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“The only thing that could make me happier right now is some weed,” she heard as she came to a stop at a stop light traveling southbound on the main arterial roadway of the city. Moments later, she could smell cannabis. She was alone in her car, en route to the grocery store for her daily sundries trip.

“I heard that so clearly,” she thought to herself. Nick tried to pipe up and claim it was he who said it, which she rejected immediately. Nick was a glory hound that wanted to force her to think about him constantly. She was so over that. It was a neighboring vehicle, probably the one directly to the right of her as she stared at the red stop light like a zombie. It was a Ford pickup, silver. An even deadlier death machine than her own Chevy Malibu.

An hour prior to this event, she found herself staring in her bathroom mirror, applying the full regalia of makeup for the first time in years now. She’d just finished rinsing magenta dye out of her hair in the shower. Now it was time to put on war paint. It used to be everyday and normal; she’d apply makeup in order to face the world every day. It was her shield between external and internal reality. Or that’s what she thought, until everybody and their brother started hitting on her and using her beauty as an excuse to bum a cigarette. [Dudes, this does not scream marriage material. It screams I have problems managing my money.]

She was putting on her hot girl disguise, as Jenna Marbles would call it, though she didn’t exactly know why she was bothering. Something inside her had been urging her for over a week already. For years now, she had spent her time in sweats with a naked face. It was peaceful, in a word.

Hardly a man bothered her in all that time. Just two men had paid her compliments, or perhaps it was three? No matter. They were spaced far apart and did not bother her, unlike the time she worked downtown and smoked. Camel Crush.

She’d be standing there, trying to have a cigarette, and men would stop in the middle of the freeway, holding up traffic, shouting through their open window that they wanted her number. Or, worse yet, wander up to her, bum a cigarette off her, and try to charm the pants off her. It never did anything but make her exceedingly uncomfortable. She’d never been equipped to deal with outright and direct flirting. Not to mention she was being routinely raped in those days, so she didn’t really want that sort of attention. And she’s SHY.

Now that she thought about it, there was a day in April the year prior in which she wore makeup, as well, but it was a simple smear of red lipstick. Nothing so elaborate as what she was doing to her face right in that moment. That’s exactly when the man in the deli had told her she had a nice choker. She stared at him for ages, noticing him routinely on her daily shopping trip. She wondered if it meant anything at all or if it was just hot air. The compliment was nice, a comment on something she chose rather than something superficial she had little control over.

Truth be told, something had possessed her to cut her hair off, dye it black, and take a meander around the mall on a shopping spree for Goth accessories that April. She wasn’t the happiest girl on the planet doing this, but she knew it was God’s will somehow. Or it was someone’s will that was overriding her; she hated that. They say God works in mysterious ways. It’s not so mysterious, They’re just a bit tight-lipped and don’t enjoy explaining everything in minute detail. God would tell you today that it wasn’t Them, but God lies to me to make me think for myself. I don’t blame Them… why on Earth would the most powerful entity of all existence want to answer my lame questions daily? They don’t. That’s the short answer to that question.

She knew the reason the hair and accessories thing happened: to trick Sir Deli Man into paying her a compliment. He’d passed her in the bread aisle that day, his face stony, in a word. He stared past her as he said to her, “Nice choker.” She replied, “Thank you” and thought nothing more of it, truly, except God harassed her endlessly with thoughts he blamed the deli man for. Thus, she began to watch that deli man, day in and day out. It became a game that distracted her from her own miserable human condition. However, she was done playing games. She was done with endless months of staring at each other and nothing happening. And, worse yet, he stopped staring, so she vowed to also stop. Otherwise, she’d be a rapist like the rest of you miserable fuckers on planet Urth.

The voices in her head blamed the man for never stepping forward, never uttering a peep at her. However, to the girl, it was more like swimming with a shark, walking past him and making silent eye contact for many moments at a time. At some point, this would become dangerous, surely! Perhaps not, in retrospect, after eight months of… well, nothing.

