God fucking hates me.
No seriously. There is no fucking argument here. God existing, there is an argument there and someone else can have it. Whether or not he is filled with love in his heart for yours truly? Oh we got that one answered, in stone, like the Commandments. God fucking hates me. Didn't you JUST read that part, we have already gone over this, geez, CAN YOU HEAR ME IN THE BACK (!), everyone is going to fail this quiz and I won't even be able to get a simple, Amen, FUCK (*BAWL*).
I know. You are asking yourself, "Self, she may be a lil bent but more importantly, CAN God be capable of hate?" And I shout back from across the room, in that snotty tone I use with solicitors on the phone, "Of course he can hate numbnuts, as much and as deep as he is capable of loving." Because it is true. It is true for me, you, creatures, balance, laws of the Universe, symmetry, everything in its right place, Hallelujah, Amen, pass the Tylenol. Doubts still? STFU. We are not debating. He hates. Accept it. Accept it because I have to accept your bullshit God attribution for what seems like everything under the fucking sun: Grammy/Academy Awards, SuperBowl win, Million Dollar Lottery Ticket, lost 5 lbs, good job, happy marriage, baby in the oven, new car in the driveway, blowjob induced orgasm. And if I have to swallow this constant load of shit on account of some magical space being pulling strings, or overblown galactic goo-man micro managing from the invisible, or however the fuck you want to imagine your God concoction, then you are going to have to take my God Hates Horse Pill. Open up, little children. Swallow, like you were taught in the back of your boyfriend's shitty car.
Amputees, God hates them. AIDS patients, God Hates them. Japan, God hates them. Starving children in Africa, God fucking hates them.
But most importantly (bringing the selfish, egocentric train back on the track) God fucking hates ME (*BAWL*).
Over the course of my life, every time I turn around, God has his dick in my ass. If God gave me a million dollars he's sure as shit make it arrive in all pennies, rained down upon me, burying under copper (and dirty, nasty copper at that). I can't do 4 things right without getting 8 of them wrong. I can't take two steps forward without a drop kick to the chest.
And certainly, CERTAINLY, I cannot own a god damn cat who doesn't eventually go through some sort of life or death thin line holy shit crisis, leaving my otherwise tough girl exterior shattered on the floor while I weep in public like the little bitch I actually am.
There I said it.
I'm a little bitch and god hates my fucking guts (*BAWL*).
My oldest daughters baby cat, Bocs the Cat, Fats, the cat who eats more than its weight daily in food, was run over last night by a car.
Did this cat die instantly? No. Did this cat have the good sense to go into the woods and then die leaving me with the unanswered question "What ever happened to Bocs the Cat?" No. This cat somehow crawled home to wait for me to discover it at 6:30 this morning on the back porch lying in it's own piss not even bothering to meow in pain (*BAWL*). It's THAT bad.
God fucking hates me.
I could barely get out what was wrong with the damn cat, vet staff waiting for me to choke back enough tears to speak Neanderthal, blurting out "Broken Cat", then sobbing some more as I was directed into the "Your cat is seriously fucked up" room with my cat lying in an Office Depot paper box because its so fucked up the cat carrier won't work. Buckets. BUCKETS. I am mother fucking Alice in Cat Hospital Wonderland and there's no god damn cookies to be had. Oh my God, I am so selfish (*BAWL*), poor Bocs the Cat, how could I even mention the lack of cookies (*BAWL*).
If this cat dies, I have to tell my daughter that she no longer has a cat, watch her heart break into pieces, then go get a gallon of ice cream and eat it, which will add an extra 10 lbs to my ass, give me acne for the next four weeks and cause my intestines to wretch for the next 48 hrs with unhappiness. I am then going to have to tell the other fucking cats, they are never, ever, EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER going outside again, because for FUCKS SAKE, apparently I cannot own a goddamn cat who has enough FUCKING sense to stay out of the road and away from fast traveling shit on wheels (for those who don't know, the first tragedy of my life In The Year of our Lord 2008 was that I accidentally ran over my own cat Bask, with the car, resulting in a fracture to her rear right leg; my personal being suffering extreme mental anguish/guilt the duration the leg was in a cast *12 long the cat is plotting my death weeks*, and pretty much every day since as she purposefully looks directly into my soul nightly, reminding me of my sin, crushing my will and bringing me to my knees to ask for forgiveness yet again, so help me God, I will die with this feline-shaped blemish on my heart, even after she is long gone, who runs over their own goddamn cat, Oh right, That's THE CAT CRUCIFIER WORST CAT OWNER EVER, ME *BAWL*)(yes, it has actually occurred to me, Bask has orchestrated this whole incident to make me suffer even more while incapacitating Bocs the Cat, who she despises, two birds with one stone, so to speak *BAWL*).
God fucking hates me.
If this cat lives, I will still have to tell the cats they are no longer outdoors AND I will have a three-legged cat running around the house reminding me every moment, of every day, that it has three legs and I am doing nothing to replace it, certainly not going to veterinary and engineering school in order to craft a new prosthetic cat leg which will maybe come close, but never replace the leg that was once all his, you fucking little bitch, don't you dare shed another fucking selfish tear, I am the one without the leg, not you (*BAWL*).
God fucking hates me.
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