Still working on the part of the sci-fi epic called LYFE that this may or may not finally fit into...

 It's a bitter musing that may or may not be delivered by a member of a semi-immortal and rather high and mighty alien species to its cranky but humbled human interlocutor; depending on how this particular alien's character finishes growing in me old petri dish, he may or may not be agnostic enough to believably say such a thing. Also, there's stuff in it about current physics. No doubt THAT will have to be tinkered with.

But I'd like to try it out as a blog post, for now. You know, keeping up the public interest in case a sci-fi publishing house ever decides to actually check LYFE out instead of tossing it on the "no space cowboys? yawn" section of the slush pile. Highly unlikely, since I'm not on television, but you know, I need to do stuff that tricks my brain into thinking continual breathing isn't just a vanity.

(clears throat)

Did it never occur to you people that this place may be too awful to be random? A mean retarded Maker gloats over your strange seductive minds, these bitter conscious soap bubbles he’s trapped in his weak meat soup. Why would the godshead sentence itself to so many centuries of such bad gruel? Clearly he thinks it’s a very funny joke. So funny it’s worth the taste of raw blood forever! How bitter to be the ultimate butt of this joke—a “person"—to ride, awake, within the gross blood pudding, wishing only to be free of it—and yet you cry to see God grin and drool as he gorges it down, idiocy omnipotent. So pleased with its paltry, sloshing joke, a joke that never stops begging for mercy! How nightmarish, to always know he will have the last bite. Which is worse for us creatures: to be awake to feel this obscene bully tear the last of you from your shell, or to be “mercifully” spared the last of your memories? But what’s the worth of a memory that can only be held for never? For whose benefit would you savor that last beautiful sunset drenched in pain? The moment it happens, the personality stew you’re so disgustingly proud of is gone.

Or perhaps there is no god. But again I ask you: could such a malicious universe truly be an accident? Some of us have guessed that perhaps the “god” is a scientist, who’s created the universe we live in with an apparatus—the way our physicians can very momentarily create a “universe” with its own laws of physics in a jar. Do those “universes” we create for fun live and die these same subjective agonies in their soap bubble? Or are we merely playing at god, while the one true God laughs cruelly as we dab in the sandbox, waiting for his fang? Or if we are, in fact, creatures of another scientist’s soap bubble, who created that nasty scientist? And who created his Creator? And is there a universe that isn’t eating its own tail, and if there is why have we creatures here been shut out of it forever? Perversely, the only comfort is to think that we really are in hell and we truly enjoyed our mortal sins in a former life. I hope they were delicious.