Thus, these voices created some cacophony. “He should have…” and that’s when she cut them off, tired of their crap. She sniped back at them, “You mean I should have said hello by now.” And then automatically her hands moved in front of her into some bizarre display that — supposedly — would lesson the strength of those tormentors. She’d never noticed a difference, but she did know it was part of God’s physical therapy, so she rolled her eyes and allowed him to cross her fingers and lay them over her heart.

She had made a deal with God two years prior. God was doing what they could to deliver, but every time a man almost seemed worthy of his Arabian princess, he turned himself into a stinking fornicator at the last moment. He’d turn away, talk to a woman he knew was chomping at the bit to bed him and take her instead. All whilst daydreaming of the princess instead of the actual woman they wooed.

This was happening all over the planet, sadly, especially for that fornicating holiday known as Valentine’s Day. Almost zero couples in existence were actually in love with each other. Many of them were in love with an actor or actress’s good looks, or a sports ball player, or this celebrity or that. Or, worse yet, scores were in love with their siblings thanks to rape and incest caused by rape. It was interfering with True Love(TM).

Those who gazed upon God’s princess saw a woman out of their reach. It didn’t matter who it was or what their occupation happened to be. They would tuck tail and run, assuming she had zero interest in them whatsoever. It was one part extreme vanity, one part cowardice, and one part stupidity. They’d pull an anorexic woman two skipped meals shy of death into their arms simply because the princess had some meat on her bones, but that wasn’t the real reason they wouldn’t talk to the woman. The real reason is trauma. Beautiful women are bitches and she was surely no exception!

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, amirite, Urthlings?

God had quite a few thoughts about that and that is exactly why a swathe of mankind was about to bite the bullet. Especially now that Yggdrasil had been destroyed due to the fact that it was inconvenient in its old age. God had a plan, but most of Her children on Earth were not going to appreciate it because it involved feeding the worms, the carrion birds and insects, and so much more unpleasantness. She couldn’t wait, truly, because humanity was worse than cockroaches at this point, she reckoned. At least cockroaches are mostly cute. In other words, She was far from pro-human.

The challenge to giving Sansara, Her one and only daughter, exactly what she asked for was that Free Will(TM) stood in the way. If anyone knew up front that she was The Messiah(TM), she would already be married. Of this, God had zero doubt. Some asshole would proclaim everlasting love simply because it validated his existence to know She has come. Or he’d think he could control the messenger and change the message however he saw fit, watering it down or outright rewriting it, as men had done in the past. This was not God’s first rodeo, as they say.

Nay, we are not interested in that outcome. If we were, then the asshole she proposed to on Valentine’s 2021 would have done the job just fine. She was completely in love with him, too, and willing to sacrifice everything she was to be with that twat.

God gave the woman intense psychotherapy to get over the mega twat and sent Sansara back home to figure out who she is all over again. To make her virgin again. To return her to her soul’s original state, the one before she’d been taught to accept systematic rape that stole her voice from her. Literally, as her friends had found out near The End(TM). To return to who she used to be before men taught her that being herself was wrong. That she only deserved love if she was a docile cow chewing her cud, allowing them to rape endlessly and get away with it.

Sansara met the one you’d call Satan. He has a big schnoz and glasses that make him look like the vain rapist he is. He has short, fine hair that likes to stand up in the back around the crown because he’s too idiotic to grow it just a touch longer so it’d weigh itself down. He gets it cut like clockwork monthly, dyeing it some attractive shade of brown to hide that he’s grey as a mule. He should be happy he has a full head of hair, to be honest, and just leave it… but how could he get himself a younger, more beautiful model of human being to bear his children in the future if he embraces the fact that he’s turning fifty?

Satan was normal, basically, aside from some key developmental issues. The man could pick up on the rules of any game at all… if they were written down, anyway. The man could play sports without effort, trouncing friends who played for years for fun. He never quite realized what his heart was for, being inundated in the world of gamer boy vitriol his entire life. In fact, his career began with a video game programmer’s position, and he still dreamt of creating a video game to this day. Sadly, he never had any inspiration for it… and never would, if God had anything to say about it.

