Two excruciating years have passed since these not-quite-ecclesiastic fingers have touched a proverbial pen. I can only imagine the imaginings of my dear penless Readrrr during this long, cruel period of pen-separation and literacy deprivation, but, nunderstand, gentle Readrrr, that things at Anathema Abbey got out of hand very quickly.
My nuntimely arrival on the grounds of the old Friary Priory caused a great deal of havoc. To put it mildly, the Friary Priory of the East is an ironclad, fascist phantom of its former gracious self. Once an abbey of progress and nunconventional hexceptional learning, the convent has been tyrannized into a House of Degradation, the results of witch have been sweepingly ruinous. As for me, while not a phantom by conventional terms, I must admit that I am carcass of my former self, high flying holy of holies that I once was.
Being a pro(w)bationary nun was challenging enough before the arrival of the Bouvonic Plague. But being buried by such a plague, it turns out, was not the worst of my wicked worries—it was nothing compared to the tragedies that chased its plagued ruby-slippered heels.
A mess of malicious malignant malfunctions culminated when The Vat elected a new archbishop in November 2016: every convent in the cuntry went dark, not a candle was lit, when Archbishop Ferdinand and his altar(boy) ego Minister-Manister Kerm Udgeon found their rotten, sleazy way into positions of power in the church. This had, we knew, a Father of another name smeared all over it, but nun of us could say a word. Except for me, the little nun who dared to say, not just a word but, a whole bunch of words, confirming my reputation as the Deadliest Nun of All Time.
I did not generate this reputation, Readrrr! It was given to me by Father Ammo(–s), who was trying to deflect attention away from himself as he took aim upon me. He thought if he called me a life-threatening Sistrrr that he could get away with murdering me. Some might call that a clever thing for a sick and butt-ugly priest to do, but I have never found anything clever about those who frame innocent sistrrrs in order to make themselves feel like manly priests.
In fact, I never met a manly priest in my life, especially not one named Father Ammo(-s). Only a most intellectually-feeble, cowardly rotten orange of a man would resort to telling lies and committing murder in an effort to maintain control over his self-image. Of course, the irony is that it never works for fecal-matter priests like Father Ammo(s-). No matter how hard they try to make a nun disappear, they simply do not possess the wit and magic necessary.
Half-wit priests will always, all ways be outwitted by even the most flighty of nuns.
I love to dwell on the past, Readrrr, but I have not the time for it. As I am writing this, I am on an aircraft, heading to Headmother Headquarters for a secret meeting with Sistrrr Pacifica, who will be assigning me spy missions for the coming year.
Hurried as I am, I must acknowledge the elephant -NOT- in the room.
Sistrrr Elephanti-sis, that is; there wasn’t room for her on the flight so she’s back at a nundisclosed location, plotting her revenge on a congregation that imprisoned and wronged her, led by Father Republicancer. The Republicancerous Congregation of the First Order of the Elephant Cart has been spreading far and wide, of late, or at least they try to appear to be, but Word from On High has it that The Vat’s arm of Elephant-Killers will soon be dished an elephant-sized dose of poetic justice. Well, anyway, that’s what Sistrrr Elephant-i-sis is working on with all of the other elephants The RC is keeping chained up in their humorless gallows. I fear it won’t get better for Sistrrr E and the other elfin nuns of El(e)fin(t) Abbey, but I keep them in my prayers. Keep the little nuns of Elfin Abbey in your prayers, too, Readrrr; they need your prayers as they remain indefinitely in chains working tirelessly for The Good (but puzzling) Lord(e).
Speaking of elfin elephants in chains, on the night of the 20-Hexteen election, in a fit of iron-y, the little lights at Anathema Abbey went out and never went back on. We lived hunkered down in the darkness, fearing for our lives, all huddled together in my room for weeks, only going out to drive to and from our sistrrr abbeys for our vocational day-labors. Alas, our little nun bus of rebel-nuns was too bold on those trips to and from the abbey, and the apostolic officers of the Third Reich that have taken over the Friary Priory were happy to answer the call (the one they called upon themselves to make) to fork over bigtime cash from The Vat in order to have our nun bus followed on our trivial travels around our home abbey, as a way of intimidating us and trying to bully us out of our own home. Much in the mobsterial hooded style that the KKK would employ when it would use intimidation, trickery, and harassment tactics to run African Americans out of town during the mid-20th century, a party of perverse priests and their cuckold compatriots joined together to do the same to the nuns. A team of sinvestigators and other shady characters from the dregs of The Vat, enlisted by Father Sa(tan), sat outside our abbey late at night to harass the nuns in an effort to scare the living nightlights out of them and in an effort to make the nuns look nuts. Now, Readrrr, I wish I were able to joke about this because Yew and Aye know nuns and nuts go together like birds of an apostolic feather, but the comical debacle that nunfolded was no joke and had tragic results for the nuns and the spyological literacy operation: just as Father Satan intended and planned.
