5 Lie in the Deepest Pit and Drink Your Fill
[written in Latin]
Is there anything more disgusting than watching Christians congratulate themselves for their charity work while simultaneously wallowing in self-pity over how far they fall short? Woe is thee, wretched Catholic. Woe is thee who sacrifices so much for the needy, yet will never be able to sacrifice enough.
I can’t decide what is viler: that they feel ennobled for what they do, or that they feel lowly for not doing enough. Likely the vilest thing is that, in the mystifying fashion of the Christian dog, they manage to feel both at the exact same moment!
As pathetic as Dad is, as contemptible as my whole family is, at least they have the decency to live in the same filth, the same stew of disease and violence, as the people they felt committed to help. I will never forgive them for raising young children in the midst of civil wars and plagues, but I can’t accuse them of giving away their cake while also trying to eat it. They gave it all away, those fucking bastards.
The same cannot be said for the recent clutch of Christians I’ve met. I would love to see the Sister and her obnoxious friends move into the local crack house for a couple of years. A lullaby of gunshots to sing the babe to sleep. A crib amidst used syringes.
But at least the Sister accepts a bit of selfish reward. Free coffee tastes the sweetest. The worm always finds an orifice, doesn’t it, darling?
What came over me to give her a thousand dollars straight out of my pocket is beyond me. What more proof is needed that the Abrahamic religions leave their stingers in you even after you fully tear yourself free. And the stingers go on pumping toxins.
In happier news, there are now two friends of like nature buzzing around. We’ve settled into a mutual orbit around some hazy orb, some common purpose, which none of us has really described, beyond calling it ‘mutual protection’. _______, at least, seems to understand that getting this close entails certain complications. The other one is brand new, and her eagerness makes me nervous. She’s the restless, meddlesome kind. Why do people feel such a drive toward research and sticking their noses in unfamiliar shit? For power? Don’t they know that power is given to you if you deserve it?
The universe is full to bursting with available power. It is there for the taking. It doesn’t have to be chased or researched. You just have to receive it. Find the lowest point and power will collect there like rain water. Lie in the deepest pit and drink your fill. Respect gravity, and power wants to be yours.
But now Lola is playing with dolls. Those fucking dolls.
What’s to be done about those fucking dolls? I could keep them. The first impulse is always to have an insurance policy. But devil dolls are not like scandalous photographs. They’re not inert little scraps you can wave around to control someone with. They are stitched with malicious will, sown with bloody fingers. They are little spies, little windows. ____ does not like them. He doesn’t like them at all.
And I know too well how my like-minded friends react to being controlled. I know how I would react.
Maybe I will keep Lola’s. Put it somewhere safe, but not near me. She would think twice about manipulating me if I have her doll.
One thing is sure. She did not learn this craft herself. Oh, no. We know who the teacher is.
I still smell like burnt hair.
Is there anything more disgusting than watching Christians congratulate themselves for their charity work while simultaneously wallowing in self-pity over how far they fall short? Woe is thee, wretched Catholic. Woe is thee who sacrifices so much for the needy, yet will never be able to sacrifice enough.
I can’t decide what is viler: that they feel ennobled for what they do, or that they feel lowly for not doing enough. Likely the vilest thing is that, in the mystifying fashion of the Christian dog, they manage to feel both at the exact same moment!
As pathetic as Dad is, as contemptible as my whole family is, at least they have the decency to live in the same filth, the same stew of disease and violence, as the people they felt committed to help. I will never forgive them for raising young children in the midst of civil wars and plagues, but I can’t accuse them of giving away their cake while also trying to eat it. They gave it all away, those fucking bastards.
The same cannot be said for the recent clutch of Christians I’ve met. I would love to see the Sister and her obnoxious friends move into the local crack house for a couple of years. A lullaby of gunshots to sing the babe to sleep. A crib amidst used syringes.
But at least the Sister accepts a bit of selfish reward. Free coffee tastes the sweetest. The worm always finds an orifice, doesn’t it, darling?
What came over me to give her a thousand dollars straight out of my pocket is beyond me. What more proof is needed that the Abrahamic religions leave their stingers in you even after you fully tear yourself free. And the stingers go on pumping toxins.
In happier news, there are now two friends of like nature buzzing around. We’ve settled into a mutual orbit around some hazy orb, some common purpose, which none of us has really described, beyond calling it ‘mutual protection’. _______, at least, seems to understand that getting this close entails certain complications. The other one is brand new, and her eagerness makes me nervous. She’s the restless, meddlesome kind. Why do people feel such a drive toward research and sticking their noses in unfamiliar shit? For power? Don’t they know that power is given to you if you deserve it?
The universe is full to bursting with available power. It is there for the taking. It doesn’t have to be chased or researched. You just have to receive it. Find the lowest point and power will collect there like rain water. Lie in the deepest pit and drink your fill. Respect gravity, and power wants to be yours.
But now Lola is playing with dolls. Those fucking dolls.
What’s to be done about those fucking dolls? I could keep them. The first impulse is always to have an insurance policy. But devil dolls are not like scandalous photographs. They’re not inert little scraps you can wave around to control someone with. They are stitched with malicious will, sown with bloody fingers. They are little spies, little windows. ____ does not like them. He doesn’t like them at all.
And I know too well how my like-minded friends react to being controlled. I know how I would react.
Maybe I will keep Lola’s. Put it somewhere safe, but not near me. She would think twice about manipulating me if I have her doll.
One thing is sure. She did not learn this craft herself. Oh, no. We know who the teacher is.
I still smell like burnt hair.