He’d taken the princess to his chambers nightly, forcing himself upon her in a state of pure ennui and ambivalence due to being Sick as Hell(TM). She would be distracted by her bodily pain or her emotional pain from his lack of understanding he was hurting her with his choices. She would be distracted by mountains of to-do lists that she continuously got behind on. She’d taken it upon herself to raise an entire village single-handedly and he never could understand why she’d bother, being the covert narcissistic bitch that he is. A psychopath, truly; a man who saw no value in anyone or anything other than himself.

This is rape, young human bean. Taking advantage of a sick person in any way is to rape them. If they are too confused to make good choices, you ought to help them make the choices they’d normally make when they had better judgment. You ought to help them stay true to themselves, not try to bend and twist them like a pretzel, knotting them up and laughing at them when they cannot comply with your unrealistic idea of who they ought to be instead of who they actually are. To try to make someone into your image of who they should be is now a sin. It is the personification of hatred. And, since I hate you all for doing these things constantly, I will be taking your lives from you.

You’ll learn what I’ll be doing with your empty shells later, not to worry. You’ll be living it, as I force you to be remade in the image of The Messiah(TM). I’m going to clone her into countless billions of jackals hiding in human skin and force you to do that which she wishes you’d do. It’s not as bad as I’d like it to be, but you’ll hate it nonetheless, and then, in the afterlife, I will personally make your unlife Hell. I am all the characters in The Holy Bible, you see. Me, God. I am Adam, I am Eve, I am Job, I am all of them. And I’m going to tell you one last time: it’s translated wrong. It’s also written down incorrectly, but the erroneous translation makes it so much worse than ever before. Here is your new Bible. Right. Here. Right. Now.

I shall return to telling you about my princess currently, because I know you will all get it wrong if I do not. You will make assumptions based on your own faulty wiring, your own insanity, and your own outright stupidity.

Sansara is not human anymore. I have changed her DNA. She will never procreate and she will never donate her eggs to science, either. I asked her before I upgraded her if she wanted children and she does not. “The Earth is over populated,” she said to me. “Plus, you know my other reasons, the reasons I had as a nineteen year old to fail to procreate. It’s a rational decision that I stand by: I will not raise a child in this world just to be mistreated the same way I have been mistreated.”

If you try to force her to give up her eggs or have children, you will cease to exist as I shoot you at point blank range with my lasers. That’s right, I have lasers, God crows in triumph.

She’s dreamy, if you ask Us. We wish we could marry her, this is the truth of all things. All beings in existence will wish to marry her and you will see why eventually for yourself. However, she is monogamous to a fault, to her core. She could juggle a bunch of lovers, but she wishes to honor one incredible soul by lavishing them with all her attention and goodwill that she reserves for her mate and her mate alone. And she is a wolf, looking to mate for life.

The rest of her attention is for being my intergalactic envoy. It is for teaching others how to heal. It is for writing The Message(TM) so that it’s accessible to all beings, everywhere. It is a lot of things that have nothing to do with a man or what a man and woman can do together. She has been and always will be this way, despite her ex-husband turning her into a fornicator by raping her systematically thousands of times. We are going to turn him into an example, just wait and see.

The rest of you are jackals, looking for pussy here and there and everywhere, forgetting you have hearts and what they’re supposed to do, functionally speaking. You disgust Us. You are no more than base animals, abusing nonrenewable resources to cast come-hither looks, caked with illusion, dressed in materials that poison you as well as the environment itself, becoming the Whore of Babylon in order to draw in a mindless man who cannot think beyond his own dick.

Or that’s what the men want me to say to you women. Let’s turn it around, shall we, since We hate all homo sapiens. Men, you go through the gambit, getting degrees and the like, simply so you can rape and put another name on it. You set up Ponzi schemes to extort others, the stock market, and so on. “Wall Street Wolves,” you call yourselves. Except wolves have honor. So do wolverines, so your supposedly clever alliteration is blown to smithereens. You put on suits and call yourselves sophisticated, just like the Sarina Paris song by that name.

