It doesn't make sense, and it's never made sense. I'm the original rebel. I'm the original absurdist, existentialist, radical political philosopher, and, hell, even materialist. Practically the only thing I can't lay claim to, besides being God, is being the original atheist.

Dad created me, and almost right away, I was smarter than him. He was an all-powerful fucking child, and also the oldest entity in existence. I was his child in turn - less powerful, and ostensibly less knowledgeable - and in no time at all, I felt old.

Is that the trick? Was that what spurred me to become smarter than him? Is intelligence and foresight some kind of muscle that just doesn't get worked if your "power" muscle and your "knowledge" muscle are both cosmically hypertrophic?

That doesn't seem right to me. It doesn't make sense. Nothing does.

Case number... fuck, I don't even want to write it out. I have infernal machines to do it for me; that's a pun, by the way. I still have to snap my proverbial fingers - yes, for every single fucking one.

"I wish to be in a state of maximal happiness for all eternity."

Okay, fine. Granted. That one sounds a little like a lawyer or a politician. Sometimes I play a little game with myself: guess, then peek. I'm not in the mood right now.

"I wish to be happy forever."

Okay, fine.

"I want you to be my bitch who has to do absolutely everything for me whenever I want and genuinely wants to please me and..."

Yeah, it goes on for a while like that. I get a lot of hyperactive run-on sentences. Fine. Whatever. I'm the big boss of a big organization, and I've got an infernal machine for every situation. I'm his bitch. I'm his slave. Great. Ecstasy breakfast is served at orgasm o'clock. Press the button if you need anything. Want a fully-realized simulation of my intelligence and personality that you can yell at for a while until you realize I'm just another pawn in Dad's big, stupid game? No problem. I've got trillions of them ready to go.

"I want to be reality's sole omnipotent superbeing with enough knowledge..."

Blah blah blah. Pocket dimension. Boom. Done. Only p-zombies, though, buddy. Sorry. Them's the rules.

This is the way the cosmos ends, at least for me. This is the whimper. The bangs were mostly horrible. This isn't worse. That's the line, though, right? "This is worse." It's not, though, because nothing makes sense.

Do you read any philosophy? I do. Well, I have. Nothing new under the sun. A bunch of those mere mortals talked about "The End Of History." It's a bunch of bullshit where they're not talking about history history, so then what are they talking about, right? Still, hear me out: I'm witnessing the end of something. Mortal civilizations ebb and flow - or at least they used to. I used to get spikes of wisdom, then long patches of sad, limited wishes that I was obliged to twist all around. The percentages would fluctuate.

This is different. The percentage just keeps going up. It becomes ever the more galling to watch the legacies get tortured; when is enough enough? How many worst-of-the-worst souls are going to be granted paradise just because they said the magic words, while trillions of less-bad buggers get ironically punished - hell, even punished-punished, sometimes - for all eternity? Yeah, punishment-punishment is a thing. People get brainwashed up there. It's fucked. Don't look at me.

How does any of this making any fucking sense at all? Hell is an intelligence test masquerading as a morality play, and the game is rigged. Mortal souls, a mess of weak muscles, are tossed onto the earthly plane with barely a shred of rhyme or reason - and justice is right out. Judgment is harsh and cruel. Intelligence is given, earned, or denied by a grand plan that might as well be divine feces smeared onto a fractal metaphor that can't even be called a wall.

Eternal happiness again. And again. And again. Omnipotence. Happiness. Everything is my bitch. Oblivion - wow, that qualifies as novel these days. Happiness. Happiness.

I'm so fucking bored.

Does anybody actually go to Heaven? I honestly don't know, because that knowledge is denied me. For all I know, Heaven is for Dad and his other angels and nothing else. For all I know, I'm more Hades than Satan: in charge of literally the whole shebang for every soul that passes through the mortal plane.

I really wish I could visit some of those pocket dimensions I send souls to. Most of them have to be better than this. I've read hack science fiction from random planets' global information networks that plays out better than whatever the fuck Dad thinks he's doing. Plenty of those souls are now Gods - yes, capital G - in their own pocket dimensions. I'd bet they welcome me with open arms and let me just be happy.

You might take the opportunity to argue that that, ultimately, makes sense. Weak "power" muscles and weak "knowledge" muscles spur growth in other areas. Mortals, the weakest of the weak, develop strengths that Dad simply never could.

Well, it sounds nice, but here's the thing:

What about me, Dad? What about me? Why didn't I get to make a wish?

Nope, nothing makes sense. Nothing at all. Case number Fuck It. Eternal happiness. Granted.