Fuck My Life vol. 14

dear God;

... Hiiiiii.

I know we haven't always seen eye-to-eye, and indeed many times in my life i have questioned whether or not you even (or ever) existed in one form or another. Time and time again i see evidence that contradicts the belief that an all-powerful force of good lies beyond the beyonds, and it makes me question the mental stability of those who stubbornly insist that you're out there, and all this death and misery is part of some divine plan.

I wake up every morning, and the lack of spiritual divinity that i'm told is innate in all of us is enough to inspire atrophy across the hemispheres of muscle, skeleton, and viscera that makes up the essentially useless mass of random particles that is I. in the last ten years, I've surrendered inquisitions and just excepted the fact that there is no place for me above, below, and in between. I've comes to terms with what is a benumbing clarity to some; you're not up there, and you never were.

I think of all this, and without warning, a shock troop of angels bulldozes my nihilism away, and i am left staring up at a vision of beauty so all-encompasing in its definition that i'm left crippled by the joy that volleys across my eyes like a series of firebug abdomens directing me to a Utopia i was a fool to deny.

On this day, August the Nineteenth, year of our lord Two Thousand Nine, She has graced this damned abode;




enshrining the filth hopelessness caked to my flesh with a grace that could turn even the most loathsome of sewer rodent into a creature of soulful nobility.

God... if i wake up tomorrow, and the woman above is sprawled across my body, wearing that coat, nothing underneath but a heaven of perfectly sculpted organ... i will devote my life to you. I will serve at her side and yours, spreading the word of your tremendous benevolence through a cyclic litany of intensive, extensive sexual exploration. The seeds i expurgate across the small of her back will serve as the roots of your new kingdom on Earth.

I eagerly await your gifts, my Lord.

signed;

F.M.L.,
Professional Sadsack.

from me to you, Snow Lady;