gods have it rough.

the great philosopher wisdomocles stumbled onto this astounding epiphany during a feverish bout of late-night cogitation, aided in small part by a lifetime of heavy thinking that had honed his mind to an edge you could shave with from five feet away, and in large part by a thoroughly enjoyable evening's worth of recreational drug use. (his original statement was interspersed with substantially more giggling than is usually deemed appropriate for philosophy of this caliber; it also included a lengthy extolment of the hunger-quenching qualities found in cheese-flavored tortilla chips, and thus has been trimmed to the bare necessities for inclusion here.)

each god, wisdomocles posited -- and dude, isn't it weird how "god" is just "dog" spelled backwards? crazy, right? i know! pass the chips, please -- serves a distinct purpose. it stands to reason, therefore, that an infinite universe, which is filled with an infinite amount of purposes, could support an infinite number of gods, and strangely enough, this is indeed the case. there is not just a god of wine, a god of the ocean, a god of the sun; no, there is a god for every wine, every ocean, and every sun, everywhere. the universe is practically bursting at the seams with scores upon scores upon scores of gods, large and small, who perpetually jostle for mortal attention.

and the gods need mortal attention, because if no one worships you (or, at the very least, begrudgingly acknowledges your divine presence), then what is the point of being godly? sure, tying knots in the threads of destiny is fun for a few eons, but it gets difficult to roll out of bed in the morning when your omnipotence, however localized, goes totally ignored. to a god, recognition is ambrosia, and nescience is death. picking a bottle off the shelf at the liquor store suddenly holds all of the dogmatic gravitas of a holy war.

unfortunately, reverence isn't all valhalla and rainbows, either; there is actually a precarious balance involved, and it's arguably worse for a god to have too many followers. followers equal power, yes, but they also equal prayers, requests, and migraine headaches. it's intoxicating to feast and grow strong upon the supplications of people who pitch their tents in your camp-temple of belief, until you realize that they all want something in return.

this might seem pretty fair, but mortals are by and large impossible to please. answer one man's prayers, and a million other people immediately want theirs answered too. conjure up some simple miracles, and people complain that the wine is too sour, or that the bread is too stale, or that the fish is entirely the wrong sort of color and tastes funny. if you make life easy for people, they'll forget about you, and if you make life hard, they'll resent and abandon you instead. it's a lose-lose situation.

all of this is not to mention that new gods are born every day, and it's all the universe can do to expand to keep up with the influx. macros, for example, lost in manic flares of euphoric bliss, frequently outgrow planets and achieve godly status. there is no instruction manual available to them that details what to do afterward.

gods have it rough. but all it takes is one moment, one rapturous moment accented by billions of tiny voices raised up and woven into an intricate tapestry of pure, exuberant cheer, to make the trip to the firmament worthwhile.

you get a little, you give a little back. wisdomocles can go stuff it. :]