I think I’d be a good cult leader. It feels like a calling I’ve ignored, an opportunity missed.

I need a weed farm and a bunch of girls to tend it. The good girls can sleep on the floor around my bed, the bad girls can sleep on bunk-beds with mattresses filled with gravel, and the unrepentant pig whores can sleep in the barn where they belong.

But every night before bed, all the little pigs, twisted sluts, and simple cunts will gather in front of the fireplace, where I’ll read them stories that make them wet and remind them that, when I somehow make them feel both worthless and useful, I’m actually making them complete. We might also have sing-alongs, because I’ve always wanted to hear a chorus of whores sing Nine Inch Nails’ Closer.

Yes, yes… this needs to happen. For the sake of you girls, of course. I am as close to god as some of you cunts deserve to get.