My First Trip To Hell
Apr. 26th, 2007 06:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thatdamneddameBefore I start in with this adorable little tale, I would like you all to check out today's latest damnation. What is it you ask? Well, It's libba_bray 's livejournal. actually, it's the second to last paragrah in today's entry. DAMN YOU TEASERS!!! But you gotta love her for it. She's just so gosh darn wicked. meow. While I'm at it, I think I'll put her on the worship list as well. Yes humor like that should be appreciated. Anyways, onward and upward.
The Story:
When I was about five years old my mother bit me. No, sadly, this was not some kind of demonic ritual. Rather, this was a last ditch effort to get me from biting others. You see, I used to bite everyone. My mother, my father, my brother, my babysitter and even my grandmother. I was a success. I stopped biting. But that's not really the point.
You see, with that one bite I realized that I was different. Just like my avatar, I wanted to be a vampire. Well, not a vampire exactly, but rather something evil. And so one night as I lay in bed, sounting sheep, and becoming increasingly more awake, Satan appeared to me. Not like a vision or anything, but more like he was just some guy my mother had hired to check up on me and see if I was asleep yet. I wasn't, which was fortunate for him, because otherwise he would have had to wake me up, which is never a very good thing to do.
In anycase he explained to me something. I, That Damned Dame, was no ordinary five year old girl. Nay. I was, and infact still am, the heiress to Hell.
This totally rocked my socks. So we chatted, blah blah blah, he explained thigs, yadda yadda, and then finally he took me down to hell for a quick bite to eat. Now, ad you may know, may world renound chefs are French, and occasionally even Italien. This is fortunate, because that meant most of them wound up in Hell. And let me tell you, if you go to Hell sit at the high table. If you sit down with the damned souls, you'll have to eat food made by the English chefs. Yeah. Hell's actually that bad.
And so dear Satan and I bonded some more as we ate good food and drank pomegranet juice. He told me all these great stories about all the office Christmas parties Hell had ever had, and I told him how I had raised my hand in class that day to tell the teacher that the answer was "banana" but at the last minute I decided against it and when she asked me why I was raising my hand I told her that I was actually stretching. And then we discovered it. The one fact that would change the rest of my life, and even his.
Neither of us like deviled eggs.
libba_bray 's livejournal. actually, it's the second to last paragrah in today's entry. DAMN YOU TEASERS!!! But you gotta love her for it. She's just so gosh darn wicked. meow. While I'm at it, I think I'll put her on the worship list as well. Yes humor like that should be appreciated. Anyways, onward and upward.The Story:
When I was about five years old my mother bit me. No, sadly, this was not some kind of demonic ritual. Rather, this was a last ditch effort to get me from biting others. You see, I used to bite everyone. My mother, my father, my brother, my babysitter and even my grandmother. I was a success. I stopped biting. But that's not really the point.
You see, with that one bite I realized that I was different. Just like my avatar, I wanted to be a vampire. Well, not a vampire exactly, but rather something evil. And so one night as I lay in bed, sounting sheep, and becoming increasingly more awake, Satan appeared to me. Not like a vision or anything, but more like he was just some guy my mother had hired to check up on me and see if I was asleep yet. I wasn't, which was fortunate for him, because otherwise he would have had to wake me up, which is never a very good thing to do.
In anycase he explained to me something. I, That Damned Dame, was no ordinary five year old girl. Nay. I was, and infact still am, the heiress to Hell.
This totally rocked my socks. So we chatted, blah blah blah, he explained thigs, yadda yadda, and then finally he took me down to hell for a quick bite to eat. Now, ad you may know, may world renound chefs are French, and occasionally even Italien. This is fortunate, because that meant most of them wound up in Hell. And let me tell you, if you go to Hell sit at the high table. If you sit down with the damned souls, you'll have to eat food made by the English chefs. Yeah. Hell's actually that bad.
And so dear Satan and I bonded some more as we ate good food and drank pomegranet juice. He told me all these great stories about all the office Christmas parties Hell had ever had, and I told him how I had raised my hand in class that day to tell the teacher that the answer was "banana" but at the last minute I decided against it and when she asked me why I was raising my hand I told her that I was actually stretching. And then we discovered it. The one fact that would change the rest of my life, and even his.
Neither of us like deviled eggs.