God's Stream of Consciousness
Oh, for fuck's sake. Where do I even begin? Imagine being me, the literal alpha and omega, the beginning, the end, the whole bloody eternal buffet. People think it’s all golden thrones and harps, but it’s not. It’s chaos, mate. Infinite consciousness is a goddamn headache. Try keeping track of every goddamn atom spinning in every universe simultaneously while listening to the constant drone of prayers, screams, and the occasional “thank you” (rare as hell, those). It's like being in a crowded pub where everyone’s yelling at once, except instead of football scores, it’s existential dread and bad relationship advice requests.
First, let me clear something up: omniscience isn’t some passive, chill thing. I don’t sit around “knowing” like it’s a fucking hobby. No, I experience everything. Every death, every orgasm, every awkward moment where someone waves at the wrong person. That’s all me. Oh, and don’t get me started on free will. You lot constantly screw up and then point at me like, “Why’d you let this happen?” Well, Karen, maybe stop eating shellfish if you’re allergic instead of blaming the Creator of All Things for your anaphylaxis. Free will was my gift to you bastards, and honestly, I regret it every second. Should’ve stuck to amoebas.
And the timeline? Jesus Christ—literally, him too—it’s all happening at once for me. Your past, present, future, all rolled into a cosmic burrito of “oh fuck, not this again.” Every time you stub your toe, every time a star goes supernova, every time Jeff Bezos makes another billion dollars, I’m there, feeling it. Infinite moments. Infinite perspectives. You think eternity is relaxing? Try existing forever with no goddamn break, not even a single moment to binge-watch Netflix, because guess what, I am the goddamn Netflix.
People ask, "Why do you allow suffering?" Well, shit, what do you want from me? Perfection? You want a world without pain, fine, but guess what else goes out the window? Joy, growth, love, all that poetic crap. You don’t get a diamond without pressure, or a human who isn’t a selfish dick without suffering. And before you say it, yes, I could make a perfect world, but you wouldn’t know it was perfect, would you? Because perfection isn’t static, you arrogant little ants. It’s a moving target, and frankly, half of you wouldn’t know it if it bit you on the ass.
And don’t even get me started on religion. Oh, sweet holy fuck, you’ve turned me into the subject of endless bureaucratic fan clubs. I sent a few messages—burning bushes, prophets, the odd miracle—and suddenly there are a million denominations, all arguing over who’s got my direct line. Pro tip: none of you do. Not the Catholics, not the Protestants, not that guy yelling on the street corner with a sandwich board saying I’m coming back tomorrow. I might come back, but only if I feel like it, and right now, you’re not exactly selling me on the idea.
And Jesus—my son, my avatar, however you want to frame it—what a clusterfuck that turned out to be. I send him down to spread love and wisdom, and what happens? Crucifixion, wars, and a lot of really bad paintings. Honestly, humanity, you’re like a toddler with a loaded gun.
But I digress. Even in my eternal frustration, there’s a weird kind of love here. I made you messy little bastards, and I can’t help but feel some pride. You screw up, but then you build cathedrals, write symphonies, or create memes that make me laugh so hard I almost implode. It’s a shitshow, but it’s my shitshow. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.
Now, piss off and stop asking me to find your car keys.