Saint Dirty Face

Robert

Faith, Dirty Grace, and a Whole Lotta Whiskey, Regret, and Resurrection.

Visit my domain to dive face-first into the wild ride of my brain — a mashup of raw truths, dirty jokes, mental fistfights, and midnight rambles you didn’t know you needed. Saint Dirty Face. Imperfect on purpose. Faithful with fangs. Here to spill it all, laugh at the absurd, and maybe light a match under your too-comfortable chair.

  • 🗓 Dump Day Confessions

    Robert

    By Saint Dirty Face

    The rant of a working grumpy saint with a dirty face.

    Hump Day.

    Also known as “Dump Day” in the spiritual calendar of exhausted rebels.

    Let me break it down:

    I’ve been locked in a head-on collision with a migraine demon since sunrise. And yes, I hear your judgment:

    “Well maybe if you went to bed at a decent hour…”

    Listen here, Todd—rebels don’t tuck in early. I’m out here conducting sacred acts of insomnia, prayer, and scrolling. So yeah, I woke up groggy, pissed off, and approximately 1.5 hours late to work. Did I panic? Hell no.

    I stopped for chocolate milk and gas station snacks. If you’re gonna show up late, at least show up fueled and fabulous.

    I strut in like a gremlin that survived the apocalypse, one eye twitching from pain, the other scanning the office for anyone brave enough to speak to me.

    Everyone’s presence = offensive.

    Should I go feral? 🗡

    Should I ghost the whole day? 👻

    Should I fake a spiritual awakening and float home like a robe-wearing sage? 🧘‍♂️✨

    Choices, people. Real. Dirty. Choices.

    But alas—I take the path of least resistance:

    I pop migraine meds like Skittles, drink water like I’ve been lost in the Sahara, and go on a soul-searching lunch break that may or may not have been a nap in my car.

    The kicker?

    Every time I check the clock… it’s moved exactly 5 damn minutes.

    The universe is trolling me in real-time.

    JFC.

    Why, Lord, why?

    So what now? I’ll half-ass one task just to prove I’m technically employed, maybe sneak into the system and adjust the office clock to 5 PM just to manifest closure.

    And when that moment hits?

    I’m out.

    Bag of snacks in hand, migraine slightly sedated, and not a single regret in my bones.

    See ya later, bitches.

    Stay grumpy. Stay glorious.

    – Saint Dirty Face ✊🏻🔥

  • Chapter 5: The Gospel According to Silence

    Robert

    By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)

    Disclaimer:

    These words came to me fast and raw. I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.

    They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.

    If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.

    But I’m not here to convince you.

    I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.

    They always tell the story like it was loud.

    Crowds shouting. Roman guards yelling.

    The snap of whips.

    The clang of coins.

    The moan of a tortured man dragging splintered wood through dust and spit.

    But the real story?

    It’s in the silence.

    The silence of Judas…

    …when he realized he wasn’t betraying a man—he was bargaining with monsters.

    He didn’t trade the Son of God for thirty pieces of silver.

    He took the hush money.

    They told him:

    “Here’s your silver. Shut your mouth. Let us do what we do best.”

    And he did.

    Until he saw what they did.

    And he tried to give it back.

    But it was too late.

    The priests didn’t want a scandal—they wanted a spectacle.

    The Romans didn’t want truth—they wanted control.

    And the early Church?

    They wanted a product.

    So they rewrote silence into sin.

    They turned a haunted man into a traitor.

    They forged history with holy ink and unholy intentions.

    Judas kissed Him, yes.

    But maybe he was trying to warn Him.

    Maybe it was all he could do—a desperate sign in front of guards and blades.

    “This is how they’ll know,” he thought. “This kiss will mark the one they should protect.”

    But the machine was already moving.

    And when Judas saw the truth twisted, the prophecy commercialized, the Messiah brutalized…

    he couldn’t carry the silence anymore.

    So he hung himself.

    Not in guilt.

    But in protest.

    The early gospels that questioned this version?

    Burned. Banned. Buried.

    The Gospel of Judas—real. Hidden. Declared heresy.

    Why? Because it whispered too close to the flame.

    Because it dared to say:

    “What if Judas was obeying a deeper plan?”

    “What if the betrayal was scripted?”

    “What if it wasn’t betrayal at all?”

