I haven’t eaten a dessert in 26 days and won’t for the next 14. I am God. I am worthy of your worship. Nobody can do what I do. I am in total control of my impulses. Bow down to me all, you putrid withering scum-sucking heathen slugs.

I gave up sugar for Lent. A) because I want attention and B) I want to lose body fat, which is to say, I want attention. So, when you ask me to ice cream and I take a rain check, react to my discipline with visceral awe—please, I beg you. And when my nearest and dearest tell me to shut up about Lent because they’ve heard enough, know that it is attention all the same. I have received these blessings. The masses are deeply invested in and tired of my journey of sacrifice, and my man boobs have whittled down from water balloons to a tasteful gynecomastia. I’ve been told I look like a young Matt Damon by a middle-aged nurse. It seems God walks among the earth with you hedonistic cysts.

My deification began on Ash Wednesday, the day before Jesus spent 40 days in the wilderness. Or the desert, I can’t remember. Now I’m thinking about dessert. God fucking dammit. I digress. Everywhere I looked were foreheads crossed with ash, and for a moment I remembered I hadn’t willingly been to church in years. But not minutes later, I gorged on a Fat Tuesday dessert spread of Bananas Foster and dry raisin-y bundt cake while speaking passionately to uninterested people about how New Orleans has a super awesome food scene. That night, as I sauntered back to my room for another nightly belly inspection in my roommate’s mirror, I saw one more forehead laden with a smudged black cross, calling out to me. “I’ll give up sugar for Lent. No, forever.” I saw visions of myself 15 lbs lighter, golden and glowing like a holy tabernacle. “Ashes to ashes. What’s the point?” I thought. “But I’m going to look like Matt Damon!” It is written: Joe left the Jordan and was led by his own narcissism and a couple of foreheads to the wilderness, where for forty days he was tempted by the devil.

All my life I’ve felt overweight, and all my life I’ve felt at arm’s length from God. Often in thought but much less so in action, I will make attempts to feel comfortable playing Spikeball with my shirt off while believing in something greater than myself. I scour YouTube: “The Laziest Way To Build An Aesthetic Body,” “10 Reasons Not To Have Sex Before Marriage,” “Does Creatine Cause Hair Loss?,” “Cliffe Knechtle Proves The Existence Of God To Logan Paul.” I am overcome with passion, ready to live anew, sexy and sinless. The vain intensity with which I pursue these desires fills me up to the point of feeling sick and not wanting more. I turn my physical and spiritual hunger into masochistic gluttony, gorging on my insufficiencies.

One year ago, I went gung-ho and lost 25 lbs and read 73% of The Bible according to my Bible In One Year app. The consistency proved so fruitful I felt what it might be like to exist in stasis between feeling like a God and a slug. But Chronicles is just a repeat of Kings; protein turns into a trigger word. I gained all the weight back and more. I forgot who Absalom was. I ranted to a friend about these failures, oscillating between self-hatred and indifference towards that time of devotion. He replied, “You were so happy.” That crushed me a little.

If sugar is 9 times more addictive than cocaine, then technically I could be doing 9x as much cocaine, because this Lent business is easy as pie. The devil has been kind to me bar the occasional pastry scent, and when I slap my jawbones every few hours the surrounding fat makes a firmer sound. The real challenge comes when after I tell you that I am giving up sugar for Lent, you ask me, “Are you religious?” I don’t know how to answer. What once was a “Yeah, I mean—kinda” has become a stammered, disquieted “not really.” But even that doesn’t feel right to say. When you grow up in church you are enveloped in that world, and the notion of separating oneself from that world is a frightening one. But I don’t know if, even from childhood, I ever meant it when I said it.

So, it being Lent and all, I decided to go to any and all religious gatherings other than church. I went to Shabbat, a time of community and rest. I made attempts to be at one with this feeling of togetherness. But as the Rabbi told the story of Moses’ exodus, I became devoted to dipping the shreds of Challah into this oil infused with garlic and leeks. God, that fucking oil. I scrounged around the other tables to find more dippable Challah. All I can do is eat. But not dessert—I was tempted and I resisted. The next morning, I woke up at 4:30 a.m. with my friend to partake in Ramadan. I ate dates and bagels before sunrise, and fasted until a mighty 45 minutes before completing the fast with a goddamned banana. I couldn’t even go to Iftar because I was so embarrassed. Further desperate, I moved from “religious” to “spiritual” with a 7-hour silent meditation retreat. My mind wandered from sexual encounters to childhood TV advertisements, and for a few moments it all went silent and peaceful. Then I got pins and needles in my toes and had to readjust. In the end, I always get bored. I worship a God of novelty.

This spiritual gorging is hard to give up because I am very afraid of death and damnation. More so than I have ever been. When I fly on planes, I am an anxious weasel. On a visit to New York at 17, my dad insisted we go to Times Square Church, which fills a Broadway theater with hundreds of churchgoers. The worship is like a rock concert, and the energy is infectious. Then, the pastor told us the world would end, probably tomorrow. Will you be saved? Will your family be saved? Or will they turn to dust and pain before they put their faith in Him? The crowd moaned collectively in this agonized ecstasy. The sound was unforgettable. Not as unforgettable as the fear I felt. Rapture anxiety, they call it. I thought about the end of the world every day the rest of that year. Still scared of it. I think about the rapture on planes, when I could really die. But I didn’t eat sugar for 40 days.

The closest thing I have to a church is my weekly voice lesson, where my teacher—a 70-year-old lesbian with two adopted daughters, an ex-husband and a deceased son—gives me wonderful sermons about life in all its comedy and tragedy, followed by a few minutes of singing. Although she believes in God, first and foremost she believes in light. Humor. Kindness. Togetherness. And at certain times in life you can feel that light. In people and places. She says I have some of that light. It’s the nicest thing I’ve ever been told, better than any allusion to a celebrity. By God, I’m terrified that I’m losing it. Light. I want to feel and create light. I don’t want things to go dark. And that’s where the sugar comes in, I suppose. 

On Easter Sunday, the day of Christ’s resurrection, there’s a spot in town where you can get something they call a “Chocolate Chip Cookie Skillet Explosion.” I will be there, bib and silver spoon. I probably won’t be at church. I will gain back all the weight I lost. I will try and lose it again, sometime. I will get sad about not having faith again. And then I’ll forget. Then in a year I’ll see a forehead with some ash on it. Again and again and again.

I haven’t eaten dessert in 26 days and won’t for the next 14. Because it’s something I’ve never done. Because it’s something to do.

Joe McLean is a contributing writer for the Nassau Weekly.