The Devil is a Loser and He’s My Bitch, Or Maybe I’m His?

Mood: Bitter, but amused.

One of my favorite bands is Lordi.  They have a song called “The Devil is a Loser,” and they scream in monster masks “The Devil is a loser and he’s my bitch!” and oftentimes I find myself humming along to it when Samael’s trolling is particularly intense.  Then I threaten to brand his pale bony ass with a copyright in the shape of my initials and write more romance novels about him, replacing his name with Old Gregg, considering I made him up when I was 12.  He’s a lot like Old Gregg – lonely, likes Baileys and shoes, and oh so fucking desperate.

I’ve met all the Satans.  Beelzebub the Albino, Lucifuge the Ice Queen, Belial the Stoner, Azazel I’m Usually a Goat But Also a Rapist, Lucifer the Blond Red Eyed Wonderboy, Asmodeus the Thicc and Hell’s Biggest Dick – I could go on.  It’s a title.  But the one who plays the fiddle (and piano) and the stereotypical Black Man of the Crossroads, accuser, seducer, destroyer, tempter of man, demigod of the wind and seas (wait that’s Maui, and I just saw Moana) – is Samael.

He’s the one that sits on the throne in Hell and judges the Damned, the one who goes around the Pits of Abaddon lashing his snake tail to whip sinner’s souls, the one who takes Naberius on walks and is himself a great wolfish hellhound sometimes with dinner plate red eyes and other times a great black snake or dragon.  As in the Beast.  As in the Great Dragon.  As in the Nachash, the beguiling Bright Enchanter, the Fettered One, Ye Serpent of Olde, Shapeshifter, Demigod of the Wind and Sea, Hero and Man – fuck it’s Maui again.

I think Satan is dumb.  I think Hell is dumb.  I think angels are dumb.  I think demons are dumb.  I’m Pagan, damn it.  I worship dirt and trees and the Norse gods, not fucking Yahweh.  I begrudingly admit the Abrahamics exist in general, am very close with the archangels and drinking buddies with a few Goetics and archdemons, but more or less I’m Hell’s dancing monkey.  Demons push drinks on me and I get up on the tables in Asmodeus’ bars and dance and sing badly and embarrass myself.  I go to Beelzebub’s parties and Samael trolls me as a corpse or mummy or Cthulu and I run away screaming and everyone laughs.  He pretends to be Alucard  or Kylo Ren or Reaper and I throw things at him including shoes, books, and drinks and he laughs, like, well, Satan, because he is Satan.  Sometimes I feel like his lapdog.

But I invented him.  I pulled his name and character out of my ass when I was 12 for of all things, a demonic Twilight ripoff.  Then my computer got possessed.  But whatever.

He’s my bitch.  He bends over backwards to impress me in the astral because he is desperate for approval and love.  He literally scrapbooks and bakes us cakes and I’ve read in his fucking journals poetry about me and entries like “Allie got an A on her test today.  My heart swells with pride.  It is raining today.  Perhaps we will go for a walk.”  He even has creepy framed pictures of me on his desk.  He’s a fucking nerd that takes me fishing on the Styx and flying on his stupid dragon back and feeds me fucking tacos.  He gets drunk on my future grave and waxes poetic about my soul and reincarnations and when I’m driving he’ll appear in my third eye with a rose between his teeth looking like Pete Steele, because let’s be honest, Pete Steele was his earthly avatar, in a black velvet robe laying out seductively trying to get my attention when I’m trying to get past a yellow light.

When I check out cute guys  on the Metro he sends cold spots and gooseflesh and electric energy over my body as if going “Don’t even think about it, you’re mine.”  He likes it when I yell at him and call him names and slap him.  Spirits are fucking dumb but Samael is literally the dumbest spirit I know with the sickest sense of humor and horrible taste in clothes.  I wish I could take him shopping but he wouldn’t be caught dead in chinos and a nice white starches shirt.  Satan only likes black.  Maybe some red.  Red and black.  Possibly some silver.  Maybe he is colorblind.  The Devil is a loser and his fashion sense is Gothic and emo and Victorian.  He literally looks like Dracula.  And not in a good way.  Other times he’s a punk with piercings everywhere in leather and jeans.   And who could forget his disgusting death robes.  His closet is full of them.