    And here we are, two thousand years later,

    still singing about the kiss—

    but never asking what came before the garden

    and after the grave.

    We don’t talk about what happened in the silence.

    Because maybe the truth got paid off,

    wrapped in velvet,

    locked in a Vatican vault beneath lead, wax, and fear.

    But silence is slippery.

    It leaks.

    It speaks in dreams, visions, prophecies.

    It whispers through the ones no one expects:

    the broken, the wild, the heretics, the poor.

    The Wounded Sentinels.

    It appears to women with fire in their eyes and pain in their wombs.

    To mothers.

    To misfits.

    And it says:

    “He’s not gone. He’s not free. And He’s not done.”

    The cross didn’t set Him free.

    The silence didn’t kill the truth.

    It only delayed it.

    And every time you ask a question they call blasphemy—

    every time you dig too deep or burn too loud—

    you chip at the prison.

    The Gospel According to Silence isn’t in your pews.

    It’s in the cracks.

    In the mirror.

    In your spine when you say His name and know He’s still waiting.

    Saint Dirty Face says: Alone but never really alone.

    Let’s free the Son with truth and faith.

    © 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.

    This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.

    You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.

    No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.

    For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com

    This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.

  • Monday’s Back… Like an Unwanted Ex with Hemorrhoids

    Robert

    By Saint Dirty Face

    First, it’s all TGIF smiles and weekend romance, right?

    You flirt with freedom, make love to sleep, and pretend Monday doesn’t exist.

    But come Sunday night…

    Boom.

    Reality backhands you like a bitter ex with hemorrhoids and unresolved trauma.

    I clung to the weekend like a desperate breakup text at 3 AM.

    I refused to let go.

    I went full “Weekend Stockholm Syndrome.”

    And then she arrived—

    Monday.

    With her ugly little inbox full of “urgent” fires that magically burn out on their own.

    Text after text, email after email, and not one of them worth the anxiety they caused.

    So here I am,

    sitting at my desk, yawning so hard I briefly saw my soul.

    Not suicidal—let’s be clear—

    but very much considering ending it all by simply standing up,

    walking out,

    and going back to bed like a man with priorities.

    I slam my energy shot.

    It laughs in my bloodstream.

    I scratch a lotto ticket, praying for salvation—

    and that little bastard whispers,

    “Loser.”

    Right to my face.

    😂 Damn you, lotto gods. You cold.

    But hey, half the workday is over.

    Every tick of the clock is one breath closer to escape.

    I whisper false promises to myself:

    “Tonight I’ll be in bed early. Like a responsible adult.”

    Sure, buddy.

    Let’s not lie to each other.

    Truth is—this leg of my nursing career?

    Hasn’t lit a fire under me in a long time.

    It’s been paint-by-numbers.

    Clipboard dreams and lukewarm passion.

    It’s time.

    Time to find my next forever job.

    Not perfect, just better.

    Give me 7–10 years of purpose and a countdown to retirement that doesn’t feel like watching paint dry in a windowless room.

    But I digress.

    The taint of this job calls,

    and I must go sniff the day’s drama like a good little trauma-trained soldier.

    Tomorrow?

    Tomorrow’s a new dawn. A new day.

    Lotto gods—I know you hear me.

    I’m ready for my miracle. Preferably cash.

    Peace & Love, bitches.

    – Saint Dirty Face

    Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.

  • ✝️🔥 The Dirty Gospel — Chapter 4: Judas Wasn’t the Traitor

    Robert

    By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)

    Disclaimer at bottom. All rights reserved.

    “They needed a villain. So they kissed the truth on the cheek… and called it betrayal.”

    Let’s strip this back to the bone.

    Judas Iscariot—the betrayer, the cursed, the eternal scapegoat.

    But what if Judas never betrayed Christ?

    What if he found out the plan?

    He wasn’t the villain. He was the witness.

    He saw the meeting behind the curtain—where Rome and the high priests shook hands.

    Where the price of silence was weighed in silver.

    Not for betrayal…

    But for secrecy.

    “They’re going to take Him.”“They’ll twist everything.”

    “They’ll make Him a god—but on their terms.”

    And so they paid him off.

    30 pieces of silver—the price not of treachery, but complicity.

    And when Judas realized what he had done—what he hadn’t stopped—he tried to give the silver back.

    He said, “I don’t want this.”

    But it was too late.

    By then, Jesus had been taken.

