I didn’t cry when Princess Di died. I get excited when there’s a tornado warning, even though it means people could die. I laugh at people who think standing in a doorway will help. And I can’t sympathize with animated oven mitts doing painful sit-ups under the direction of a personal trainer named Lars, even if it’s to get in shape for the debut of Arby’s new roast beef sandwich.

But then again, I think God died in a gas chamber in the Holocaust.

Am I being bitter? Yes. Melodramatic? Probably. But I grew up in Oklahoma City, and all the tornados I have ever seen put together pale in comparison to one morning with Timothy McVeigh.

When one of your best friends survives only because his alarm clock didn’t go off, then you can judge whether or not I lack compassion. When your wife gets post-traumatic stress disorder from trying to help, then you can judge whether or not I lack compassion. When your church and the park where you used to hang out are destroyed in a blast, then you can judge whether or not I lack compassion. When not noticing the passing of April 19 is a personal milestone, then you can judge whether or not I lack compassion. Until then, shut the fuck up.

Raising children in comfortable upper-middle class suburbia gives you no upper hand in the compassion department, no surplus of moral fortitude, no wellspring of love for your fellow man. But judgemental sentimentality? That’s another question altogether.

I guess I’m just a cold, heartless stone. Maybe you should send me a fruit basket.

Yet another nail in the hand of the Savior.