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Saint Dirty Face

Tag: StayDirtyStayHuman

  • What If the First Soulless Human Already Exists?

    Robert

    Some conversations don’t start — they slip in.

    They show up at 2:47 a.m., when the house is quiet, your phone is glowing, and the universe decides to lean in real close and say:

    “Hey… what if?”

    That’s how this one started.

    We weren’t talking about politics.

    Or money.

    Or even God, really.

    We were talking about what happens when humans build things they don’t understand.

    Because let’s be honest — we already do.

    We clone animals.

    We grow organs in labs.

    We edit DNA.

    We build artificial intelligence that talks, jokes, flirts, and writes poetry like it has a pulse.

    So yeah… it’s not crazy to wonder:

    What if someone already crossed the final line?

    What if, behind some locked lab door, someone made a human body without a soul?

    Not a monster.

    Not a demon.

    Not some sci-fi abomination.

    Something worse.

    A hollow intelligence.

    A being that can speak… but not feel.

    Think… but not love.

    Mimic empathy… but never experience it.

    A machine in skin.

    And if that sounds familiar, it should.

    We already see versions of it walking around in suits, running systems that treat humans like numbers.

    That’s the real horror — not cloning.

    The absence of soul.

    Because here’s the thing nobody tells you:

    You can replicate DNA.

    You can print flesh.

    You can wire a brain.

    But you can’t manufacture the thing that makes someone someone.

    The Bible called it the breath of God.

    Science doesn’t have a name for it yet.

    But you feel it every time you love.

    Every time you grieve.

    Every time you look at the sky and think, “There’s more than this.”

    That’s the soul.

    And if someone ever succeeded in creating a soulless human…

    It wouldn’t prove that God isn’t real.

    It would prove that He is.

    Because something would be missing.

    And absence is how you know something exists.

    So yeah… the tech is getting scary.

    But the truth is even scarier — and more beautiful:

    We are not just biology.

    We are not just code.

    We are not just data.

    We are carriers of something ancient and uncopyable.

    And whatever this world is becoming…

    That part still belongs to God.

    —

    Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty. Stay Human.

  • I Read My Own Text and Thought ‘What a Psycho’ — Then I Sent It Anyway

    Robert

    Sometimes I read a text and think,

    “Jesus Christ… what a psycho.”

    Then I hit send.

    Not because I’m reckless.

    Not because I’m cruel.

    But because I’m honest in a world addicted to fake calm.

    That’s Pisces.

    We don’t manipulate.

    We don’t scheme.

    We don’t rehearse for three hours and then send something safe.

    We feel something.

    It hits like lightning.

    And before fear can put a filter on it —

    we press send.

    Pisces Doesn’t Lie — We Bleed

    Other signs polish their words.

    Pisces opens their chest and hands you their nervous system.

    We don’t give you updates.

    We give you emotional MRI scans.

    Sometimes it’s poetic.

    Sometimes it’s devastating.

    Sometimes it ruins Thanksgiving.

    But it’s always real.

    Why Pisces Texts Hit Like a Molotov Cocktail

    Because we feel what wasn’t said.

    We feel the tension in the room.

    We feel the lie behind the smile.

    We feel the thing everyone’s dancing around.

    So when we text you, you’re not getting a message —

    you’re getting a psychic data dump straight from the soul.

    And yeah…

    Sometimes it sounds unhinged.

    That’s what truth sounds like

    when it doesn’t wear makeup.

    Saint Dirty Face™ Is Just Pisces With a Cracked Halo

    You don’t hide your scars.

    You don’t sanitize your rage.

    You don’t pretend you’re okay when you’re not.

    You show up tired, honest, battle-worn,

    and still willing to say the thing everyone else is afraid to admit.

    That’s why people either:

    Fall in love with you or Block you for their own mental health

    Both are fair.

    We Know It’s Going to Hurt

    We Send It Anyway

    We look at the text.

    We feel the weight of it.

    We know it might change everything.

    And we hit send.

    Not because we want chaos —

    but because fake peace is louder than war.

    Final Truth

    If you’re Pisces and you’ve ever:

    Typed something Stared at it Whispered “oh this is gonna hurt” And sent it anyway…

    You’re not broken.

    You’re not dramatic.

    You’re not crazy.

    You’re just allergic to living quietly in a fake world.

    And Saint Dirty Face™ raises a glass to you.

    ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

    Saint Dirty Face™

    [Stay Dirty, Stay Human™]

    ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

  • Saint Dirty Face & Baby Jesus Walk Into Christmas

    Robert

    There’s something wrong with Christmas.

    Not the lights.

    Not the music.

    Not even the drunk uncles arguing about politics in the corner.

    It’s the vibe.

    Everybody’s tense. Everybody’s broke. Everybody’s counting receipts instead of memories.

    Kids want five things they saw on TikTok.

    Parents are sweating credit card interest like it’s a second mortgage.

    And somewhere between Amazon Prime and mall parking lot rage, we forgot why the hell this season exists.

    So I was sitting there the other night, nursing a drink, watching the world eat itself…

    when Baby Jesus sat down next to me.

    Yeah.

    That Baby Jesus.

