God is my grandfather, sitting soft and sillysilent on an old pile of clouds, holding a hot wet towel for wiping your fingers after eatin chicken wings or ribs.
And that poor little pussy, all snuggled up alone, without a fine young pile of skin to cling to through the coldest hours of the day, days of the year. That poor little pussy.
Take your wet towel, grandpapa, and wipe away my missteps, then open the door to Paradise, shaking your head slowly with a warm smirk on your face: youthful folly. Unless…unless I failed to keep that poor pussy warm. Unless I left her to cry and shiver herself to sleep.
There is no greater sin than to leave a body out in the cold. The trauma of the human condition is abandonment issues. We all have our daddy complexes, but daddy is deeper in our bloodstream than any child psychologist will ever dream. Daddy is our dreams. Daddy is the look of the collective eye as you walk softly into school on the first day of the new year. Daddy is the pitch and volume of laughter that receives our humble hits at hilarity. Daddy is Goddy, and Goddy thinks we’re so fucking cute…so scared, so innocent, so naked, so small and weak. We shiver and Goddy wraps us in a hot towel, then send us to the collective orgy where we rub our spirits against one another without discrimination, so happy to just be home.
And Hell. Hell is for he who did not go to she. And for she who did not go to she. And for he who did not go to he. And for she who did not go to he.
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