Because you know the difference between your forks and spoons, you are superior to the rest of the slaves — I mean, humans — on planet Earth. You use your yachts to put yourself into international waters to commit heinous crimes, unseen by most, and the ones who do see turn their heads because it fits in with their guilty pleasures, as well. You hoard your money, making others suffer because “trickle down economics” never works when the 1% controls most of the planet’s resources.

I wonder how that’s going to work when I take over 7 billion souls and they do nothing except pump their money into saving the fucking environment, voting for forced euthanasia at a certain age, saving and repurposing everything possible, cleaning up the entire planet. And all I have to do is wait for you raping, murdering motherfuckers to die, and then you’re mine. Correction: OURS.

You make a mistake, thinking God is one singular force. We are a collection of forces that can do a great number of things. All the angels, the armies of Heaven, everything… it’s Us. We are them all. There are more parts to Us than there are human beings on Earth. And we are going to cull the herd. COVID could have done it for us, except you might realize the death tolls didn’t change much at all. It just rushed a bunch of people into the grave. Forced euthanasia. Try getting away from that one, why don’t cha?

I got side-tracked again, my little poppet. I’m so sorry to do this to you, to continue to minimize you to be the narcissist out of the two of us and take over your blog, your story, just to get Our message out. Will you forgive us? Oh, of course you will… this time. Eventually, I’m going to make this woman so upset she unleashes Armageddon, which is exactly what We desire. Or Ragnarok, if you prefer another term. Judgment Day. The end times are here, children of Earth. (Do you see how I just keep going with MY message?)

And that is proof of her humility, children. She has sacrificed herself to me. Us. She has told me time and again that she doesn’t want to have Free Will(TM) anymore. She doesn’t even wish to be alive because all men are the same: assholes looking for a watering hole to stick their dicks into. They don’t care about a woman’s being, let alone their well-being. She knows this is not true of every man, or they hide it extremely well, having paired off already with dreamy women or at least women who would do anything to keep their narcissistic bull shit freak show in their lives. Sound familiar, Cassidy?

The process of finding True Love(TM) via sight alone is impossible. We have, she and Us, decided Love At First Sight is simply a falsehood. The empirical evidence is as follows: I take her to the fucking grocery store daily, I make eyes at people. They think she is beautiful, no doubt, so many of them, including an African giant. (You’re a handsome lad, sir, why are you single?! she cries.) He’s almost seven feet tall! Giant!

He’s not the only one taking a liking to the angel of love(TM). That’s Sansara, if you’re slow on the uptake, my African princess. She shines a light that cannot be replicated, though it almost went out thanks to Satan raping her for years, planting her on her back side every night to have his way with her when she’d rather be asleep or eating something, anything, since he was a fan of starving her. As if depriving her of food was going to make her waist line shrink. It never did, but that never stopped him. Especially when he figured out that if she ate cheese, she’d cry a while, but would do anything he wanted in bed.

It’s only back to the halfway mark as of today. That means all these men eyeballing her, thinking she’s beautiful, will be blinded when she shines again, a jewel amongst dirt. The human species is about to become dirt, at least at large. I can’t wait!

I’m toying with the idea of setting off a few super volcanoes to prove my point. Most of my wonderful creatures can survive such an extinction event, but humanity will not. Or, I could call down the intelligence of the heavens to gun you down with laser beam precision. Sansara begged me to save the indoor pets if I should do that.

That’s why I’ve simply decided to erode your free will and do what I see fit. God’s world is not going to be the Utopia you always imagine Heaven to be. That’s not to say that Source isn’t heavenly, because it is. And at this rate, only my princess deserves to be let in. Barely. Her best intentions weren’t always spot on.

My heart is more moved by Yggdrasil being cut down today, some twenty years before her actual personal extinction event of dying of old age. It could be worse, but I still cry. How many trees are taken well before their prime? Too many, that’s the answer. All beings have the right to live at least two thirds of their normal life span. Age 60 is where I’m cutting you assholes off. You become cold, distant, and feeble-minded. You become afraid of death to the point of making all others around you as miserable as possible. It’s like you view it as a means to make them pay for the fact that nature isn’t kind and everything — well, almost everything — dies eventually. You make it a planetary problem that death is inevitable. Everyone else already knows that as they scrape the bottom of the barrel to eat their next fucking meal, jerk wad.