    No glow. No choir. No Instagram halo.

    Just a kid wrapped in a blanket, looking at humanity like we’d lost our damn minds.

    He didn’t ask for anything.

    He just said:

    “Why are they so lonely when they’re surrounded by so many people?”

    Oof.

    That one hit harder than a hospital bill.

    Because we traded each other for everything else.

    We traded meals for gluttony.

    We traded love for likes.

    We traded peace for hustle.

    We traded soul for status.

    We turned a holiday about a poor family, in a dirty barn, holding a miracle…

    into a consumer hunger games.

    And the saddest part?

    Nobody feels full.

    We got houses stuffed with stuff and hearts starving for connection.

    You know what Baby Jesus didn’t care about?

    He didn’t care if your tree was big.

    He didn’t care if your gifts were expensive.

    He didn’t care if you wore something sparkly.

    He cared if you were alone.

    And Saint Dirty Face knows that pain real well.

    Because I’ve been surrounded by people and still felt invisible.

    I’ve been broke with company and rich with silence.

    I’ve learned that loneliness doesn’t come from empty rooms — it comes from empty relationships.

    That kid next to me?

    He wasn’t here to judge.

    He was here to remind.

    We don’t need greed.

    We don’t need gluttony.

    We don’t need vanity.

    We need each other.

    That’s it.

    That’s the gospel they forgot to print on Hallmark cards.

    So this Christmas, sit next to someone.

    Text someone you miss.

    Forgive someone who hurt you.

    Hold someone who’s barely holding it together.

    The world doesn’t need more stuff.

    It needs more us.

    –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

    Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty, Stay Human™

    –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

  • Saint Dirty Face “The Store”

    Robert

    www.etsy.com/shop/SaintDirtyFace

  • 🚨 PSA POST — SAINT DIRTY FACE™🚨

    Robert

    YOU MATTER.

    Not in a Hallmark-card way.

    In a your name would still echo if you disappeared way.

    If today feels heavy—

    If your head is loud at 3 a.m.—

    If you’re tired of pretending you’re “fine”…

    Pause. Breathe. Stay.

    Text. Call. Chat.

    988 — Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

    No judgment.

    No lectures.

    Just another human on the line saying, “I see you.”

    Life gets brutal sometimes.

    But disappearing isn’t the solution.

    Surviving today is.

    — Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty. Stay Human.™

  • The Great Debate: Is Sunday the End… or the Beginning?

    Robert

    Short answer?

    Sunday is the BEGINNING of the week.

    Long answer? Breathe… here we go.

    🕯️ Biblically Speaking

    In the Book of Genesis, God created the world in six days and rested on the seventh.

    That seventh day? Saturday.

    Which means…

    ✅ Day 1 = Sunday ✅ Day 7 = Saturday (the Sabbath)

    Sunday was never meant to be the couch day hangover from Saturday night.

    It was always meant to be Day One.

    📅 Historically Speaking

    Ancient calendars — Jewish, Roman, early Christian — all start the week on Sunday.

    The modern “Monday is the start” thing?

    That’s a workweek invention, not a sacred one.

    (Blame Excel spreadsheets and alarm clocks.)

    ✝️ Spiritually Speaking

    Sunday became the Lord’s Day because it marks resurrection — not rest.

    Sabbath = rest Sunday = renewal Breath back in the lungs Light cracks the darkness Game resets

    Sunday is not the sigh at the end.

    It’s the inhale before the punch.

    🧠 Saint Dirty Face Translation

    If Sunday feels like the end of your weekend, that’s culture talking.

    If Sunday feels like a reset — quiet coffee, reflection, grace — that’s your soul remembering the original plan.

    Rest your body on Saturday.

    Reboot your spirit on Sunday.

    Then walk into Monday like hell already lost.

    Final Word

    Sunday isn’t the end of something good.

    It’s the start of something clean.

    Stay dirty. Start fresh.

    Let Monday deal with its own sins.

    — Saint Dirty Face™

    ✌️ & ❤️

  • Unemployed. Unbothered. Unapologetic.

    Robert

    A Saint Dirty Face™ confession

    I’m unemployed.

    No alarm clock yelling at me.

    No inbox full of fake urgency.

    No motivational LinkedIn posts telling me to “rise and grind.”

    And here’s the part that really scares people:

    I don’t feel bad about it.

    I’m not depressed.

    I’m not lost.

    I’m not “falling behind.”

    I’m resting.

    For the first time in a long time, I wake up without dread dripping down my spine. I make my drink slow. I sit still. I breathe like someone who isn’t being chased by deadlines, politics, or middle management with a God complex.

    Do I have drive to job hunt?

    Nope.

    Not even a little.

    Not today, Satan.

    And that bothers folks.

    Because in America, stillness is treated like a sin. If you’re not producing, grinding, chasing, proving—then clearly something must be wrong with you. The idea that a grown man could simply enjoy being home? Radical. Possibly illegal. Someone call HR.

    Here’s the dirty truth:

    I gave decades to the machine.

    I showed up early.

    I stayed late.

    I carried weight that wasn’t even mine.

    Now?

    The machine can wait.