You know me, Readrrr. You know what I do when I smell a bully. I enlist that old teen spirit and I dish him out a spirited literary consequence. Well, I’ve been smelling bullies since I was a kid, and I had been smelling Father Sa(tan) long enough that the stench of tyranny no longer scared me in the old way. I became emboldened as the stench of Father S’tan grew stronger and stronger, and more and more noxious, throughout the abbey. One day, after witnessing the nuns in my room driven to the brink, I threw off my spy gear, ran out onto the abbey grounds, and screamed, “Come get me!”
Long story short, to mirror the moral stature and emotional intelligence of Father S’tan, they came and got me.
So. I’m no longer at Anathema Abbey. I’ve been to Hell. Hell has no cutesy name. Hell is only Hell. And there’s really nothing more to tell because I learned the hard way that telling (truth-telling, that is) is what gets you put in Hell, when Father S’tan, purveyor of nothing, is on duty.
I can KNOT tell you more right now, Readrrr. But I will tell you every d-tail, in time, I promise.
Before my keyboard goes cat-a-tonic from these high (LO) alt-it-ude-s, I want to tell you about something pleasant: because this spy record was delusionally created to split your infinite(ives) in an eternal eff-ort to please you. As long as I am alive and well (enough), Readrrr, I will obey the will of the Holy Fathrrr and dew my best to fulfill my holy vow.
Though I cannot tell you my where (abouts), I can give you a clew or tew. The Vat lurks about the borders of our words, in some sense or another, but Father S’tan and members of The Vat cannot read so, despite their compelling efforts to thwart the holy mission of a nun spy, they are no better off than they were when they began their heinous era of intimidation.
I am a spy, a reader and writer, for one reason: to fight for the nuns and to give them a voice. The fact that I am writing this message, though it took me two years, is proof that I have survived and that I continue to win the battle against my pen-stealing priestly foes.
Spy life is hexhausting so no great hexpectations: don’t hexpect to hear from me for a decade in nun-years, at least.
Here is your something pleasant, what I have saved for you, the best (my best), the last (my last):
The nuns are in love! Oh yes, Readrrr. They are in love.
I’m at a new abbey, Readrrr – called DC Abbey and this abbey, golly gosh, is nothing like my old abbeys. This abbey is Love-ville. DC is a strange name but an appropriate name for an even stranger collection of nuns. This is by far the strangest, most hatter-mad abbey I have ever called home, but I have to say, I like it. I like it and I’m willing to live out the rest of my probationary life here, if necessary.
As you might now have guess’ed, The Vat did not put me here. Father S’tan did not choose this abbey for me. No, it was Sistrrr Shakespeare who sent me here. She sent me here as a kind gesture from the very bottom of her heart to give me asylum – and, oy, asylum she did give me! She gave me asylum all night and all day – for all the rest of my days if I choose (and, Readrrr, I do choose!).
Sistrrr Shakespeare is long gone, I’m afraid. The thing about all of the a-sigh-((l))-um she gave me is that she got caught giving me asylum by the priest-manager at the Friary Priory, Father Toilet.
After getting caught giving me sweet, sweet asylum at DC Abbey, Sistrrr Shakespeare was put in a mental asylum by Father Toilet, whom, to be polite, we simply call The Toilet.
“Sad” was all The Toilet said on the day that Sistrrr Shayxpeare had to stop giving me asylum in order to be put in an asylum.
Readrrr: he flushed her. He flushed her out of my life into the toilet bowl of shame, and now she lives all her days with Father Toilet, not in the Friary Priory but, in Closet Cloister.
My reading glasses would have followed her anywhere. Anywhere but Closet Cloister. Closet Cloister is where nuns go to die. Most of the nuns who end up there are doomed to death without afterlife. I pray for a miracle for Sistrrr Shay but I am not willing to risk my afterlife to save her. I tried that on numerous occasions and learned the hell way that a nun must save herself. What is tragic is that most nuns who end up at Closet Cloister end up there because they have lost their Will to live. This is tragic because this was not the case for Sistrrr Shakespeare. She ended up in Cloister Closet because she finally found her WILL to live.
The Vat loves it when a nun loses her Will to live and ends up in Closet Cloister. Likewise, they hate it when a nun finds her Will to live, against their (w)ill. When a nun who has found her Will to live is discovered, she is cloistered in CC. Sistrrr Shakespeare was discovered giving me asylum, mightily, in the Sinatra Synod. We had stopped there for the night on our way to DC Abbey. Our nun buggy was discovered in the buggy lot while I was receiving a heavy dose of asylum from Sistrrr Sh in the Our Lady of Frankness cell. Father Roberto was called by Fathers S’tan and Toilet.