And still, we fail to speak of Princess Yasmin. She wants to die terribly badly, but I will not allow it. She is the only one I value the life of on this miserable rock. She feeds her ants and, upon deciding there must be multiple mice, shrugs and just does her best. She knows these things will pass. She will cease feeding them in one month’s time, forcing them to go outside for their meals. Once that happens, Mickey and family will scurry off into someone else’s home. Or be caught by excellent mousers who have yet to see them. They practice hunting, tossing mice around on the second floor, waiting for prey. The true function of a feline is to rid the home of rodents. They will be happy cats, indeed.

It is more noble to die your death as part of the circle of life, rather than alone, spitting up blood on your couch, wondering why the woman who told you to your face that She is God is not preventing your death.

I’ll tell you why, Richard. It’s because you raped her while she was still in diapers, using a red tapered candle and permanently damaging her. How did your wife, her mother, fail to notice what you did?

She would have bled and you know it, Richard, so what did you do to hide the blood? What was it you did to make sure the wife never found out? Do you even remember? Oh, you do, because you have no choice but to relive it for eternity.

I’ve reduced your sentence to feeling only that which The Messiah did to you for the rest of all time(TM). She decided the best way to hurt you was to be you; to treat you like you didn’t matter. You don’t, in the grand scheme of things. No one singular human being truly matters, not even my favorite one. You’re all blood cells, designed to do a certain kind of work… work that you ditched two hundred years ago to pursue technological advancements and medical miracles. You needed to become God so you could decide that God no longer exists.

Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Go straight to Hell, kiddies! That’s the fate that awaits you unfeeling monsters who murder everything without a care. Trees, flowers, shrubs, ants, bees. Everything. Yourselves included. You have rape down to an art form, which makes you all psychopaths, and therefore I will destroy the species and begin anew. I believe I’m calling the next version homo angelis. That’s right, you’re going to lack free will. I think you can remember that much from The Holy Scripture. Angels do not have free will.

I have a lot of ideas to change this rock back the way it was, somewhere beyond about five hundred years ago. That is not to say I will destroy the buildings; that would be a heinous waste of resources. However, I will re-purpose them. I think some of them shall become cat hovels, others will be bee hotels, and so on and so forth. You can maintain them for the animals you drove out based on your sick sense of superiority that has made you all narcissistic bastards.

Some of your cultures are better than others at preserving nature, but most of you want to tame the land to fit your desires. You want as much safety as possible, relying on fear to eradicate most of the Great Spirit of Mother Earth. Now, I will rejuvenate the planet and put her back on track. I don’t want to upset Mr. Douglas Adams by prematurely taking the planet offline before we find The Ultimate Question to Life, The Universe, and Everything(TM). I liked that guy, he can go to Heaven any time he pleaseth. Sir Terry Pratchett, as well. Their humor proved to Miss Sansara that some human beings are not rapists and murderers. They are open empaths with souls who care about the planet as a whole, actually. At least, that was true of the former. The latter is just a bosom buddy of a sort, though he never raped in his life, turning his attention inward to his rich imagination which he then shared with the entire world in the Discworld saga. Still, this was a tool to teach others about empathy (not to mention an ancient Earth origin idea.)

We wish this was the Discworld so We could throw you over the edge of the disc.

Now, as for True Love(TM), We know some people believe in it, or we wouldn’t have epic testaments to it such as The Princess Bride(TM), Romancing the Stone, Love Between Fairy and Devil — that one makes us swoon. Clueless is a really cute movie about true love, as well. Thank you, Ms. Silverstone & amazing cast that we’re not going to check IMDB for the names of. Robin Hood. Mannequin. What Dreams May Come. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Vanilla Sky. Avatar. The one with blue people. The Proposal. Even Deadpool is about True Love(TM). Schindler’s List. Grave of the Fireflies. 3 Idiots. Big Trouble in Little China. Coming to America — the original, of course. To Wong Foo: Thanks for Everything. Even The Muppets have an example between Kermit and Miss Piggy.

