Dates Don’t Matter, I’m Satan
Dear Evil & Prospectively Evil Beings,
May this letter find you HELL!! Seriously though, my name is Satan, and I write to you on behalf of my organization, Hell, for which I am the sole auteur.
Let me be clear about how much I have always cherished the human world’s contributions to my kingdom. However, the current degree of evil in your realm far exceeds the scope of my dominion’s resources and personal abilities – I’m only demon. To cope with your excessive output, I’ve had to take a leave of absence. I’ve been watching a lot of Netflix to refuel and empower myself with the necessary tools to express how I feel in our relationship. Our dynamic is quickly taking the shape of that fashion whirlwind rom-com, except you’re the one wearing Prada and I’m Anne Hathaway with her life falling apart trying to meet your insane demands.
You are right to expect much from me. Previous and ongoing Hell initiatives you may be familiar with:
- People who say things like, “Pandemic Shamdemic! Who cares? It’s crowded patio time!”
- Socks rolling down past your heels when you’re wearing laced-up boots or WORSE: ice skates. Harharhar!! (Contrary to popular belief, that is what my evil laugh sounds like. It’s really creepy if you actually picture me doing it.)
- Hornets (murder and non)
But you’re overdoing it. You are producing evils at an alarming rate. Destroying your own planet? Live Action remakes of beloved animated films? Margarine? Yikes. And of course, the list goes on. Slow down with how many of you are super fucked up like the primary school headmistress in Matilda. Your world is overflowing with Trunchbulls and I don’t have the capacity to deal.
This is hard to admit, but you’re doing my work better than me. I can’t keep up, and frankly, it’s demoralizing. I, like Melanie Griffith, have a head for business and a bod for sin (like, actual literal sin). And watching ol’ Mel jump through hoops just to get recognized at work only to have Sigourney (who she thought was her gurl) steal her ideas and take all the credit resonated with me all too much. I thought you were ma gurl, lowly humans. I THOUGHT YOU WERE MA GURL.
I haven’t spent time with my family in weeks. My little demons say, “I love you” to their nanny now and it breaks my damned heart. To be fair, the nanny is me disguised in makeup and wardrobe, always imparting valuable wisdom with an indiscernible British voice because it’s the only way I get to see my kids regularly since my partner & I separated…the point is I’m desperate.
My invoke rate is at an unsustainable high. I’ve been so over-invoked, I’m merely a shell of myself. I tried to be in the details the other day and I couldn’t even do that. I haven’t possessed anyone in months – and that’s something I really gotta do to be me. I’m losing my sense of identity and if you’re not careful I’ll go Eat, Pray, Love on you. Which, in my version, means I’ll eat all your souls and prey on everyone you love.
Please slow down on your infernal exports, at least until my intake system is updated and I’ve built a 10th circle of hell. I need to get back my competitive spirit, high morale and sense of camaraderie, like that Kirsten Dunst movie about competitive spirit, high morale and camaraderie, Interview with a Vampire. I will gladly conjure up a new inferno of unbearable suffering to house your booming surplus of wicked souls, but you need to slow the fuck down on the evil up there because it is just too much. Then, let’s get back to being The Notebook together (except neither of us is ever going to get sick or die because that was like, really, really sad).
At the end of the day you will concede to my request because I am Satan and if you try to refuse me, I will destroy you with hexes in perpetuity (but this would be a nice thing for us to do together).