"THE DIVINE DRAFT: A PERFECTLY IMPERFECT CREATION"

In the beginning, there was nothing. Not a peep, not a flicker. It was the kind of nothing that would make even a void feel crowded.

Then, with a snap of divine fingers, there was… an office. Not just any office, but the office: a sprawling, celestial workspace where the carpets were fluffy clouds that squished underfoot as marshmallows on a summer day, and the walls shimmered with an otherworldly iridescence as if someone had gone a little too heavy with the cosmic glitter. The desk at the center of it all was made of pure, radiant light — so blindingly bright that God had to wear divine sunglasses just to avoid searing His retinas while reading the papers.

God, lounging in a plush chair that appeared suspiciously as if made from a nebula, sipped from a steaming mug that boldly proclaimed, "Let There Be Coffee," because apparently, even omnipotent beings need a caffeine kick. Today was The Day—the day to create The World.

He opened His planner, which was crammed with notes, doodles, and a few Post-it reminders that said things such as, "Don't forget to make gravity work" and "Keep it under six days" because, you know, deadlines.

"Alright," God muttered to Himself, cracking His knuckles in that satisfying way that would probably be frowned upon in most offices. "Let's do this. What could possibly go wrong?"

6:00 AM: With a grand gesture that would put even the most dramatic theater director to shame, God announced, "Let there be light!"

The universe lit up instantly—minus the protective eyewear—a billion flashbulbs going off, a sensory overload that felt identical to staring straight into the sun during a solar eclipse. The light was so intense that even the angels, who had probably seen it all by now, shielded their eyes with their wings.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Dial it down, dial it down!" God quickly adjusted the brightness, lowering it to a soft, golden glow reminiscent of the morning sun on a lazy Sunday. He peered around, satisfied. "That's better. I'm omnipotent, but I'd rather not give everyone celestial migraines on day one."

6:05 AM: God turned His attention to separating light from darkness. Easy, right? Except, of course, the two weren't exactly cooperative. The light insisted on taking up as much space as possible, spreading in a stubborn stain, while the darkness grumbled and lurked around the edges, refusing to budge. It had all the makings of a cosmic turf war.

"Oh, for the love of Me," God muttered, shaking His head as if dealing with particularly unruly children. "It's akin to getting two cats to share a bed." After some firm but gentle nudging — think less "move over" and more "if you don't, there's going to be trouble" — He finally got the light and darkness to agree on a time-share arrangement. "There we go," He sighed, rolling His eyes. "Let's just hope they don't start bickering over who left the stars on."

6:30 AM: Next up, God decided to shape the Earth. He rolled up His sleeves — not that He needed to, but it felt appropriately dramatic — and gathered a swirling mass of dust and gas. With a wave of His hand, the dust solidified into land, and the seas began to form. But instead of the smooth, even terrain He'd imagined, the Earth looked more similar to a misshapen potato, the kind you find at the bottom of the bag, and you wonder if it's still edible.

"Well, that's… lumpy," God remarked, scratching His head as He surveyed the wonky creation. I guess I was too heavy on the cosmic yeast." The mountains bulged awkwardly in some places, the dough rose a bit too enthusiastically, while the seas sloshed about as if they had a mind of their own, refusing to stay within their intended borders. Waves surged over the land, drenching everything in their path with the enthusiasm of a toddler discovering a sprinkler.

"Okay, okay, calm down," God said, trying to soothe the oceans that seemed silly—an overexcited puppy that didn't quite understand fetch yet. "You'll get your turn; just stay in your lane!"

7:00 AM: It was time to add some stars to the night sky. God grabbed a handful of twinkling celestial glitter — the kind that's impossible to clean up, no matter how much you vacuum — and tossed it across the universe. But instead of arranging themselves in neat, orderly constellations, the stars scattered haphazardly—confetti thrown by someone who was already tipsy before the party started. Some formed odd clusters, while others zoomed off in random directions as if they had places to be and no time to waste.

"Come on, guys, work with me here," God groaned as He watched one particularly rebellious star zip around as a firefly on a sugar rush. "I swear, this is what happens when you skip the tutorial. There's always one that thinks it knows better."

7:15 AM: Next, God moved on to creating life. Plants sprouted first, popping up everywhere—overzealous weeds in a neglected garden. Vines tangled themselves around anything they could find—trees, rocks, even the edges of the sky—as if they were auditioning for a botanical horror movie. Trees shot up too quickly, their branches intertwining with the cloud as they tried to create the world's most confusing jungle gym.

"Okay, slow down, slow down!" God laughed, though there was a hint of exasperation in His voice as He tried to coax the trees to stop growing. "This isn't a race, people! Or, uh, plants."

Then came the animals. The first giraffe emerged, its neck stretching so long it nearly poked a hole in the sky. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who gave you clearance for that neck length?" God chuckled, though He couldn't help but wonder if there was a cosmic paperwork error somewhere. "You're supposed to be an animal, not a ladder!"

A lion let out a roar similar to a high-pitched squeak, which might make you double-check if your hearing is still intact. "Aw, come on," God said, covering His mouth to stifle a laugh. "You're supposed to be the jungle king, not the court jester. Let's try that roar again, with feeling!"

Finally, it was time for humans. God fashioned Adam from the dust — giving him a nice earthy scent reminiscent of a freshly tilled garden after the rain — and gave him life. Adam blinked, looked around, and immediately started poking at things. He touched a tree, picked up a rock, and then turned his curious gaze to the sky.

"Here we go," God muttered, watching Adam start to ask a million questions. "The first existential crisis. That didn't take long."

Eve soon followed, and together, they began exploring their new home. Adam, of course, couldn't stop talking. Meanwhile, Eve seemed more interested in the flowers, occasionally nudging Adam away from anything that looked even remotely dangerous — which, knowing Adam, was practically everything.

"Yeah, keep an eye on him," God whispered to Eve, a knowing look in His eyes. "He's got that 'I'm about to do something incredibly dumb' look."

7:45 AM: With the creation mostly complete, God sank back into His chair, reaching for His now-cold coffee. He gazed down at the world below, where continents drifted as lost balloons, stars twinkled with an attitude suggesting they were the show's real stars, and giraffes tried to lick the clouds as if that was their sole purpose. The oceans still hadn't figured out where to stop, and Adam was now biting into a suspicious-looking fruit, his eyes widening in what could only be described as the first-ever 'uh-oh' expression.

Then, as if on cue, the platypus waddled by, its beaver tail slapping the ground with a wet, squelching sound and webbed feet making a delightful splash with each step.

"Now, what in My name did I make you for?" God wondered aloud, shaking His head with a bemused smile. The platypus, seemingly oblivious to its role as the universe's biggest inside joke, continued, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints that glistened in the light.

God took a long sip of His lukewarm coffee, wincing slightly at the taste. "Well, it's not exactly what I planned," He mused, watching as Adam and Eve argued over the best way to peel an orange. "But hey, it's got character."

He leaned back, letting out a contented sigh. The giraffes were still causing chaos, the stars were still spinning at an interstellar disco, and Adam had just tried to convince Eve that maybe they should eat another fruit — just to be sure.

"Not bad for a first draft," God said, chuckling to Himself. "Not bad at all. I'll iron out the kinks in the next patch."

With that, God set down His mug, glanced at the planner with all its unchecked boxes, and shrugged. Perfection? Overrated. This? This was something else.

Something perfectly imperfect.