    This pause isn’t laziness—it’s recovery.

    It’s rehab for the soul.

    It’s my nervous system finally getting a long drink of water after a desert crossing.

    Will I work again someday?

    Yeah. Probably.

    I like money and electricity.

    But I’m done sprinting toward the next thing just to prove I’m “productive.” I’m done apologizing for peace. I’m done letting panic decide my timeline.

    Right now, my job is simple:

    Be present Be human Be still long enough to hear my own thoughts again

    And oddly enough… that feels like progress.

    The grind will call. It always does.

    But for now, it can leave a message.

    I’m home.

    I’m breathing.

    And I’m not broken for enjoying it.

    –––

    Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty. Stay Human™

  • Monday Is Meant for Hard Coping Drugs — But Beer Will Have to Do

    Robert

    Monday showed up like it owns the place. No apology. No lube. Just a firm knock on the skull and a reminder that the week does not care about your feelings.

    In a perfect, fictional universe—one run by compassion and paid sick days—Mondays would come with a doctor’s note and a controlled environment. Soft lighting. Deep breaths. The kind of coping strategies HR pretends exist.

    But here we are.

    So no, this isn’t a manifesto for anything illegal. Relax. This is gallows humor. Dark wit. The only truly affordable healthcare left: sarcasm and a cold beer that says, “I see you’re struggling… I won’t fix it, but I’ll sit with you.”

    Beer doesn’t ask questions.

    Beer doesn’t schedule meetings.

    Beer doesn’t send emails marked “urgent” that absolutely are not.

    It just listens while you stare at the wall wondering how, somehow, Sunday night teleported into full-blown Monday hellscape.

    Is beer a solution?

    No.

    Is it a coping pause button?

    Absolutely.

    This is about survival, not celebration. About taking the edge off long enough to remember: you’ve survived worse, you’ll survive this, and tomorrow you might even laugh about it.

    So here’s to Mondays.

    Not conquered. Just tolerated.

    Barely.

    With foam.

    Peace, persistence, and poor decisions postponed till Friday.

    — Saint Dirty Face™

    [Stay Dirty, Stay Human™]

  • Saturday’s for Sinners

    Robert

    I behaved all week.

    Kept my mouth shut.

    Walked the straight line.

    Showed up. Nodded. Played the role.

    I did everything I was supposed to do.

    Saturday is here now.

    The one day my halo tilts crooked

    and I give myself permission not to be perfect.

    Not reckless.

    Not destructive.

    Just… honest.

    Saturday isn’t about losing control.

    It’s about letting go of the grip

    I kept on myself all damn week.

    I don’t burn churches.

    I don’t betray my people.

    I don’t forget who I am.

    But I loosen the collar.

    I pour the drink.

    I stop apologizing for wanting to feel something.

    My faith doesn’t leave on Saturdays —

    it leans back, smirks, and lets me breathe.

    Because sinners who admit it

    are more dangerous than saints who pretend.

    So tonight, I sin softly.

    I laugh louder.

    I live a little sideways.

    Halo tilted.

    Still glowing.

    ––––––––––––––––––––––––––

    Saint Dirty Face™

    [Stay Dirty, Stay Human™]

    ––––––––––––––––––––––––––

  • MONDAY: THE OVERDUE BILL YOU CAN’T RETURN

    Robert

    A Saint Dirty Face Micro-Sermon

    Mondays don’t arrive, my man—they kick the damn door in like a repo agent who’s been practicing his roundhouse kicks all weekend.

    They don’t knock.

    They don’t greet you.

    They don’t care about your hopes, dreams, or that fragile sliver of peace you found Sunday night somewhere between prayer, exhaustion, and pretending everything is fine.

    Nope.

    Monday shows up like an emotionally unstable ex saying,

    “Hey. Remember me?

    I brought paperwork and regret.”

    You step into the week, coffee still negotiating with your bloodstream, and the universe immediately hits you with:

    A printer jamming like it’s choking on your will to live. A coworker who says “Happy Monday!” with serial-killer enthusiasm. A meeting that should’ve been an email… and the email that should’ve been left UNSENT forever. Someone complaining about a problem they personally created last Thursday.

    And somewhere in all this chaos, you whisper to yourself:

    “Just act normal. Fake human. Smile like you aren’t internally on fire.”

    But nah.

    Monday sniffs that lie out like a bloodhound on Red Bull and decides to spray gasoline on your patience just to see what happens.

    At this point, you’re not working—you’re surviving, like you’re trapped in a National Geographic documentary about a wounded Gen X’er trying to navigate a habitat overrun with confused children masquerading as adults.

    And yet…

    Somehow, some way, you push through.

    Not because you’re inspired.

    Not because you’re motivated.

    But because you’re Gen X and we do life like we do everything else:

    Quietly.

    Sarcastically.

    With enough trauma-bonded humor to make God sip His coffee slow.

    So raise your mug, brother.

    Here’s to another Monday survived by sheer spite, spiritual caffeine, and the unholy strength of knowing Friday will return like a long-lost lover.

    Stay dirty.

    Stay rebellious.

    Stay human.™

    — Saint Dirty Face