I hate Satan.  I hate him.  He is the dumbest spirit in existence.  You’d think him being your bitch would make you like at least somewhat powerful, but instead he just gets triggered when Trump got elected and spent all day sending me emo music and messages through divination then going off the rail in my dreams.  Samael honestly can’t do shit for wealth or fame or whatever the hell he should do – Michael does and has literally saved my life, meanwhile when I’m suicidal and parade my guts in front of Sam he gets his fee fees hurt and sends me visions of me being tortured in Hell for taking my life, literally scaring me into being alive.  When I was 12 and Sam properly introduced himself, I was pissed he wasn’t Athena and said he was Satan and didn’t trust me and he told me that I read too much and not to trust Wikipedia.  When I asked him about shinigami because I liked Bleach, he turned into the Grim Reaper, said “Allie, I’m the KING OF SHINIGAMI,” made me hug him, then hid me under his cloak when angels appeared because once again, the Devil is preying on twelve year olds and god we have to get Samael to stop bothering minors.

It’s always girls on the cusp of puberty that get possessed, and for good reason.  We are all undergoing our Twilight phase and think vampires and fairies and demons are oh so cool and what if we could date them?  Some of us don’t grow out of that and thus paranormal romance is born.  I for one hate bad boys in real life.  Sure, I like the Grey Man in The Dream Thieves by  Maggie Stiefvater and the Darkling in the Grisha trilogy, but I exclusively date computer programmers/engineers who are my emotional rocks and do things like play basketball, sail, run HAM radio stations, program in their bathrobes, fix cars, or cook steak.  I have never so much as rode a motorcycle or kissed a smoldering musician or brought home a man with tattoos and a bad attitude and dark brooding past, and as an artist and writer, I would hate to date another artist or writer because we would just feed off another in an endless manic loop.  I need a boyfriend that is logical, sweet, and stable, considering being grounded is not a concept that exists with me as a bipolar roller coaster of a woman.

Bad boys are not cool.  Demons are not cool.  Satan is not cool.  He is lame, lame, lame, and he can’t even take care of his alcohol tolerance, let alone all of Hell.  That’s what Beelzebub and Rofocale and Lucifer are for.  The Satan that plays the role of the Devil is an emo alcoholic edgelord that rants about the occult but probably couldn’t fix a toaster.  Michael could fix a toaster.  Michael could fix your whole life.  That is why Michael is venerated by billions of people and the general occult consensus about Samael is that he is a dangerous spirit that can drive you mad and not suitable for public ritual, much less being in the same space as a minor.  Never let Samael near a minor.  Never let him near anything that looks like a minor.  Don’t even let him near a goddess, because he’ll just use a bad pickup line and get smited.

I joke, but Samael is very powerful.  The two most powerful spirits I know are Michael and Samael – as powerful as the gods – and they are constantly at war.  There is a 50/50 chance either will win – I’ve been tormented by Samael in dreams and invoked Michael for help only to have Michael banished by Sam, and I’ve seen Michael head stomp Sam until his brains leak out his skull.  Other times they act as my weird “dads” that hate each other but come together for the sake of their spiritual daughter’s betterment while fighting over my soul.  Sometimes I feel like when Samael and Michael got into a bitchfest over Moses’ soul, only I am not Moses just a memelord with too much lipstick whose greatest achievement in life is that I can whistle any blade of grass very annoyingly.

Samael is the most dangerous, vicious, cruelest, psychopathic spirit I know.  He has his good moments, but the good moments are often a trap.  The Devil comes disguised as an angel of light, and if you think Odin will do whatever he wants to get his way, you haven’t met Sammykins.  If you think Seth is ruthless, if you think the other demons are frightening, if you think Loki is chaos, if you think Cthulu is madness incarnate, you haven’t met Bonebutt.  He is a cannibal.  He is literally evil when he wants to be.  He is why I don’t want to exist when I die.

Because eternity with him?

I wouldn’t wish that on my greatest enemy.

I love him, but I hate him.  I always try to save him, and I will try still – the mem may disappear from his name and he may become Sael, the Purity of God, but that is so far away, and for now, my mind is in the pit, singing men’s song in the Devil’s cruel embrace.

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