I got to be Jesus by the time I was a teenager. It's been mostly downhill since . Expect bold claims about ex-housemates, petty grievances and odd memories about Wollongong.
Because I most closely resembled a Middle-Eastern man of all the girls in my year, I was once asked to be Jesus in the Easter Mass at my Catholic girls’ school. The rehearsal got me out of several maths classes and one double science class, and I enjoyed wearing a beard and acting like a man of god. I also enjoyed some prominence in my home town of Wollongong for about a fortnight afterwards (and I got a free strawberry milk at the canteen). I thought the only way was up for me. How very wrong I was.Other things did happen in my youth. I enjoyed an emotional affair with Oscar Wilde, my peers and I found a poo in a bra on the basketball courts, and when I moved out I lived in a share house with licentious Marxists. But when you were Jesus as a teenager, what is left but martyred eye-rolling at the horrible idiocy of whatever daily life has to offer you? Join me to find the answers – it should only take an hour.
