Satan is in my toaster. When my toast gets stuck…why would my toast get stuck? I’m being tested. Out, Satan! Leggo my Eggo!
Satan is on the bus. Why won’t the meter take my dollar? It’s legal money. It was fairly earned. Satan is hiding in the meter, twisting and folding the edges of my paper currency to fill my soul with hatred and doubt.
Satan is in the drugs that caused my parents to neglect me and ultimately be taken from them by Hennepin County Social Services. At least, that’s what They told me, and why would They lie?
Satan pushed my foster mom’s Hummel figure off the shelf when I slammed the door last night. Can’t blame him for that.
Satan’s in the apples that are slowly rotting in the produce drawer. Satan’s in my rusty bike chain. Satan’s in my itchy finger that wants to click Like every time someone uses the Number of the Beast in an image macro. Satan is the gap in Steve Roggenbuck’s teeth, the blur in Marie Calloway’s naked screencaps.
Satan is an upside-down cross, which is a dagger, which is power, which is truth, which is light, which is lit, which is what they’re paying me for. But then, why won’t the meter take my dollar? Theology is confusing.
Should I surrender to Satan? Would that make my breakfast more complete? Get behind me, Dark Prince, and do your damnedest.
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