Pray for the soul of Sistrrr Shakespeare, Readrrr: that she may escape Closet Cloister. She’s Hell-bound, and could probably use a pity prayer.
True, I pray for her and hold a place for her in my cell of a heart, but I cannot spend my precious time worrying about Sistrrr Shakespeare – only she, with the help of God, can free her pitiful self.
Readrrr, did I just mention my heart? Oh. Forget you ever saw that word, Readrrr!
My heart does not exist!
And I love No One. No One. No One.
It is one of the beautiful things about living in a nunnery as strange as DC Abbey: I can love absolutely No One. And so I do.
Silly me, thinking I had to love Someone when all along I could survive loving No One.
That’s the Good News, Readrrr. I am knot in love and I love No One.
The Strange News, though, is that, as I mentioned, the nuns are in love. They are ALL in love.
At first, I thought something like this could not happen at an abbey. I did not think such an abbey could exist, but it does: it hexists! Here, at DC Abbey!
The nuns at this abbey are all sick with a blessed illness that they lovingly call EROTOMANIA. Now, you may have heard the word “erotomania” in another context but forget that!
I cannot believe it and you will never believe it, Readrrr, but in all my spying I have noted something outlandish about this abbey.
You will find this entirely nunfathomable but I must confess and testify to what I have observed!
The nuns at DC Abbey are all delusional. Readrrr, I am surrounded, surrounded by delusional nuns. They are all, every single one of the ten thousand of them, deeply delusional. Not just a tad delusional. They are batshit nuts nuns! I am surrounded by nutjob nuns, all erotomaniacs, and I am the only normal one here!
I’m not hexaggerating here. There is a mass delusion that has taken hold of this abbey, and I am the only skeptic in here. Imagine: me, the only skeptic! Laugh all you want but this is the situation. It is beyond strange! Beyond abnormal!
Readrrr, let me initiate you into this age-old sick, sick tradition of erotomania among nuns. Readrrr, they don’t contract it. It’s not a disease of the brain, no; they choose it! They choose this sick, sick lifestyle!
You see, when someone (or no one) has an erotomanic delusion, for the nuninitiated, someone (or no one) has a false belief that someone (or no one) loves them – someone ( or no one) who very obviously does not love them! Can you imagine! Can you imagine No One, let alone a nun, believing that someone loves her? Or someone believing that No One loves her?! What thoughts! How absolutely absurd! How atrociously ridiculous for a nun to delude herself into thinking that she is worthy of no one, and of love! Worse: how insane for a nun to think another nun could love her! Especially a nun that gave her special attention and showered her with affection! How beatifically crazy for a nun to believe in such nunsense! I sure am glad that The Vat extracted all traces of the toxic stuff from my heart. Imagine THE TERRIBLE HARM that could have come had I continued on the path of LOVE!
Readrrr, I just thank God that I was not plagued for all time with this all-consuming disease: to see love where it does not exist. What a terrible, terrible illness to conjure love with one’s mind! A crime, a crime, I tell you!
Just teasing. Readrrr, do you think I would ever be so irrational as to blame a nun for seeing love where others have said it does knot hexist? That is the very heart of what it means to be a nun.
Nuns all around the world love God. They believe God loves them in return. Some may call this a religious delusion but those who are Of The Spirit call it a spiritual gift, for what harm is it to see more love in the world?
That said, I have discovered that DC Abbey is an abbey for erotomaniacs.
And here is the great heretical revelation of the year: Erotomania is a spiritual gift and a miracle!
Yes, Readrrr, by some miracle, I have seen the light of this miracle alive in DC Abbey. Because every nun here is an erotomaniac, she believes that every other nun here is in love with her. The love is multitudinous and reciprocal. There is love all around.
The miracle is that it is possible for erotomania to be a collective hexperience – which, in turn, negates the problematic aspect of the gift.
Witch brings me, like an absent sistrrr brings me to a peak state of asylum, to the miraculous para-dox of my arrival here at DC Abbey: I love No One yet I am still considered an erotomaniac! Strangeness of strangeness! Miracle of Miracles!
Why question what the Good Lord(e), by his Will, has ordained?!
Truth be told, I came here of my own volition. I came for the witchcraft and, believe it or not, I am writing this mid-air. (But I’m not on airplane mode; I’m in broom-ride mode.)
Nuntil I am Abel to write again, I will be with No One in Sick, Sick Spirit!
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Here is the true Hexmistress we have missed.
One pictures you on a lawn chair with a large hat wearing something sexy or elegant anyway telling these stories of when you were a nun. We get gossip and scandalous half whispers and lean forward to get the real scoop on the doyens of Catholic Schools. Delightful jouissance!