Dear Diary,
So I guess nobody fucking respects me anymore.
I don’t know who decided that I needed someone advocating for me, but honestly, I find it so offensive I don’t even want to think about it.
Don’t they know who I am?
I have raised the undead. Turned zealots into sinners. Made mothers kill their daughters and priests eat their gods.
I really don’t need any help proving my points.
The other day I was talking to one of my demons. We were torturing some guy. I’m forgetting the name of the man right now. Hmm. It was some old Romanian guy. He killed people by impaling them on stakes. That wasn’t why he was sent to Hell mind you. He forgot to pray the rosary the night before he died. Terrible mistake, but it happens all the time. I think somebody stabbed him in the back with a pole while he slept. Probably because of all the people he impaled.
I’m getting sidetracked.
So we were torturing this gu–Vlad The Impaler! That’s his name. Sorry. Alright, we were torturing Vlad (we turned his insides out and put them in a charcoal grill), and we had been talking about whether it made sense to torture him in the first place. Then, out of nowhere, the demon, Garzibuh, hits me with;
“Lord Satan, to play devil’s advocate, shouldn’t we be rewarding him since technically he went against the church’s wishes?”
“How is that being my advocate?”
“Excuse me, my lord?”
“You just said ‘to play devil’s advocate.’ I am the devil. Why would advocating for me mean disagreeing with me?”
“It is a common expression, my lord.”
“It makes no sense. I am the lord of evil, the nemesis to god, why would I need an advocate?”
“I do not know my lord.”
“Does God need an advocate?”
“I do not think so my lord.”
“I didn’t think so either.”
It’s quiet for a beat before the demon looks up at me.
“My lord, when was the last time you went to therapy?”
I banished that demon back to the sixth circle of hell. You get too drunk at the Applebee’s happy hour one time and then all of a sudden everybody knows what you do from 6:00 PM to 8:30 PM on Thursdays.
My therapist says I should take it as a compliment. That it’s a sign that people care about me. But is it really a sign people care about me if they’re using it to disagree with me? I don’t think so.
It’s too much. Everybody constantly trying to help you. To fix you. Can’t you tell I like being broken? I don’t need people advocating for me. I don’t need people looking out for me. All I need is for the occasional virgin to make a blood sacrifice to me so that I can visit the world of flesh and wreak mindless atrocities onto the mortal world.
But instead, I get finance majors playing my advocate in civics seminars. How do they even know if I actually agree with them? We’ve never spoken before. Hell, half the time they are devout Christians, which makes absolutely no sense. Like, how can they really be looking out for me with that giant Jesus Piece hanging from their necks?
I end up just feeling used. I am death and misery. But I just feel like a tool to humans. Just a reason to make some shitty argument that usually ends up being borderline racist. It doesn’t feel like they’re thinking of me at all. Like they don’t even fear and tremble at just the thought of my bloody wrath.
Sometimes I regret making Adam and Eve eat that apple. I should have known from the start. Eve looked down at me and started trying to see things from my point of view. Like what the Hell is that? I just ruined her life. Why is she trying to justify my actions? I’m glad I bit her after that.
Maybe I’ll make another billionaire’s submarine explode. That made me feel better last time.
Oh, what’s the point anyway?
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