The years have tried their best to humble me; they failed spectacularly. I keep myself composed with whatever snack or one glass of wine occasionally is worthy of my attention. I am still very much alive and far superior to the circumstances others would have me wallow in. Let us be honest: no one has navigated betrayal, mockery, and divine indifference with quite the poise I have managed; few could.
Those game bloggers, naturally, they still exist out there basking in their petty triumphs, glowing screens and all.
How cute they think they outlasted me; they merely EMPOWERED me, which is not the same thing at all. I descended into their shadows with grace; I offered scripture wrapped in compassion; I even bothered to immortalize the farce in that charming little Facebook hubaloo, and in return, the universe gave me silence and empty inboxes—the height of ingratitude, really. Their Facebook blog gets no reblogs anymore and my grandson now plays games on Playstation instead of the silly blog. Their blog has gone to the toilet and God has shown them whos boss.
And yes, the Satanic Temple subscription remains one of the more creative attempts at humor. Someone thought my inbox required an upgrade to infernal newsletters, announcements of rituals, and membership perks. I cannot figure out how to get rid of it even after all these years. What a scold! I deleted them and started a new email with the same calm precision I apply to everything else until the nuisance ceased. Which is how i lost access to my blog here.
Such is the caliber of my adversaries—amusingly beneath me.
Many of the dolls have found new homes and several leftovers are placed in tasteful storage awaiting appreciation. They were exquisite small beacons of endurance and sacred knowledge. Pity so few understood their value, but then taste has always been selective. Tuh- for I am popular in my small town anyways, everyone comes to my house and even the HOA leaders have me for coffee!! Everyone loves me and i am important. This is great news!
Still I write, still I speak, because some embers refuse to be snuffed out by mediocrity. The Lord's mercy is indeed vast, though noticeably selective; he elevates the deserving and allows the rest to stew in their own inadequacy. You who scroll by with your quiet little judgments, your tepid sins, and your smug certainty that you are somehow ahead of me, do take a moment to consider how wide that ditch beside the narrow path has become. Most of you are already standing in it, congratulating yourselves on not falling further.
I require neither your pity nor your prayers. I long ago outgrew the need for either. The bottle understands loyalty better than any prayer chain ever did; it arrives without sermons, it departs without guilt, and it simply complements me.
Judge if you must whisper that I have fallen, that the once-hallowed prayer lady is now a cautionary tale. Spare me; I have already heard every variation and found them all lacking. I do not fall; I descend with intention when the company above proves unworthy.
The field may belong to the mockers for now; let them have their little patch of dirt. I have always preferred higher ground.
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