atheist: If I ever meet God, I will kill him.

Not the phoney fashionable kinds whom you find in hoards these days. Those who think it is somehow cool to question everything that is established. Like the pseudo-feminist of the modern times. (Ninety percent of women in India are not even getting educated, and these good for nothing phoney feminists are fighting for issues like “Man-spreading, “Mansplaining,” “Their so-called right” to make the same mistakes which men have been making. Why? Because men also do the same. Pathetic.)

I could go on and on about these feminists, but that rant can be reserved for some other post. For some other time. Right now I’m focusing on my faith in non-faith. That no god exists. No superpower exists. Nobody is looking after us. Nobody has laid out our destiny in the elaborate charts based on our past Karmas and the constellation position on the day which we were born. I don’t believe in the cause and effect of deeds. I don’t believe in the existence of a creator that is out there looking out as a master puppeteer. It’s a damn lie.

But, suppose, hypothetically, for the argument sake, just for this post, if I allow myself one indiscretion and I assume that the God does exists! That somehow, all the proofs against the existence of the God that is out there — which scientists all over the worlds have found and brandished against the believers. All this is a facade, an elaborate scam created by God himself! Why?

Just for fun maybe? He must be getting bored up there and likes fooling around. Or maybe it is the God’s way to ensure a healthy debate amongst the intelligent life of this planet and beyond. Whatever may be the reason, that doesn’t matter for our assumption. Just that he exists, if supposed.

Now, having supposed he exists, after my time on this earth, I’m sure of one thing — that I am definitely going to hell (heaven is out of the question after this post.) And what I’m also sure of is that before I’m sent to be oiled and buttered and roasted and burned for my heretic crimes. Before I’m thrown among the hungry barks and poisonous fangs. Before I’m stripped and beaten and bruised until I’m blue all over — the God, considering I’m the biggest of his doubters, he will definitely appear before me for one last laugh.

Suppose this happens, then the first thing that I will do is attempt a murder on this God.

I know I’ll fail, he is THE GOD after all. But I will do it anyways. I will jump on him, and aim for his throat. Take his neck between the palm of my hands. And clasp my finger around his throat tighter and tighter until he pushes me away. For Good. But for the short duration in which I will have his immortal windpipe between my mortal fingers, I will give him taste of his own medicine. This taste of pain.

For if he really existed, with all his power and abilities to design and draw and define this world — why did he make it liked this? This world where nothing makes sense. Where poor remain poor, and the richer get richer. Where only a few have gathered almost all the resources leaving the majority of the rest to struggle or steal or sacrifice. The world in which floods drown out millions And also severe drought dry up even the juiciest of wells, cracking up the lips, parching the throats dry to death. Where tsunamis and earthquakes and volcanoes unleash fury from time to time. Where hunger and disease kill most innocent of the hearts. Where men kill men, women poison women for their own benefits.

What is this world that he has created and for whom and for what purpose?

No, I haven’t suffered any of the above (have not till yet.) But I also have my puny (in the grand scheme of things) grudges (See the God made me selfish, and he is to be blamed for this too.)

So as per my personal angst — for I’m more selfish than the most selfish out there — I will ask, why in the hell you kept on making me falling for girls who never loved me back. And those girl who did find love in me, why he made me immune to their love?

I will ask him, with my hands around his throat, and my hot breath burning his face, why in the hell he made me like this? Mad in love, and madder in unrequited love? And if had created me like this, why in the hell, he couldn’t put up me around someone who could love me back too, the way I did them.

The first girl loved me back (for exactly one year) and then one fine day left me without telling me her whereabouts. The second one found me good in every aspect but still vanquished me from tasting true love for I didn’t belong to her faith. Her brand of religion. The third one used me as a toy, as a helping boy to get her errands done only until her boyfriend could be back from an overseas trip. The fourth one used me as a cheap hotel, only for resting, after she was tired from sailing around the world. Only for the time she could regain her strength only to sail away. The fifth one saw me as an object to fulfil her desires once in a fortnight. That’s it.

I mean if you wanted me to screw me, God, you could have made me a fastener — a nut — at least I would have gotten screwed without feelings. Without any pain. But why like this? Why you made me of flesh and bones and heart! What fun you are getting out of this? Out of this elaborate play in which you make me happy for a fleeting second only to push me again in the sea of sorrow.

If this god does exist, even if hypothetically, then one thing is sure, that this god is a sadist, an evil genius who is having his fun out of our misery. Having his laughs out of our sorrow. Having his creative satisfaction satisfied out of the infinite ways he screw us. He is one hell-of-a-cruel-badass who is having fill by watching us suffer. It’s just a game for him.

But, all this if supposedly he exists. But I don’t believe in God. I’m an atheist. I’m a nonbeliever. So it’s all fine for me. Nobody is getting a high out of my miseries. It’s all the imagination of lunatics — the religious fools who believe in such phantasmagoria. I’m so so better than them.

But am I??

For now I realize, that I am worse than those blind followers. In fact, the worst. For I don’t even have someone to blame for all of this, for all of this pain that has engulfed me. This sea of sorrow in which I’m eternally drowning. This vacuum in which I can neither breath, nor die. Hung in this limbo. In pain. In angst. In regret. Forever. Neverending.