Everyone faces hardships on their life.  Some are worse than others, some only seem worse to those inside the circle.  How we react to adversity says a lot about us.  We can complain and do nothing, we can ignore it entirely, we can seek help, or we can take action.

As much as we would want to, we can’t magic our issues away.

And I know you would want to.  Believe me, I know.  I’ve heard people wishing hard in the hopes that some existential being could relieve the pressure and anxiety they have.  I’ve heard many people pledging to sell their soul.  They don’t mean it, though.  They think it would be the deal of the century but if the Devil were to actually stand in front of them and offer them relief from their singular problem in exchange for eternal suffering and damnation, they’ll pass.

They always do.

Suddenly their problems aren’t all that bad, and maybe if they buckle down just a little more they’ll find a solution, or perhaps they’ll meet someone who only bankrupts them financially rather than morally as well.  “No thanks, Mr Devil Sir, but I’m not quite that desperate.  Besides, when I said I would sell my soul for a lemon-filled cronut topped with vanilla flavoured milk chocolate and white truffle shavings, I didn’t actually mean it; it was just a figure of speech.”

Which is weird, because those things are bae.  I’d sell my Grandmother for one of those bad boys.  Hell, I did sell her, just last month!  Best cronut ever, worth every mouthful.

But no, apparently this luscious piece of heaven isn’t enough for them to give up their pathetic little souls to the Lord of the Underworld.  It isn’t all bad though.  Eventually, they either give in, or they’ve worked out their issues and they’re not really wanting anything.  He still gets his fill.

This story isn’t about him though.  It’s about something much more vile, much more evil, much more dastardly, much more disgusting and depraved than the Devil.  No, it’s not about the working conditions for the kids in the Nike factory.  Nor is it about what goes on at a Harvey Weinstein pool party.  And it’s definitely not the “special relationship” between Donald and Ivanka Trump.  That stuff’s not suitable for any audience.  It makes 50 Shades of Grey sound decent and wholesome.

It’s about me.

I am the Darkness of the Night.  I am the Bitter cold in the Winter air.  I am the Demon that lurks in the deepest corners of your nightmares.  I am the Amazon Delivery driver that missed you by five minutes.  I am the ball of chewing gum that gets stuck in your hair.  I am the Airline check-in desk that shuts just as you arrive at the airport.

I am the Princess of Darkness.  And Daddy has a special job for me.