Stream of consciousness writing

January 31, 2007 at 9:35 pm (Day to Day)

I am going to talk about Satan. Yes, that guy with the pitchfork (insert a picture of a farmer). No sillies, that’s not him. Having never met the man personally, I do not know what to expect when we meet each other for my dinner party. The other guests are none too pleased with my decision to invite the former Morning Star. I myself had not known of his inclusion on the guest list until my majordomo, Rob, informed me that he sent him an invitation. The boy received lashes for his dissidents. Being the good host that I am, it would be unfavorable and highly inappropriate to have his RSVP cancelled. I have had the displeasure of meeting his majordomo, a small reflection with a crack right through the Middle. Only on one side of the crack is his majordomo, however. He is a shred, lecherous little boy of about 253 pounds of miserable happy. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes.

The party is about to start.

After waiting half an hour for just one guest on my list to arrive, I am growing impatient with frustration and lacking in elation. This requires investigation of the situation for the lack of communication between the guests and I. Was there a misinterpretation? I called the person that would make me most jubilant to see, Cainen Briggs. Why is he not here? He is probably inebriated on Pride again, passed out in the choir loft at church. But ho, the eyes have it! Where are the I’s? There it is. Satan. Wearing a pretty dress. Where have you come from? From going to and fro on the earth, and from walking up and down on it. He told me he killed the rest of my dinner party and I can see them at the funeral home Sunday morning at 11:00-12:15. I didn’t know my church was turned into a funeral parlor. No matter, there is food to be served to my guest. Murder is never an excuse for being tardy, no matter who you are or what royal family you descend from. I had to scold him for his delay, giving him lashes. The mood is lightening up as the evening progresses. The atmosphere is satisfying and musical with laments. Satan is a musician, playing instruments handcrafted by Jubal himself. He entertained me by playing the Lenten Psalm, my favourite! He explains the Psalm to me. Behold I was brought forth in iniquity and in sin did my mother conceive me. I was not conceived by woman and am therefore lacking in sin! At first I thought he was just playing devil’s advocate, evoking my argumentative nature. Cogitation is starting to set in with tears tickling my cheek. I kiss him on the forehead and thank him for his theological insight. Why did you fall? To show you the knowledge of good and evil. I sacrificed myself on your behalf, knowing you would be a slave to your own ignorant nature. Are you happy? Of course, this food satiated my hunger, the wine makes me glad, and I am merry.

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