Woah! Hold it right there, you sniveling, tear-soaked, chem-enrolled goblin! Get up off of your knees, leave that rosary alone and don’t even THINK about folding your little fingers together and inciting the warmth of prayer … for if it is your chemistry worries you wish the Almighty to assuage, you’re better off screaming into the void; God doesn’t answer prayers about Chem 1A.
I get it. It’s only natural that once the pounding of Yerbs proves fruitless and the step up to Adderall still finds you far beneath the C you need to pass, you might turn back to the God you left open-armed and waiting for your embrace at the foot of your hometown’s church. Indeed, Chem 1A is a miracle worker; with the earth-shaking, faith-inspiring power of an Old Testament spectacle, each quarter the chem panic sweeps through halls of freshman dorms, turning the faithless into Fathers and the nonbelievers into nuns. It is the conversionary nuke to which Jehovah’s Witnesses around the world wish they had the launch codes.
How do I know God cares not? Simple: I am God’s favorite child. We meet once a week to laugh about the petty qualms of our pathetic species and play a game of chess with the lives of an unlucky few. At our last luncheon, shitfaced off of The Nectar, I breached the subject of Chem 1A prayers and was met with a booming laughter, which was likely interpreted as thunder down on Earth. “You mean the crying of the cremlings?” shouted God. “The wallowing of the waifish? The ego of it all! Their audacity astounds! I don’t even have time to ameliorate the starvation of millions, to prevent genocide, to cool down an overheating globe! Yet these narcissistic beetles believe I have a second to spare for their chemistry grade? Laughable. It acts only as entertainment for me.” God then sent a bolt of lightning down to Earth, killing one of my pawns.
God went on to explain that, unfortunately, even if they did give a shit about your failing chemistry grade, there is nothing they could do for you! According to them, there is no omniscience powerful enough, no divine light bright enough to combat your holy ineptitude. You are abandoned; you are wandering alone in an infinite desert without even a mirage to soothe your tormented soul. You are a dumbass beyond the reach of God.
Chace Duma gets closer to God by hating on STEM majors.