You don’t understand why everyone hates you.
It’s not like you’ve ever done anything to anyone. You try to keep to yourself – to live and let live, if you will. When that doesn’t work you’ve done your best to make each person’s experience with you a positive one, to sprinkle a little positive energy into every soul you touch. In short, you’ve tried to love.
…but when you try to use that positive energy you’ve sprinkled into these souls to extract them and call forth Ung-Thoth the Harvester from his cold slumber in the winter behind the Forgotten Door everybody loses their shit.
Live, love, demons – three sides of the same coin depicted in an adage as old as the profound darkness in which your brine-soaked lord dwells, but folks go crazy all willy-nilly when your eyes roll back into your skull and you begin to chant in an ancient tongue in the voices of a thousand dead children. It’s like you’ll never know what’ll set these people off.
Wave to kids as they pass by your house? Great. Hand out fliers on the inferiority of Yog-Soggoth compared to the new dark power you’ve found through experimentation with blood magic? Stop. Mow your lawn? No big deal. Trim your hedges into the shape of an inverted pentagram? You’re on the shit list again.
Fucking conservatives, man.