Shaylene Caffey

“Again, I beg to differ with your opinion. I’d hardly call the lives of the immortals quiet. And why is it that God can write a fucking book and I can’t?” I shot back, leaning back in my chair and waiting for her to play favorites in favor of my brother—again. My mother was the only one in the Universe that could get away with calling me a little shit and live to speak of it. The only reason I let it go was because I’d heard her call God the same thing. I knew the bastard phoned her on a regular basis. It chafed my ass that my brother had racked up more brownie points with our certifiable matriarch than I had. God was the ultimate kiss ass and I was the ultimate bad boy. “God didn’t write a tell all,” Mother Nature said, confused. “Lucifer’s referring to the bible,” my father explained, fondly patting her bottom. “Oh for the love of everything good, evil, and somewhere in between,” my mother groused and stamped her tiny Jimmy Choo clad foot causing a small tremble in Hell. “God wrote a history book.” “And I did as well,” I said, defending my life story. “At least my book wasn’t passed down by word of mouth for hundreds of years and then written in a dead language only to be translated innumerable times and interpreted by halfwits. Mine is straight from the guilty bastard’s mouth.” “Little harsh on your brother there—not to mention yourself,” Bill muttered. “Yes, well the truth hurts,” I informed him, doing my best imitation of my mother’s raised brow. “This is why lies are so much more fun.”
― Robyn Peterman, Fashionably Flawed