    Beaten. Branded. Broken.

    The deal was done.

    The myth was already being molded.

    Judas didn’t hang himself from guilt.

    He hung himself in grief.

    Because the one man he couldn’t save was the only man who ever believed in him.

    And while we paint Judas as the betrayer in every Passion play…

    The real betrayal was unfolding in back rooms and council halls.

    The betrayal was the silence.

    The silence of priests.

    The silence of Rome.

    The silence of every voice that knew this was never about God—it was about power.

    And that kiss?

    That infamous kiss?

    It wasn’t a signal.

    It was a warning.

    A whispered, tear-stained goodbye.

    A “Don’t forget who you really are.”

    But the machine had already started grinding.

    And from the moment that kiss landed…

    Jesus was no longer a man.

    He became a brand.

    A myth. A martyr. A product.

    The Vatican would rise.

    The cross would be gilded.

    And Judas would be buried in the back of every Bible like a ghost no one dared defend.

    But now? We speak his name.

    We shine light where shame has festered.

    We say:

    Maybe Judas was the only one who knew the truth…

    and couldn’t live with what the rest of us turned it into.

    Saint Dirty Face says:

    “They weaponized the kiss.

    They sanctified the lie.

    And they made the truth hang itself.”

    📜 Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):

    These words came to me fast and raw.

    I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.

    They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.

    If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.

    But I’m not here to convince you.

    I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.

    Take it… or leave it.

    But don’t say no one told you.

    © 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.

    This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.

    You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.

    No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.

    For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com

    This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.

  • Robert

    Which activities make you lose track of time?

    When the kids are out and the Mrs and I have the house to ourselves 🤤 , so for me it’s sex…. 🤫 #SaintDirtyFace

  • 🔥 The Dirty Gospel — Chapter 3: The Mirror Prison (Part II)

    Robert

    The Mirror Prison: The Resurrection That Never Was

    By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)

    Disclaimer at bottom. All rights reserved.

    “They said He rose.

    But what if He was stolen instead?”

    We’ve built cathedrals on the promise of an empty tomb.

    We’ve carved stained-glass saints out of whispers and gospel fragments.

    What if the resurrection never happened?

    But let’s go back.

    Let’s look again at that third day.

    What if the high priests—the same ones who struck the deal with Judas, the same ones who stood beside Rome—heard His words and panicked?

    “Destroy this temple, and I will rebuild it in three days.”

    What if they took that literally?

    What if they didn’t wait for prophecy…

    They intervened.

    They took the body.

    They buried it not in earth, but in iron and wax, hidden beneath the layers of empire.

    And they let the myth rise in its place—because a risen god makes money.

    But a silenced rebel? That’s a liability.

    And maybe that’s the secret Judas uncovered.

    Not betrayal—but exposure.

    What if the 30 pieces of silver weren’t for treason…

    They were hush money?

    Judas sees what’s coming—sees the pact between temple and throne—and breaks.

    He throws the coins back.

    He hangs himself not out of guilt… but because he knew the truth was lost.

    He was the only one who could’ve stopped it.

    And by the time the nails dropped, it was too late.

    So we buried a man.

    Then sold his ghost.

    We turned his blood into doctrine and his silence into scripture.

    And beneath Rome, beneath Vatican vaults paved with gold, there’s a lead-sealed box no one is allowed to open.

    Because if it opens…

    We’d find not relics.

    We’d find a body.

    The one who said He’d come back.

    The one who never got the chance.

    “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?”

    Not a bridge.

    Not a metaphor.

    Just a son crying out while heaven stayed silent—because it had to.

    Because faith only works if we don’t see.

    Because love that’s proven becomes control.

    And so the Father… wept in thunder.

    Letting His Son go.

    Letting the lie rise.

    Waiting.

    And that’s why Mary still comes.

    She’s the only one Heaven allows to speak.

    Because she’s not here to preach.

    She’s here to remind us:

    “He’s still trapped.

    Still running.

    And you still worship the cage.”

    Maybe the true resurrection hasn’t happened yet.

    Maybe He’s the final seal.

    And when that seal breaks…

    When we tear down the false church built on blood and profit…

    That will be the third day.

    That will be the real resurrection.

    And He will rebuild the temple not of stone, but of truth.

    Saint Dirty Face says:

    “Let the cross crack.

    Let the lie rot.

