ends of the maelstrom that makes us human.
    Sure, it looks fancy. It is easy to wax poetic about this simple emotional mechanism. We all know the feeling too well. Some people cry; most scream their throats bloody. But it is truly the one “sin” on our list that unites us. Most of us can cope or subdue our lusts, our appetites, our lack of drive, our selfish sides, our tendencies to covet, and so on.
    But we all get mad.
    Admit it.
    Just fucking admit it.
    We all get mad .
    Personally I do not see anything wrong with it.
    To rage is to feel, just like love and hate. But those things are not a part of our so-called “Deadly Seven.”
    Am I right, folks?
    There is a fine reason why rage is not a sin. When used for venting purposes, it can be so cathartic. It feels good to get shit off of your chest, even if it is someone else’s turd stuck in the hairs. We gripe, yell, complain, vent, rant, rave, retort, and expunge because it feels really good to do so, and there is not a damn thing bad about it. It is a way for us to let out a breath, clear the air, and get back to what this species should be doing in the first place: dancing in the streets, happy to be alive.
    However, wrath is also the one “sin” on the list whose darkness is immediately recognizable because it is a feeling that can be reciprocated instantly. In other words, rage is very contagious. All it takes is that little push, that little extra bit of selfish violation. It can pierce the very time in which you are witnessing and bring on a sadness that can linger for a lifetime.
Fortunately, a strong mind would blame the person, not the rage.
    Unfortunately, I have seen the damage firsthand.

    I was eleven when these experiences became a part of my life, and after this, innocence became very hard to come by. I had to grow up quick, and I did not do a very good job. It is amazing and sad what we have to do to survive sometimes. Every source of protection came crashing down when I saw the