I'm writing this in the hope that you're real long enough to hear this message from me. If you're not, then I was right all along and BFD.
When I was a child I adored my Aunt Kathleen and loved spending time at her house, along with her husband (my Uncle Bill) and my cousin Johnny, their only child. She taught me how to make fried green tomatoes and took me to the coolest flea market I'd ever gone to. But then her husband started molesting me, which led to years of repeated rapes which grew increasingly violent. He lived a full life having never paid for any of his crimes, but if you're real and being God and all, you know this and have dealt with him appropriately. This makes me somewhat happy as your penchant for cruelty is world reknown. I don't really believe you exist (being that I suffered such agony on YOUR watch and all), but if you can show me proof that he was slowly, achingly ripped apart in hell and left to fester on rusted meathooks, then sewn back together and allowed to almost heal completely - only to have the process repeated, ad infinitum - I might be persuaded to give you a chance. Considering your other consummate failures in my life, you owe me at LEAST that. Get back to me.
My cousin Johnny and used to take me to arcades with him and to a thousand other places. It was Johnny who took me to see Pink Floyd's The Wall when it was released in theaters, and I thought he was the coolest - that was until I found his Klan robes and hood in the back of his van when I was 13, and I never wanted to see him again.
When I was in my 20's, my sister told me a secret that she and my oldest sister had been told by my father during the time of my parents bitter divorce, something he only told them because it was the only thing he could do given what was coming. You see, in her hatred for my father, Aunt Kathleen had produced affadavits accusing my father of having molested both of my sisters when they were small children. In these affidavits, she maintained that she suspected him of inappropriate behavior and had been told by my sisters that he had touched them inappropriately, etc. Forget the fact that there was no shred of proof to corroborate this insane lie (unless a substitute for proof is a claim that she'd taken my sisters to the doctor for a physical examination that offered an alleged diagnosis in favor of her lie), as well as forgetting the fact that this never came to the light of day until 35 years after-the-fact, 35 years in which she loved my father deeply and always treated him with tremendous love and kindness whenever they were together until my parents were locked in a tense divorce. It almost destroyed my father to tell them, but he wanted them to hear it from himself rather than in court. Naturally, they didn't believe it and never waivered in their staunch belief that my father was 100% innocent of these outrageous claims. That was all that mattered to him.
My Aunt Kathleen died today. She was in her 80's and in frail health, and died not really knowing that I hated her fucking guts. She's dead right now as I type this, and I feel absolutely NOTHING you would expect about that fact when a family member dies, not joy, not sorrow, just anger. Anger that I never had the chance to tell her what a miserable fucking cunt she was and how horrifyingly bad she failed in trying to ruin my father's life and relationship to his children. Once again, you cheated me out of what was rightfully mine, God. I can't tell anyone in my family about any of this, but I thought you should know.
So, if I'm wrong and you are real, I thank you - thank you for allowing her to suffer all this time she was so sick, and thank you for ridding the world of her. My deepest sense of hatred, the one that fuels my ability to hold a grudge until I die myself, is grateful and temporarily sated. I've never lied about who I am and I'm not about to start - I have to be honest about how I feel, even when it's not rose colored and pretty. Life isn't rose colored and pretty a lot more of the time than we wished, and I am many things, but I am not a hypocrite. I always promised that I would hate her until she died, and I have fulfilled that promise.
Now she can rot in hell with that monster husband of hers, and I may sleep a little more soundly under my blanket of justice.
With all honesty and seriousness, and not giving a FUCK what anyone thinks of me as a result of writing this, - jesus_h_biscuit
"...and it may make me vile and wretched and worse off than you, but I do judge." - Jennifer Nettles