Ihaytchual is a selectively hermaphroditic God, but his primary form is that of a smug bastard who isn’t the one who has to write this shit. He makes his divine appearances right when you have your fucking schedule for the year in order. It is his great purpose to fuck over your carefully laid plans (you know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men, only the mice don’t really get screwed, they just put that in there so that men wouldn’t feel quite so picked on because they could always say: Yeah, but the Mice are fucked, too!) with inspirations that you can’t ignore.  Worse, he works his mysterious ways through his pawns, your dearest friends, so that you cannot tell him to fuck off.  He mocks you from behind their innocent and enthusiastic visages.

You can’t sacrifice anything to Ihaytchual other than your social life and fifteen pounds you’ll gain pounding out a novel and cramming soothing Pringles down your maw in a desperate attempt to get it done so you can get back on track. Oh, some people like to praise the bastard, but honestly, I would have had plenty of damn inspiration without his help. Now I’m perpetually behind (the patron saint of being perpetually behind is Wydassia, an immensely fat and beautiful virgin who was unsullied due to her inability to get around to making a decision; Wydassia failed to show up to a fertility ritual to bless the fields, because she had written a novel instead of doing the laundry and had nothing to wear, and thusly all the crops died. Summarily, she was burned at the stake for her sins. She was canonized in part because she burned with such vigor that she took her entire town with her — falling behind will burn you every time) and lighting beef tallow candles to Wydassia in a desperate attempt to get her to go sit on someone else’s schedule.

It’s 9:30am and I can feel Wydassia sitting on me while Ihaytchual cackles gleefully. If they don’t watch it, I’m going to call an exorcist, or at least a professional organizer. Lo, I am blessed with the presence of saints and the fond attentions of a God. It’s not as shiny as they make it sound.