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Rasputin is a Buddha and so am I

There, I said it. You should know your favorite friend, J.C. is also a Buddha. Lots of Buddhas have existed. I have no idea if they’re the same entity reborn over and again, but who cares? I’m “enlightened.” (She scoffs at herself here.)

I don’t believe this God fellow. I think he must be a Native American trickster God, perhaps Crow or Coyote. He says Crow even though Wikipedia says Raven, so there you go. We can’t agree on a fucking thing, as it so turns out.

In fact, he’s pissed me off for the past two years pretty consistently. First, he won’t let me die, then he tells me if I tell anyone who I am, I will die, then he’s all like, “Just do it… they’ll think you’re insane.” Okay, I just did it. Am I simply insane?

I don’t think so. I know I was completely sane when this journey started. I thought the part now called God was a mortal man once. The man I proposed to in 2020 and is firmly in my rear-view mirror for reasons unknown to me. I guess God didn’t like him very much and decided he had a better candidate. Some dude in a deli who is supposedly going to school to become a lawyer while he works forty hour work weeks spatchcocking chickens and doing dishes in a grocery store.

Okay, great. Spatchcocking looks like an efficient way to broil a bird, but I can’t eat bird, did you forget that part, Lord God? Or any part of my dietary restrictions, which are, in summary, quite annoying and completely pretentious in totality? I feel like the princess and the pea. No matter what I eat (except a short list of maybe 40 things), I feel like shit. It makes me want to die. But I’m not allowed to die, no no.

This is the definition of torture, by the way. I want to take this God fellow to trial, since he talks my ear off day in and day out about how I have a bunch of legal actions I can follow up on. I want to hold him accountable for torturing me. He feeds me shit we both know I can’t eat, then he apologizes and does it again anyway. This is every man I’ve ever dated, by the way, and I want to point fingers at all of them for willingly poisoning me as they watched me gain weight eating alongside them. Eating cheese, specifically. Every single motherfucker who fed me cheese ought to die. (Excepting friends who clearly didn’t see me struggle day in and day out… no, wait, scratch that: all humans should die. Let’s not banter around semantics. ALL HUMANS OUGHT TO DIE.)

Well, I change my mind about the ones who want to fix things and keep the animals living. If I’m really all that special, I decide here and now: anyone doing their utmost to try to help this world continue to live — the ants, the bees, the badgers, the trees, et al — then I’m okay with them continuing on.

Those who just want individually wrapped everything in plastic so they can throw it away without a second thought? DIE IN A FUCKING FIRE. We need bio-plastic, you insane mofos. BIO-PLASTIC. PLASTIC MADE FROM PLANTS. It decomposes into DIRT. Where is it? Why is everything I buy wrapped in clingy see-through film? Why is it that my food has to be made immortal so it can sit on a shelf for a year and a half? Why can’t we just have more people chopping up whole, fresh foods for the convenience of sick people? (Only the sick deserve prepared foods, if you ask me. I’m sick! Please don’t hate me for being sick, I already do that for you.)

I don’t even know why I am so angry. Maybe it’s because I can no longer eat COOKIES. Even hoity toity cookies that are allergen-free make me feel like shit. YOU KNOW WHY?!?!?!

Cane. Sugar.

It’s the devil. Stop eating it.

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