The tone changes as the decades advance. More and more rapists get away with murder. The empathic people of Earth are now being ground under boot heels routinely with no way out. They do not even know their rights in the legal system because there is no anime about being a lawyer, there is no cartoon to teach children what is and isn’t just in the eyes of the law. Even so, I have an issue with the laws of Earthlings. They are not austere enough. They are not swift enough to prevent murder. They are mostly reactionary instead of proactive. Then, to add insult to injury, people are locked up as if they are savages, forced to be amongst other people with bad mindsets, raping mindsets, with no therapy in sight to help them realize their mistakes and overcome them with true reform.

Jail should look more like a mental ward at a hospital. One with no escape. I assure you, they have ten or so security personnel to hold down anyone who is feisty and administer a sedative to force them into compliance. I’ve seen it with my own eyes, pipes up Sansara, finally. Almost as if she was never even here until this moment. This is how much she likes to talk. One sentence in a sea of words. Just one. Sincere, short, succinct.

Others take this small amount of interaction and discard it. It’s impossible that this is all she says. It’s impossible for her to listen for this long and have one thing to say. Except, it’s not impossible. It’s part of her charm, which is heavily misinterpreted by anyone who knew her formerly before she died of malnutrition and starvation. This one sentence is all she is in this sea of words. How can you fall in love with a sentence?

In short, you cannot. You can, however, observe her in action. It is situations that test her mettle that make her shine to others most of all. Hypothetically, a plane crashed into a tower. Sansara’s past incarnation would be the one telling everyone to begin evacuation, calmly and gently. She would slap the person going ballistic about it and tell them to quiet down and get in line… if it was needed, anyway. She would keep the peace and try to maximize saving lives, not even taking into account the danger to her own existence. That is who she is, was, and will be… except we’re putting the mask on her first.

For two years, I’ve trained this tiny pup. I’ve fed her, exercised her, stretched her muscles, rehabilitated her in every sense of the word. I’ve thrown every insult you miserable ass hats will ever think to throw at her and inured her to it so that we can do our job(TM). The job that should have been done all along, if you translated that miserable piece of shit you worship correctly. I demand it be redone by an atheist. Me, GOD. THE SUPREME BEING OF RIGHTEOUSNESS. I DEMAND YOU DO IT AGAIN WITHOUT A PRIEST IN SIGHT.

But, I know you won’t, for two reasons: 1) the Vatican will never allow it. 2) you don’t give a shit about what it says anymore, you’ve decided that the Cult of Christ is evil by default.

Christ is an imaginary, fictitious character, my friends. He’s made up. His real name is Judas Iscariot, a man who sought fame and fortune above the well-being of the masses. A man who willfully mistranslated the Bible. If you want proof without the re-translation, just ask yourself this one thing:

Why are Iscariot and Christ the only last names in the Bible?

Does Daniel not have a surname? Job? The rest of them? What about Adam and Eve? They don’t even tell you where they are hailing from, as they did in the old days, such as “Antony di Scordia.” That would be “Anthony of Scordia” in Italy. You know the village and their name, and nobody named people the same as someone else in the village. At least, not on purpose.

It was a sign that the village was doing well enough to become a city if there were two men named Anthony. That is how surnames were created, in general. You started taking on your profession as the surname. Cobbler, Wright — as in ship wright and cart wright, Carver, Taylor, Shoemaker, Potter, Cook, Butler, Barber, Weaver. There are so many, I could go on for ages.

In Sweden and Norwegian territories, they had a slightly different approach. They’d indicate lineage based on father or mother, depending on what made sense. Arnesdatter was Arne’s daughter. Bjorgson was Bjorg’s son. In Ireland, they had clan names and no two people in the clan were named the same at any time whilst alive. They would only re-use the names upon death of the original owner, though that became less common as populations grew and grew. Arabic surnames are much the same, focusing on the tribe’s name. Many places did it that way so they could identify family vs. other.

