In honour of the release of Paul Thomas Anderson's latest film, The Master, VICE will be cherry-picking articles from our vault of the peculiar and grotesque that have to do with strange sects and cults. Keep checking VICE.com throughout the week as we roll out more of these oldies but creepies.
I'm used to my friends making bad decisions. Bad decisions about sex, about money, about family, about jobs, about gambling, about who to leave their pets with while they go away to ATP, about trousers, about whether it's a good idea to call your guy again even though it's 6.45AM and no one is enjoying themselves, they're just sitting out the night hoping to get laid once people start to pass out. But, I've never had a friend make a bad decision about religion.
Yesterday, when I was meant to be editing, or writing, or making the intern taste pee, a friend told me she'd become a Scientologist on instant messenger (she told me this on instant messenger, I don't think you convert that way). This is the conversation that followed (it's on AIM, so please forgive grammar, spelling and style).
She's in pink and I'm in blue, because she's a girl and I'm a boy.
And so on into infinity. I'd never met a Scientologist before and, unfortunately, I soon realised that I knew nothing about Scientology and my opinions were all based on not wanting Tom Cruise's martian lice breeding in my arsehole, so I couldn't help her. Oh well, at least it killed some time. Follow Alex on Twitter @terriblesoup