What would atheists think?

I couldn't get into the Darwin Day debate in the RuHo ballroom. No surprise there, really. Coming back from journalism, I saw a couple church buses unloading on Greene Street. So I'm live streaming it from justin.tv/darwindaydebate. Click it, my theologically curious friend, and see if it's still up there.
Must say, Mr. Baker is kicking Mr. Butts's ass (no pun intended until I typed this, I swear) by using logic that Mr. Butts can't answer and does not answer except to indirectly call Mr. Baker a Nazi and a baby killer. To be fair, though, Mr. Baker just called Mr. Butts a baby killer, too, in his rebuttal where he talks about the wrath of the old Testament god.
Also, Mr. Butts seems not to understand sarcasm. Of course the human hand wasn't created to fit into gloves! Mr. Barker was JOKING to make a POINT. Holy crap. I hate people who don't understand humor. And people with thick ass Southern accents. Two strikes, sir. Two.
Watching this chat room feed is making my head spin. So...much...bad...grammar...so...many...typos...so...little...actual...facts...*bshhht* My brain just exploded from the circularity of it all. Fuck, I could've used that for next week's computer test.
"He truly does not understand heaven and hell."
Well, duh. Because he doesn't believe in either. What's there to understand if nothing is there?
Of course you're not degrading Dan at all, Kyle. Of course not. It's all God.

The only thing I believe in is that we each make our own meanings in life.

Current project:
Have been a lazy ass about writing fiction this week. Last full week of robotics, so I figured I'll wait until all that shit dies down to a dull roar and I'm bored as hell by 7pm most evenings again.
I have been reading some great short stories, though, in a book collection called The Torturer's Apprentice by John Biguenet. They're little thumbnail sketches about creepy slices of life written with the same elegant, dark urgency running through all of them.

I wolfed a waffle cone full of Nutter Butter ice cream on the way to my astronomy lab.

Tuesday I went and squirmed on the chair across the desk from Dr. R, the psychiatric nurse I've been seeing ever since Lisa steered me in the direction of medication for my depression. (I was diagnosed in September and on meds within a couple weeks.) This time I managed to keep a straight face when she asked me if I've developed any super powers since we upped my dose.
I hate it. I hate going to the Student Mental Health Center place. The decorations try so hard to be calm and non-confrontational (I do like the big bright green iguana painting in Lisa's office, though.), nobody looks each other in the eye, the copies of People are shamefully outdated.
Most of all, though, I hate the scrutiny. I hate talking about the painful shit in my life--of course I do. Nobody likes talking about the painful shit. But that's what I have to do. Last time I talked about the daddy issues every red-blooded post-Freudian person has.
All of this seems really far away from the episodes when I get dragged down into a funk, staring at a giant lump of bad gunky and feeling it weigh down my shoulders until I'm too tired to do anything else.
And then other days this whole depression shtick feels like self-pitying masturbation.