To hell with the lot of them: idolaters and philistines. They made me sick. I should have known that godforsaken music channel would have never seriously considered a show this deep or real or cutting edge: a long take of me, in my cloister, dropping mad rhymes about God love. We could call it The Habit.

How could they not see that this was, excuse my French, the freaking future of reality TV?

Their loose moral fiber is woven from the torn fishnets of child prostitutes. I hate them so much. I knew a relaxing swim would provide me the peace and serenity I so foolishly tried to bring to those heathen ingrates.

When I got back to the convent, I prayed for the Rapture, then changed straight away into my new burqini. (Praise be, those Muslims are so fashion forward with their modesty!)

A man was waiting for me at the pool. He said, “Sup, dawg. We heard you like swimming, so we put a pool in your pool so you can swim while you swim.”

It… was the last thing you’d expect to find in a swimming pool.