Hell and why it sucks. . . fiction

I'm in hell. The seventh level of it. The worst part of hell is seeing your friends. In hell you can't say "Hi" or chat about relationships or work. In hell you can't even commiserate about being in hell. You're just there. Suffering. I wish I could say there was a good thing about hell, but there isn't. Not one Goddamn thing.

Those who aren't in hell might say "it is what it is." But its worse. Its hell. Fire? Yup, we've got it. Agony? Here in hell, there is agony to spare But the worst part of hell is not the fire, the burning, the agony or the constant rape of your soul. Its the boredom. That's the worst part of hell. I would even go so far as to say hell is the worst place I've ever been. Hell or Tijuana.

Why'd I end up in hell, you might ask? I don't know. The irony is, I don't even believe in hell. I still don't. I keep hoping this is some sick joke, and I will wake up at some point. But I haven't. Maybe this is just the longest dream I have ever had. I don't know. All I know is for countless hours I have been humiliated, abused, scorched and tortured for no good reason.

I guess that's the worst part of hell. Besides the Jim Morrison want-to-bes; the fact that there is no good reason for all of this is the worst part. Whatever. God is a faggot.

Maybe that's why I'm here. Because I think that God is a bitch. His plan only makes sense to weird Christians. That feeling. . . feeling bad about masturbation. . . I would have killed myself if I had that feeling. . . if I had felt bad about a stroke session.

So now I'm here. The Pit. Eternal Damnation. It's not the worse place I could be. I guess. I feel like there are worse places. The DMV. There is a place worse than hell. Maybe not. I would say so.

Maybe I'm full of cheerful optimism. But how could I be? I'm in Hell. . .