Zoe Nightingale

If I had a dollar for everytime someone who loved god told me he wished I had never been born I would be diving in Scrooge Mc Duck style vaults of gold coins, and doing back strokes through rubies. I don't know why I do it. Why do I always want to talk to men standing on bible soapboxes? So there I was minding my own business on an epic date to see the best musical of all actual time, Hamilton, with my favorite person ever Navin. He is a gorgeous caramel colored Indian man, which obviously angered our lord and savior because out of nowhere this very angry man was yelling that particular blend of hypocritical diametrically opposed hooey of love and hate that ONLY religious zealots can master. Why do I always stop? What is actually wrong with me? I can't help it. They are my meth, the flame to my moth antennae, and I cannot keep away from their glittery hot white light. I just want once, just once to have an articulate conversation with someone about Jesus. I Challenge you internet universe, to send me someone