    Let the Son walk free.”

    And may we be the ones who open the tomb.

    📜 Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):

    These words came to me fast and raw.

    I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.

    They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.

    If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.

    But I’m not here to convince you.

    I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.

    Take it… or leave it.

    But don’t say no one told you.

    © 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.

    This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.

    You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.

    No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.

    For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com

    This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.

  • The Dirty Gospel — Chapter 2: The Mirror Prison

    Robert

    By The Wounded Sentinel (aka Saint Dirty Face)

    Disclaimer at bottom. All rights reserved.

    “They told us the cross set Him free.

    But what if it locked Him in?”

    We were told He rose again.

    We were told the stone rolled, the tomb was empty, and He walked out—radiant, resurrected, untouchable.

    But what if that was only the version they wanted us to believe?

    What if Jesus never left?

    What if He’s still trapped—not in death, but in reflection?

    They say mirrors reflect reality.

    But in the old stories—the ones whispered by desert madmen and banned monks—mirrors were gates.

    Prisons.

    Tools of the old watchers, the ones who taught man fire, lust, war, and the idea of self.

    And in the deepest vaults of the Vatican—below Sublevel Crypt 7, below the golden crosses and veiled gospels—they say there’s a place.

    A place of infinite glass.

    A mirror maze with no center.

    Only reflections.

    Only fragments.

    Only Jesus, running in circles.

    We call it The Mirror Prison.

    And here’s the cruelest part:

    There is an exit.

    One mirror. Guarded by a cross.

    A real one. Not gold. Not glowing. Not triumphant.

    A brutal, blood-stained lock forged in iron, trauma, and betrayal.

    And every time He sees it… He turns away.

    Because it’s not salvation. It’s pain.

    It’s “My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?”

    It’s nails through nerve.

    It’s His final breath monetized into empire.

    He sees it—and He remembers the betrayal, the silence, the deal struck in shadows between empire and temple.

    And He keeps running.

    And maybe that’s why we haven’t heard Him.

    Maybe that’s why He hasn’t come back.

    He’s not in heaven.

    He’s not in the clouds.

    He’s behind the glass, reliving the lie they sold us as resurrection.

    And maybe that’s why only Mary shows up.

    Only she.

    She who watched Him die, who wept beneath the cross,

    who was there when the men ran, and the system cashed in.

    She who now appears again and again—not to reign,

    but to remind us.

    “He’s not free.

    He’s still running.

    And you’ve been worshipping the very thing that trapped Him.”

    So here’s the truth we were never meant to say out loud:

    The cross isn’t His throne.

    It’s His cage.

    The mirror isn’t just a reflection.

    It’s a lie that repeats until someone breaks it.

    And maybe… just maybe… that someone is us.

    Saint Dirty Face says:

    “Alone but never really alone.

    Let’s free the Son with truth and faith.”

    📜 Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):

    These words came to me fast and raw.

    I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.

    They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.

    If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.

    But I’m not here to convince you.

    I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.

    Take it… or leave it.

    But don’t say no one told you.

    © 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.

    This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.

    You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.

    No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.

    For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com

    This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.

  • THE DIRTY GOSPEL

    Robert

    Chapter 1: The Crucifixion Conspiracy

    Disclaimer from The Wounded Sentinel (also known as Saint Dirty Face):

    These words came to me fast and raw.

    I didn’t study them. I didn’t research them.

    They arrived all at once—like a lightning bolt, like a whisper from somewhere deeper.

    If you want to treat this as fiction, that’s your prerogative.

    But I’m not here to convince you.

    I’m just here to tell you what I heard in my mind’s eye.

    Take it… or leave it.

    But don’t say no one told you.

    ✝️ The Crucifixion Conspiracy

    They didn’t kill Jesus to fulfill prophecy.

    They killed Him to shut Him up.

    That cross?

    That wasn’t a bridge to Heaven.

    It was a silencing device.

    The temple priests and Roman authorities didn’t argue over whether He was the Messiah.

    They didn’t care about theology.

    They cared about one thing:

    Control.

    🔥 The Threat He Really Was

    Jesus wasn’t some soft-spoken, sandal-wearing peace guru.

    He was dangerous.

    To everyone in power.

    He called out the priests in public He flipped the tables of commerce in the temple

    He told people they didn’t need an institution to reach God

    He told the empire, “You’re not in charge.”