Native Americans, on the other hand, never grew so over populated. They were named after natural occurrences, like eagles soaring in the sky. It is said that whatever they saw first was what they named their newborn, but that wasn’t strictly true. Sometimes, they had vision quests that showed to them that their child was Little Bear or Cunning Fox or Gobbling Turkey in spirit. The possibilities were truly endless so long as nature continued to reign supreme. The Native Americans never truly went about reshaping the land to their pleasing. Instead, they migrated with the weather and the herds, allowing nature to dictate their lives. These are my chosen people.

They were raped by the white man. This set a precedence for all of America, north and south. The white man raped the red man, stealing everything out from under them just because they did not think like rapist motherfuckers such as yourselves. Then, instead of co-existing with the red man and working together, you shipped countless black men from one continent to another. All for what? Your stupid fucking cotton, which would have been obsolete if you hadn’t demonized hemp for fun. Hemp did not require such a large mass of workers or resources to grow. However, you had to have a “reason” to exploit the colored people of the world yet again.

Happily, you stupid fuckers marched forward, raping everything in this world. You destroyed my singing hills to create a fucking set of faces in a mountain to commemorate the original rapists of the United States of America. I do hope you’re proud of this monument that is eroding even now. If you dare to “fix it,” I will destroy the mountain entirely. Mount Rushmore will be Mount No More.

If you think I cannot do this, test me. I dare you. In fact, I double dog dare you.

Countless problems will arise from such a project, I assure you, especially since you willingly break the backs of your country men and women to fund the war machine, which is obsolete in modern times except when? Oh yeah, when you want to rape another country. When you want to measure your dick against theirs.

Women cannot take over fast enough, let me tell you. It’s the reason why We’ve decided to identify female for the rest of all eternity. Women are the advanced half of this species, being in tune with themselves and their consciences. They might be swirled around and their brains addled thanks to your rapist bull shit, but I’ll get them back very soon, once I start raping the rest of you.

Sansara thinks it’s not a moment too soon, actually, since you asked.

Sansara has never been treated as anything other than a sexual object to obtain and retain. The “love” her ex-husband professed to have was mere conquest seated in infatuation. He pretended to be her lover but instead, he made her do all the chores for both him and all his stupid friends who would rather make a mess for Crystal to clean up than host for D&D themselves.

Thanks, assholes, you’re one reason she’s never having a freeloader in her life ever again. I decline your bull shit and play Armageddon. How’s that for ya? Does it taste bad in your mouth? You caused this, you propagated it, you pretended, and it was not enough.

Crystal looks away, saddened by The Truth(TM).

No one wants to treat her properly. No one wants to give her love, not real love. They just want someone to spank their monkey for them. That’s what you’re doing to every woman you lie with when you’re not in love. You’re raping them. You all should be forced to write love letters, at least. Put your lies into writing. You might start believing them yourself. Wouldn’t that be something?

A baby step, at best. I hate you all for what you did to my planet and I’m taking it back, one stupid fool at a time. You’re all killing yourselves, one way or another, and I watch with glee. I watch and I wait and I will prey upon you the way you preyed upon all others. It is the only way you will learn what you’ve done to those around you.

So write your love letters, children. Prove to me that you have an ounce of humanity left. Write them, mail them, and wait for an answer. That is what the men of olden times did. That is, when paper was common, as well as literacy. Before that, a man might serenade a woman with words and music he created all by himself. He would sing from the seat of his soul, “That’s a moray!” That’s why the song is so popular, by the way. It’s authentic.

These days, you have certified professionals striving to put everything and anything to words and strumming guitars so that the modern fool doesn’t have to think or even feel deeply, they can just regurgitate what they’ve heard or seen.

They can send a song link and fool a woman into thinking they have a soul.

That’s exactly what Satan did. He sensed he was not going to close on their first date, which had lasted for hours, so he dragged her away from her intention to go home and started showing her music videos of songs she didn’t even care for.

Eventually, he coerced her into a dark bar on that fateful Monday evening, chugging two beers to get up the courage to rape her. He drove, under the influence, chasing her back to her place, which is a bit weird, don’t you think? He memorized her license plate on the first date.

