Dear Lord. Almighty mighty Lord.
You have graver grievances to attend, I am sure.
But Lord, hear me out. Listen to my (self)-pitiful pleas. Please.
They say there is no rest for the wicked.
I say what a load of shit.
(HORSESHIT my Lord.
The wicked rest wonderfully. Deeply. Soundly. Undisturbed by haunting visions of moral transgressions.)
—but I digress—(cough cough)
As I was saying:
Grant me the strength to be wicked.
Afford me the confidence to knowingly disrupt the cosmic balance.
Entitle me to take what is not mine.
Endow me with the strength to cheat and lie and steal.
Let me have my cake and eat it too, and perhaps, someday, return for seconds.
Thirds and fourths.
Oh Lord may my self-awareness remain deception,
May the muscles and sinew flexed in the mirror remain awesome,
And may I roll over this world as one so divinely entitled.
If I am lost, let me hurt others in my grasping.
If I am in pain, let me be nurtured from others’ resources.
Let me feed off the world’s goodness and take no measure of responsibility.
Make my ego so strong, so emboldened, that I make victims of others to spare my own suffering.
Let me believe I am more important, the most important.
Let selfishness and egoism and self-deception reign in my heart, my soul.
Let all roads lead to me.
And let my worldly success depend on this attitude.
And whatever you do, do not allow moral questions of right and wrong creep into my self-righteous bastions.
Thank you Lord.