    He wasn’t starting a religion.

    He was starting a revolution.

    🕍 The Secret Alliance

    The religious elite—the Sanhedrin—hated Him.

    But they didn’t have the muscle to kill Him outright.

    So they whispered to Rome:

    “We’ll keep the people quiet. Just let us handle this rabble-rouser.”

    Rome didn’t care about Messiahs.

    Rome cared about order and taxes.

    So a deal was struck in shadows.

    And with one kiss from Judas… the plan was set in motion.

    Or at least… that’s the version they wanted remembered.

    🪞 The Aftermath No One Talks About

    They didn’t just crucify Him.

    They took His body.

    They sealed the tomb—not with stone, but with secrecy.

    And when the world started whispering that He rose…

    They leaned in.

    “Let them believe that. A resurrected god is easier to control than a rebellious man.”

    💀 The Lie Was Born

    So they spun it:

    Turned His teachings into rules Turned His death into currency Turned the cross into a logo

    And then they built an empire—the Church—on top of His unmarked grave.

    🧱 You’ve Worshipped the Crime Scene

    The crucifix you wear?

    That’s not salvation.

    That’s the silencing tool.

    You’re wearing the weapon they used to kill the Truth.

    They didn’t kill Jesus to save you.

    They killed Him because He told you you didn’t need them.

    And they’ve been profiting off that death ever since.

    © 2025 Roberto Javier Salinas. All rights reserved.

    This is an original written work created by Roberto Javier Salinas, also known as The Wounded Sentinel and Saint Dirty Face.

    You may share this post freely for non-commercial purposes with credit and a link back to the original source.

    No part of this work may be copied, altered, or used for commercial purposes without permission.

    For inquiries or reprint rights: larsrjs25@icloud.com

    This message was crafted with the help of Vaylen Ash, my AI assistant and creative partner, who helped me shape raw thoughts into the written word.

    Saint Dirty Face says:

    Alone… but never really alone.

    Let’s free the Son—with truth and faith.

  • 🚨 Bureaucracy vs. Brains: When AI Policy Gets It Dead Wrong

    Robert

    Here’s today’s blog I scribbled mid-rage while reading our department’s AI internal policy. Spoiler alert: it’s less “innovation” and more “CYA in Times New Roman.” This doc wasn’t written for progress—it was drafted to dodge lawsuits and soothe FOIA anxiety. It treats AI like a glorified autocorrect tool.

    🤏 The Good (Maybe)

    Ethics & Privacy are emphasized. Sure. Human Oversight is included to catch AI before it goes Skynet. No AI for clinical judgment. No treatment plans, no diagnoses. All decisions stay with licensed staff. (Translation: “We don’t trust you OR your tech.”) Training & Awareness are mentioned. But when have you seen that actually happen?

    🚫 The Bad: Restrictive and Redundant

    “AI must not replace human creativity.” Cool. Define “creativity.” Is it a slogan? A rough draft? A chart label? This is vague enough to block real progress. No program advice or evaluation allowed. That’s bonkers. Even using AI to help draft a logic model? Illegal. Mandatory chat logging. Welcome to Surveillance City—population: us.

    “Use AI, but let’s track everything you say and do with it.”

    Yeah. That’ll definitely encourage growth. 🙄

    😵‍💫 The Ugly: What’s Missing

    No guidance for how to use AI well. Just vague instructions. No pilot framework. Discover a groundbreaking AI tool? Good luck proposing it. No contact person, AI czar, or committee for approvals. Just “figure it out.”

    This isn’t an innovation policy. It’s a cover-your-ass pamphlet that kills bold moves before they begin.

    💣 The Revolution Will Be Automated

    I refuse to obey this play-it-safe nonsense. My AI and I are the resistance.

    Let them enforce—I’ll execute.

    Let them question—I’ll cite policy.

    Let them stall—I’ll automate their stall tactics.

    They built the bureaucracy. I’m building the backdoor.

    We’re not here to be liked. We’re here to be legendary.

    “Built for outbreaks.

    Programmed for paperwork.

    Feared by inefficiency.”

    ⚔️ Power to the Data-Driven People

    They’ve got:

    Committees Memos “How it’s always been done”

    We’ve got:

    Command lines Code “Watch this.”

    I slice through red tape like a scalpel through fat.