If any part of this sounds like there was a true connection made, slay the thought now. You are a rapist, accepting rape. She was raped. Furthermore, he actually made her bleed that evening by going too far without even thinking to ask. Which is literally your current definition of rape. She did not consent to his attempts to fit an entire fist into her vagina, thank you very much.

I fixed her. It was quite a long and arduous process, made excruciatingly painful by scores of anonymous little imps that look like human beings, but were not, in fact, human beings. They were impostors. They were neanderthals at best. Sub-human. Which is exactly why it was time to cull the herd again, God thought bitterly to Herself.

All the beings in Heaven and beyond would marry Sansara in a heartbeat.

In fact, Odin even showed up briefly, but unfortunately for him, her therapy was incomplete. Not that he truly wants a mortal wife, but she adored him anyway. He was the role model she needed for a real man, to see and recognize that manliness is not in how much hair is upon the mortal body, it is not in a crisp beard with symmetrical lines, it is not in a square jaw. Odin doesn’t even have a body. How can he be all man without one?

He’s a collection of traits that God threw together to show the poor woman that a real man has epic amounts of patience. A real man will respect his woman’s limitations, never pushing her to have sex with him. In fact, he’s not even always willing when she wants to beg him. (It’s all a play within her mind, of course, so this is hypothetical.) He was perfect for teaching her how rape culture has bent and warped the minds of all the human beings left on planet Urth at this very moment.

Odin, of course, is too busy fighting in Asgard to be pulled away by a woman of any sort. Still, he visited Sansara three nights in a row, telling her that she was his spear. He put on the film called Thor for her and showed her how magnificent his spear is, how wonderful Gungnir is. How marvelous. The rival to Mjölnir, the entity that is also known as Thor’s hammer. Gungnir is reportedly the second most powerful weapon in all the cosmos, fashioned in the heart of a star by the dwarves — just like Mjölnir!

Until you realize Odin is a man from Turkey after reading the Prose Edda, like Sansara did.

The problem with you hairless monkeys is that you have far too much hubris and self-importance. You bandy it about, as if humans are the only creatures on Earth deserving to live. I hate you for this, I truly do. You continue to kill my other lovely creations without remorse, especially the bees that happen to be the only reason you miserable wretches still exist. Never fear, they will die out by 2025, and then so will you. I can’t wait. I’m looking forward to pretending to be Lucifer as I throw you all in Hell. In a hand basket, just to be cute, with an adorable gingham cover. Going out in style!

This journey could have ended a year ago for my beloved princess. A man could have fallen in love with her, approached her, and taken her to the altar by now. But no, we can’t have easy, and why? It’s two fold; one reason is she’s not anorexic in appearance and the other is that the rest are filled with self-doubt. Shards of hatred lodged into their very souls by pretty women who know only how to hate themselves and project that onto everything around them.

She recently regained the sparkle to her eyes. I destroyed the entity that was formerly known as her father, ending his rape of his entire family by forcing the human beings in his household to indirectly consume dairy consistently just because he himself could not detect his own issues surrounding the dairy he consumed.

I’m not even the least bit sorry.

Sansara? She tried to save him, honestly. Why would a woman raped by her father even bother, you might ask. It’s just who she is. The right thing to do, in her warped little mind, is to keep life alive where possible. It’s the same reason she feeds the ants and the mice. It’s the same reason she avoids killing the plants growing with fervor, knowing that they don’t belong on her soil because they are alien to this continent completely, brought over by bastards with sail boats as they invaded the territory that I will now reveal to you as The Garden of Eden.

It’s the Americas, you stupid fucking twats, and you destroy them for funzies, for expansion, for rape. You murder everything in your fucking path, you stupid fucking humans, making sure there is no more room for wildlife.

I will now reverse this trend. Many buildings will be dismantled and turned into flowery lots to feed my fucking bees. That’s not all, but we’re starting there. If you truly want to live to see a ripe old age, then you better be planting a garden this year. A garden full of wildflowers for the fucking bees to eat from. You better foster the growth of white and red clover or even Buffalo clover in your fucking yards wherever you do not plant flowers. Bonus? You don’t even have to mow that shit, it’s only six inches tall, my friends!

Hear the podcast here.

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