I was in one of your houses yesterday. It had a really, really high ceiling. It must have cost an awful lot of money to build. Wouldn’t that money be better spent elsewhere? Anyway, the ritual was okay. The priest you hired was a charming man, although he kept drawing crosses on a baby’s head. What’s that all about?
I arrived just as people were leaving after another one of your rituals. This one involved eating the flesh of your dead son. Yuck. I know he was a zombie but I didn’t think cannibalisation would be a big part of your cult. All the people were dressed very smartly. Almost as if they were more concerned with portraying an image of a good, wholesome person than with the act of worship itself. Surely that’s not the case? Because then there would be people who live bad lives, thinking all they need to do is stick on a tie and come to your house every Sunday to seem like they are holy and just. Other people wouldn’t know the truth, but you would, wouldn’t you?
A phrase I’ve heard a few times recently is “god never gives you more than you can handle”. I might need an explanation on this. A woman in the news recently lost four of her family in a car crash. If she hadn’t been able to handle that, what would you have done? Killed three and left one? Two and two? Does this mean that they didn’t all have to die, that you could’ve prevented it? You do indeed work in mysterious ways, with your insatiable need for regular, consistent death.
In your house, I sniggered at the very idea of your existence. I rolled my eyes at the mention of how good and loving you and your boy (and the ghost) were. If you at least had the decency to strike me down, then that would prove that you exist. I’m talking to myself aren’t I? This letter, like the service itself, was an absolute waste of time.