Why I Choose the Mess Over Paradise
“A playful rebellion against the dullness of perfect justice. Here’s to flaws, chaos, and the joy of being human.”
Picture God on a slow Tuesday, sipping lukewarm starlight-tea and muttering, “Let’s polish the universe until it squeaks.” He slaps a fat layer of Perfect Justice over everything—irons the mountains flat, teaches every wave to break at the same polite height, and hangs a “Silence, Please” sign over Eden. The place turns into a cosmic study hall: air stuck at 72 °F, cherubs lip-syncing hallelujah on loop, pomegranates arranged by diameter. Even Lucifer, downgraded to assistant gardener, starts yawning so wide you can see last week’s temptations.
Bored out of his horns, the devil paints a single apple fire-engine red and tapes on a label: DO NOT BITE. You know the rest. Eve shrugs, Adam follows, crunch… and suddenly their brains light up like busted microwaves: What’s desire? What’s sex? Why are we naked and why is that fun? God spills His tea, screams “Justice breach!” and punts them both to Earth with the holy equivalent of a eviction notice.
They land knee-deep in mud, gravity, and taxes. Rain actually splashes, bicycles skid, knees split open, mothers brew scalding soup and scold at the same time. It hurts, but man, does it taste alive. That’s when I realize perfect fairness is a bowl of hospital porridge: technically nourishing, spiritually coma-inducing.
Fast-forward to humanity’s bright idea: “Let’s fix God’s glitch with Communism—absolute equality for all!” Translation: concrete-flavored utopia. Elon Musk becomes head of the National Weather Balloon Bureau; no rockets, comrade, and definitely no Mars. Jeff Bezos shelves paperback propaganda at the People’s Library and gets two extra potatoes a month for punctuality. Steve Jobs—resurrected just to suffer—queues for state-issued beans with everyone else while a clerk reminds him Think Different violates section 4-B. Taylor Swift leads the Collective Choir of Responsible Heartbreak (“We Are Never Ever Expropriating Each Other, Ever”). Ronaldo must guarantee every match ends 0-0 because victory is elitist. Kim Kardashian fronts a shampoo ad that reads BEAUTY = BLENDING IN.
No one starves, but nobody laughs either. Equality turns life into a flattened soda: all sugar, zero fizz. Give me dents and bubbles any day—revenge plots, unlikely comebacks, knees that still remember the shape of asphalt.
So, dear Almighty, keep your lint-free, Wi-Fi-less paradise. Down here we hoard our glorious unfairness like spice. We claw, we fail, we screenshot the mess and post it with a dark caption. We need losers so winners mean something; we need temptation so freedom has edges. If your heavenly terms require eternal elevator music and no notifications, feel free to count me absent. I’ll be in the noisy section of creation, riding a wobbly bike, bleeding a little, laughing a lot, and happily chewing the next forbidden apple.
With irreverent love,
one volunteer sinner