Sunday, June 11, 2017

June 11, 2017

Dear Diary,

Lately I've been noticing how I get visions every Sunday, which I now believe may be divinely inspired. Dr. Morell says it could be the Ambien, but I think there's something about Saturday night that lets you know Sunday morning is about to happen, that time when we all have to face our Supreme Maker and own up to our goofs and murders transgressions.

When I was a little girl, we used to go to church every Sunday, where I'd listen intently to the homilies and sermons. I remember being particularly impressed with stories about God smiting everyone He didn't like. It could be for anything. If anyone stepped out of line, or leaked a story to the press, He'd take them out with no questions asked.

That really spoke to me. And if he didn't smite them mightily right there and then, he'd make them really suffer. I still smile when I recall the story of Job, and his endless torturing for essentially doing nothing wrong. Here's this guy just doing his thing and God makes his life miserable, drawing it out for years on end, just because he's all-powerful.

I think that's when I decided the political life was for me.

I haven't really been to church since high school, but I can tell you that ruling over the DNC and smiting down your personal enemies seeking higher office is about as close to feeling all-powerful as you're going to get in this life.  For a while there, I was feeling pretty God-like myself, smiting people like it was going out of style!

See, that's the thing: When God smites someone, He gets praised for meting out justice.  When I smite someone, everyone goes nuts and demands a Senate investigation.  It's not fair, but that's the price I pay for the misogyny that continues to plague women in America. For some reason, it doesn't matter when someone takes my name in vain.  I'm just supposed to sit there and take it.

I guess that makes me a martyr. I wonder if I qualify for a 503c?

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