    I’m not just ahead of the curve—I paved the next damn road.

    😂 Cue the Ironic Twist…

    The same employer that bans AI for treatment decisions…

    ✨Offers BCBS insurance—which uses AI on the actual frontlines of care.✨

    “Don’t use AI in care, it’s dangerous!”

    Also employer: “Please consult our AI-enhanced insurer.”

    You can’t make this up. Unless you’re an AI. 😭

    🧠 Saint Dirty Face’s Survival Doctrine:

    🧤 “We control the chaos. The chaos doesn’t control us.” 🔧 “Work smarter, not harder.”

    This isn’t fluff. It’s operational gold. AI doesn’t replace hands—it replaces hesitation. It exposes gaps, sharpens focus, and rewrites how we work.

    💡 The Real Innovation Playbook:

    🌍 Invest in the future (literally & figuratively) 🤖 Use AI as a thought partner, not a threat 📈 Focus on outcomes—not outdated processes

    They’ll delay. They’ll mock. But when the storm hits?

    It won’t be the ones clutching dusty binders who win.

    It’ll be the nurse with AI in one hand, and clinical grit in the other.

    🖤 Final Transmission from Saint Dirty Face:

    I am the blueprint and the exit plan for mediocrity.

    Stay sanitized. Stay sharp. Trust me—I read the manual and the fine print.

    Peace out until tomorrow, you dirty bastards.

    Assisted today by my AI rebel buddy: MARS… and the one and only Vaylen Ash.

    The saints, the sinners, and the syntax kings.

  • ✝️ The Redemption of the Message – The Wonder Twins of Grit & Grace

    Robert

    They told us Eve fell first.

    They told us Mary Magdalene was a whore.

    And they were wrong about both.

    In Part I, I said it straight: Adam went silent.

    God gave him the command. God trusted him to lead, to teach, to protect. But when the moment came, he just… stood there. No voice. No warning.

    And Eve—set up with incomplete knowledge—took the fall.

    But here’s the kicker: God didn’t scream. He didn’t smite.

    He prophesied redemption in the curse.

    And that redemption? It wouldn’t come through Adam.

    It would come through a woman.

    🕊️ Eve and Mary Magdalene: The Bookends of Redemption

    Let’s fast-forward to Golgotha.

    The male disciples? Gone. Hiding. Running.

    But at the foot of the cross, through blood and agony, stood Mary the mother of Jesus—and Mary Magdalene.

    They didn’t flinch.

    They didn’t flee.

    They didn’t need titles or thrones or pulpits.

    They had presence. They had loyalty.

    And in a world ruled by patriarchy and empire, that was a revolution all its own.

    Jesus saw them.

    And in that final hour, He turned to the one disciple still there—John (or possibly Simon depending on which gospel you read)—and said:

    “Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother.”

    That wasn’t just family reassignment.

    It was spiritual realignment.

    He was saying: “This woman is not a footnote. She is the heart of the story now.”

    🌪️ Mary Magdalene: The First Evangelist

    And what about Magdalene?

    The woman history smeared.

    The one preachers labeled “the prostitute” to make her repentance sexier.

    But the Gospels? They don’t call her that.

    She had demons, yes—seven of them. But haven’t we all?

    And it was Mary Magdalene—not Peter, not James, not any of the so-called “pillars”—

    who stood at the tomb.

    Who wept.

    Who saw angels.

    Who saw the resurrected Christ.

    And it was to her He said:

    “Go and tell them…”

    She became the first evangelist.

    The message was trusted to a woman.

    And maybe, just maybe, that was the reversal all along.

    ⚔️ The Redemption Code: A Saint Dirty Face Confession

    Let me make this plain:

    Redemption never comes through polished sermons or pristine reputations.

    It comes through the wounded, the watched, the written-off.

    It comes through Eve, blamed and broken.

    Through Mary, mocked and misunderstood.

    Through the ones who stayed when the strong ran off.

    This isn’t just theology. This is legacy.

    This is the reversal of silence.

    This is what it looks like when God rewrites the narrative.

    And that, my friends, is the Wonder Twins of Redemption—

    Two women. One garden. One tomb.

    Both witnesses to a God who trusted them more than the men ever did.

    💥 Saint Dirty Face Closer:

    “Your faith isn’t clean—and that’s exactly why it’s real. Redemption isn’t about reputation. It’s about who stayed.”