Sorry, Satan. Can’t be pandering your trite grasp anymore. It feels good, real good, but it’s getting old.
Where did the green old days of my yesteryouth go, when such irresponsibility could be pardoned.
Satan, you’ve been plaguing my ancestors for centuries. I’m starting to take this personally.
Recessive genes are flashing before my eyes like a dentist’s reflection as he’s brushing his teeth.
This isn’t my divine order. This isn’t my bread and butter. This isn’t J. Christ’s body and blood. What the fuck.
And this isn’t the second cumming, either. The real sicknesses of the universe are only pretending to strike now.
Imagining that beer and cigarettes are keeping me alive. Imagining that my legs feel like noodles. Imagining that the pain in my head is imaginary.