Her latest mission is to rid the world of transgenders for Jesus.
She’s never met one, but knows they’re everywhere, lurking in dark bathrooms, waiting to groom her children.
It’s ironic: with all the fillers in her face and her militant demeanor, she seems so harsh and manly. And with a half-inch of makeup caked on her skin and that brittle, bottle-blonde hair, she could easily be mistaken for a drag queen.
She spends endless hours scrolling social media, posting impassioned rants about gays, sex trafficking, saving babies, or whatever the newest topic of outrage may be.
As she racks up the likes, she congratulates herself for being such an effective agent for change without ever having to leave her chair. How did God ever manage to get anything done before she came along?
In the waking moments of the morning, she checks her phone for the latest news to feed her fury. The world is changing quickly, and she needs to be at the center of it, spouting her opinion on everything — no matter how little she understands.
All through the day, she listens to her favorite dozen or so podcasts, hosted by blathering, imbecilic grifters whose livelihoods depend on spewing toxic shit from their mouth anuses. She laps up their manufactured rage and conspiracy theories as gospel.
At night, she demands to have the television running while she sleeps: her mind needs to be constantly plugged into a steady stream of noise, lest she ever have a quiet, reflective thought of her own. Isolation breeds rebellion, and she must remain in lock step with the other warriors, firmly entrenched in the same beliefs.
Her rage is righteousness, and she often thinks about that day in the far distant future when she enters heaven and approaches Jesus’ throne. He’ll congratulate her for having all the correct beliefs and hating all the same people he hates, and she’ll primly smile while inwardly sneering at all the sinners burning in hell. Oh, how she can’t wait for them to suffer.
Needless to say, her bed has been dead for years. Her husband’s flabby, middle-aged spread grosses her out, and he’s grown bored of her sagging body despite that pricey boob lift he paid for a while back. He also detests the cunt.
She disdains him for being weak and passive — he isn’t the strong, aggressive man with a giant penis that she so often fantasizes about. Sometimes, while she’s violently fingering her clit in the tub, she thinks about him slapping her around and subduing her like a real man.
In the evenings, when she’s busy achieving meaningful change on social media, her husband is quietly swiping on his phone, furtively cruising for fresh hole. Meanwhile, her son is gooning to hentai in the next room.
She secretly despises her daughter for having the audacity to be young and cute, and seethes with jealousy that men now look at that prissy little bitch instead of her.
Other women are her competition: none of that “sisterhood” and “supporting the girls” crap for her. She’s spent her life seeking men’s validation, and she’ll be damned if she lets another woman receive attention from one.
To her, life is all about survival of the fittest — she’s pretty sure it even says that in the Bible. At least, that’s what a chatbot told her once when she was looking for an inspirational verse to post on her socials.
Because of her enduring faithfulness, God has richly blessed her with a well-paying job, and now she’s the breadwinner. Money talks, so she gets everything she wants. “If Mama ain’t happy…” is her motto, and she reminds everyone in the family of it.
She regularly berates her husband and children, and they cower in their rooms when she comes home each day, stomping in the door and banging noisily in the kitchen, alternately staring at her phone and yelling while she microwaves dinner. They’ve all come to hate the sound of her voice, butchered by years of baby talk and vocal fry.
Her favorite time of the week is Sunday morning, when she and her family will be all smiles in the second row at church.
She’s living her best life, and loves that everyone is so jelly of her.