Being in a cult would be kinda fun.

Whenever I see videos from the commune, it looks pretty good. There’s a sense of togetherness that (I wish that) I would like – coming together as a team to plant a tree, using perfect ergonomics to bring well water to the site, or joining to intimidate and overpower non-accepting locals whose land you’ve commandeered.

Does involvement in cults often end in either gruesome death or irreversible financial ruin? Of course. However, you mustn’t forget the joy of:

• Beach volleyball
• Pot lucks (particularly if you’re like me and enjoy attending pot lucks without actually bringing anything to contribute)
• Getting the chance to be a character in a Tarantino movie starting Leo and Brad. Pretty cool!

When I briefly lived in a small town of Texas a decade ago, I was able to lie to myself about how amazing it was to not care about checking my phone. Life was just so simple. There’s no hustle and bustle.

“It’s so freeing!” I initially thought.

Living in a small town in Texas is kind of like dipping your toe into a cult.

There’s a sense of community because of the self-imposed isolation. There’s an Us vs. Them complex against the federal government. There’s kindness amongst the tribe mixed with lots of guns.

That’s the beginnings of a pretty darn good cult, if you ask me.

However, what would it look like if I went all-in? What if I traded in my GoodFellow chinos for an off-white robe? Instead of constantly checking Twitter, I’d spend my afternoons doing yoga or scream therapy. I could hand the burden of keeping up with all my financial information over to the Guider.

Living on all that acreage, there are definitely some things about mainstream life that I wouldn’t miss.

Like the moment when you’re stuck in morning traffic and somebody either merges at the very last second or they drive on the shoulder to pass everybody and make the light. That’s an infuriating moment because some asshole refused to wait like the rest of us. Most of all, you’re mad because you haven’t been able to let go of that human decency.

You’re jealous they were able to let go.

And that’s what being in a cult is all about. Letting go.

(That and systematic brainwashing.)

Now, to be fair, there are certainly some downsides of cults.

For starters, there’s being stuck in a barn, any reconsideration or regrets being futile, and you simply burn alive at the hands of the government. That’s a bummer.

Also, there’s a 100% chance that The Guider will tell you that it is The Entity’s desire for him to have sex with your significant other. Like, guaranteed that happens.

Or it ends with a mass suicide and you drinking poisoned punch and you lay dead, stomach bloated, in the South American sun for others to find you. Which brings up two, equally important points:

• I have an irrational fear of dying in the nude. When I think of taking a shower and having an intruder storm in to kill me, it’s not the loss of life that scares me. It’s knowing that no matter my accomplishments, all the lives I’ve touched and all the laughter I’ve brought, it all comes to an end with me laying naked facedown on the bathroom floor with my bare butt in the air.
• There’s part of me that’s curious if cyanide punch just tastes like regular punch. Like, is there a chance that you get the courage to take that big drink and you find out it’s bitter or tastes like Malort? Your final thought would be, “Uuuugh, that is awful!” before you collapse to the ground – your butt up in the air.

But those downsides are all covers for the real reason why I couldn’t join a cult. Excuses to get out of it. Despite the allure of beach volleyball, pot lucks and going the bathroom just wherever, the reason that I just couldn’t join a cult is simple.

I really don’t like communal seating while I eat.