“The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart: and merciful men
are taken away, none considering that the righteous
is taken away from the evil to come.”
Isaiah 57:1

This is going to be a short article, because the flashing casino spaceman in the right margin is the Harrison Bergeron-esque handicap nobody needs.  This ad-block-resistant, flashing crypto-pushing astronaut is the loud noise equivalent crashing through my skull at intervals deemed necessary by the Happiness Compliance Squad, so that I don't have enough time to think about how disgruntled I am, or how unfulfilling and, indeed, depressing, my daily horror rations are.  

I like this platform, but please.  I left my country and language behind; what is going to keep me from bailing on a blog platform?  

Being able to ad-block the guy, I suppose would do it.  But it doesn't work.  The persistent crypto offer is taking the point away from this article already.  So, before any more time is lost, let's get our daily horror rations over with.

Dear poor, sad, lost social-engineering projects:  Nobody is trying to eradicate you.  Committing a HATE CRIME, as you like to call it (the word "crime" itself should suffice), against Christians isn't going to make you feel better.  Indeed, once the police take you down, you're going to have to spend eternity paying for your sins, which is going to be unbearable beyond belief.  Allow me to edit your ominous little flag for you:

I'm just going to tell you.  It's not worth it.  Not at all.

A lot of people are going to malign you for being a monster, Audrey Hale, but even though it's too late, I want you to know that your pictures make me sad.  You've broken God's heart.  I'm not interested in the fact that you want to dress like a man, which is merely wildly unnecessary.  Dress like a man if you please; Frida Kahlo did.  I'm not interested in that.  What does interest me is the fact that at some point you seemed to be making an effort.  If that lion drawing is yours, you were a pretty good artist.

Judging by this image, perhaps you wanted to illustrate children's books.  I too have a children's book author somewhere in my heart.  I have never found an illustrator, but feel that there is very little in the adult world worth believing in, and that if there is any hope in the world (which there isn't), it would probably be in children's literature and media.  Perhaps it's a natural side-effect of those who long for innocence, and who want to break free of the torment inherent in living as a morally-culpable adult in a world beset with sins of various kinds, including murderous criminal intent.  I don't have any kids, but I love the sound they make when they're playing.  It's a clean sound, like the sound of kittens playing on a battlefield of puppies.  Kids are the best.  I'd love to be the "cool uncle" to any number of friends' kids, but it's a blessing in disguise I don't have any myself.  I don't even have that many real friends, not really.  Enough for a hopefully-honest person living in a world comprised of unbelievable lies that test the structural limits of credulity itself, but I've never been gregarious.  I'm not sad about it.... it's a relief!  But what is a world without children, anyway?  A pointless wasteland in which is contained neither hope nor joy, a radioactive parking lot full of falling skyscrapers in which murder victims cram next to each other in subway cars like so many coffins full of fish, or coolers full of dead, emaciated bodies waiting for the halftime show of eternity to begin? 

A porno film?  Some nachos?

Nothing.

Of course, if you're going to succeed as a children's book author, it is necessary to entirely disregard these dangerous demoniacs, whose own cult-like religious indoctrination has made them myopic to the point of having the self-awareness of a rock:

The reality, Kat Amarco, is that "this human" is guilty of half a dozen counts of cold-blooded murder.  Draping a manufactured identity over this fact, doesn't change it.  As bad as that is, however, never have I read a statement issued from the inflatable floaty characters flailing in the shallows of the kiddie pool of eternity than that, "This is as deep and real as it gets."

"This is as deep and real as it gets."  Even if the myopic sanctimony contained in the Kat Amarco comment was the deepest, most-realest reality in existence, God forbid I'd ever settle for it.

“Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer:
and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.”
1 John 3:15

Word to the unwise, you're not intimidating anybody with your smug dismissiveness, kiddie-pool myopia, or gender-bending assault-rifle poses.  It's not enlightenment or power you are wielding.  Far from shining a light on the dark corners of the world, it's possible you are the proof of the shadows themselves, the half-living embodiment of the overwhelming sadness of the world.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  Whatever the case, it's not the gun that makes you different.

It isn't even the lipstick and the dress.  In fact it's nothing that makes you different.  Like everybody without exception before repentance, you're reading from the devil's script, following his cues like a rat in a maze.  As colorful as they are, the pellets, y'know, are poison. 

I hate to break it to ya, Self-Importance Incarnate, but in fact the power going out and the lightning flash ARE a sign of God's judgment.  It's possible you don't have anything to "teach the church about dying to self" when all you think or talk about is yourself.  In fact, your pride is your own greatest obstacle. 

Time, perhaps, to get out of your own way.

Before Satan inspires one of your parishioners to walk away from his or her calling as a children's book illustrator, pick up a gun, and slaughter half a dozen people y'all's master Satan hates because, unlike him, they're probably going to Heaven.  Hopefully the adults; definitely the children. The children are innocent, and are with the Lord right now.  God willing with their teachers.

I would never presume to comfort anybody who has suffered the loss of a child or loved one in this manner.  Isaiah 57:1 applies, but has to be found on its own.  If there's a time to direct somebody to it, the day of the tragedy isn't it.  Suffice it to say, when we all get to Heaven, we won't be thinking about you, Satan.  Neither your lipstick, nor your hate.  Not your dress or your hairstyle or your guns.  Join us now, you sorrowful rats.  Before it's too late.  Which it will be.  Soon.  Before you know it.

If there is a bluebird in your heart, don't kill it.  Bukowski kept his bluebird alive, which is perhaps the only thing that really kept him going.  More even than his writing, perhaps.  Whatever you do, don't kill the bluebird in your heart.  Weep your guts out first.  Do it.  Weep.  Bukowski says the bluebird is "nice enough to make a man weep.  But I don't weep.  Do you?"

Yeah, Charlie, I do.  Almost every day.  Sometimes even every day.  I weep.  I will not kill the bluebird in my heart.  They will not get me.

Rest in peace, victims of today's horror in Nashville.  I know you are.