Jesus's Gay, God's Black.

Just a Rant

A/N: Sorry about not updating. Writer's block, y'know. So here. It's not really a full chapter, just something to help the reader understand the narrator's (you'll get her name later) relationship with her father, or Satan.
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Dad's a nice guy.

Not really.

I mean, sure, he usually saws people in half for fun, but it's a treat. Like a human lollipop. They taste pretty good, too. Everyone's gotta have their chill time. Some just do it in a more unique way than others.

His good points are probably his face and his build, I guess. But obviously, his best point is me. As you can see, I hold the Guinness World Record for being the most modest.

Cons about him?

Well...

Everything. If he was a candy, he'd be even worse than the yellow Starburst.

Okay, okay. Let me be blunt: I hate my dad. It's hard to even squeak out the word "dad" in speech when referring to him. Our relationship level is below sea level.

Like, hello? Yeah, I'm your daughter. Thanks for noticing that I exist. I would also appreciate you stop having intercourse with random chicks.

I guess you could call me selfish, but put yourself in my shoes here (if your feet can fit. I'm a size 4.5 so like,,). Your dad is having sex with a mountain of women you don't even know 25/8 and the words "daughter" and "wife" don't seem familiar at all to your fuckboy father. And whenever you decide to return to your original home with your dad, all you hear are sex moans and you feel as if you're in a 69.9 earthquake. Also, if your father isn't having sexual intercourse with someone, he probably is either having a fascination with his penis (aka masturbating) or trying to fuck you, his own daughter, since he can't remember that you exist.

Literally zero percent chill.

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A/N: *clicks mature button*