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I wonder if even the power of death will take this anger away from me on that final day?

“The evil that men do lives on, the good interred with their bones,” badly paraphrased, I feel like there will be no room left in my marrow for anything at all. When they pop me in for cremation, they’d better stand back, my hateful afterburner will kick in, a final Fuck You to humanity.

I feel like there will be no good spirit to take along with me into the next place, where ever that may be, this anger is hard to contain.  So help me, there better be no men around. Or women. Right now I feel like I want my final rest to be just that: Final. Rest. No more playing around with planting wisdom trees and dancing with supposed eternal happiness, blowing on a breeze and making nice with the universe. Keep the journey, I’ve got a date with an eternal dirt nap.  !!


There are no women in heaven. They are at peace when their time ends, as all living do come to an end, but only the men rise and return to god’s kingdom.  Only our knees are strong enough to kneel forever before him, our voices tireless to praise him. Our breaths are his sighs, and he is pleased with us, for there are no tired doubts in the kingdom. The misguided sinners and unbelievers were washed away in that final stroke.  There is no hunger or thirst but for his light. No tears for there are no troubles, all sinful vessels were cast out, broken. Our only desire is to love him and receive his perfect love in return.  amen.   “history is written by the victors”