Hello Hammer this is Nail. your problems are solved


11:11 I LOVE YOU

Hi (ATTY),

I haven't written to you until now because I don't wish to get things out of sync.This is a really complex matter that I don't fully understand.

I do wish to speak to you about retaining your services but I don't wish to alarm anyone. I really just want my gun rights restored--not to alarm anyone, but it would. Some people think that I am on the verge of going postal. /rolleyes

The mind is the only weapon. Frankly I think the person who overreacted should hire an attorney, but... they might not know that. Also. I don't wish to offend her.

I barely thought of her and I thought I would be doing nothing but demonstrating someone's jealousy was unfounded. Not so sure now. Anyway, it can wait. I have a "competency evaluation" tomorrow and I suppose... well, this could be it, (ATTY).

They'll most likely send me to DIego Garcia right afterwards. SIgh. And I had so much to live for. Well, here's hoping. I'll contact you again in days to come, and I wish I could talk your ear off about everything I have learned. This whole boondoggle is a once-in-a-lifetime perfect storm.

I've never been so pleased with my strategic pre-planning in my entire life. And I am thankfully not afraid of more false reports being filed... since everyone I ever had sex with actually wanted to, and it would seem that the three (3) women who have falsely claimed such things about me... seem to have all been working together.

I didn't even know such stories were there. Still, I knew there was something people didn't like about me. And they apparently went to great lengths in the background to have a final, nuclear solution option to use against me.

Only child, parents' owned home, and few friends, I guess that is a valuable combination? I've been earmarked for decades as an easy target!

I made sure to look really, really dumb. Anyway, that's enough out of me. I shouldn't boast. I wouldn't want to be guilty of witness tampering or obstruction of justice or... you know, whatever.

People are very angry that I am not vanished yet. So... I think it best not to alarm anyone unduly. Just in case. These (SLANG:[country/Indian] “folks”) are all about respect down here, and they have lost a lot of face.

I... probably won't be lynched? Fingers crossed. Fuck 'em. l8r


--

Best wishes & warmest regards,

MCK



CONFIDENTIALITY NOTICE: The information contained in this ELECTRONIC MAIL transmission is confidential. It may also be subject to the attorney-client privilege or be privileged work product or proprietary information. This information is intended for the exclusive use of the addressee(s). If you are not the intended recipient, you are hereby notified that any use, disclosure, dissemination, distribution (other than to the addressee(s)), copying or taking of any action because of this information is strictly prohibited. Trust the plan. #wwg1wga

Guess the name of the attorney I wrote to above and win a Kewpie doll. (Offer valid in the Continental U.S. and Jakarta, Ireland, Madagascar, Zanzibar, & Tasmania -only-.) Speaking of dolls, my cousin (PROT) is working with the police FREEMASON SCUM who are unlawfully surveilling me, and my Mother's cedar chest that contained a porcelain doll was, somehow, a very valuable item to my Mother's sister. So valuable that, rather than simply telling me that she wanted it; she went to do the trouble of HIRING A GRAPEFRUIT IMPOSTER (no shit) TO OBTAIN IT. Now, I don't know if you've met “I. M. Poster Fruit,” but let me tell you: I have (PROFANE:gerund) (PROFANE: coitus) her as well... and, not only that, I actually slept with her too. (But: NO ANAL. Case closed, btw.)

And I can tell them all apart. Without having to have sex again -or- giving us all a blood test, because I'm not a cheap, lying, working-for-INTERPOL -or- a grown-ass man... too afraid to get on the phone with lil’ ol’ me... and I am not lying. (Don't ask me to compare their sexual performances without being on pay-per-view with a contact. It wouldn't be fair to the children's fathers.)

(Dear Aunty: how old were you, when you found out that one cannot sue for defamation if the alleged defamation is... true? Follow-up question for your punk-bitch son that's still alive: “Was your mother born yesterday, or was that just your brother in Africa again?”)

IDGAF: you don't need to take me to a phone booth with a door so I can change into Superseriouspodcaster, no! You wanna know who did what to who, Mr. U.S. Marshals Service, Mr. Immigrations & Customs Enforcement, and/or Mrs. Internal Revenue Service Auditor??

Call me any time; just ring: three six two (blank) two (blank) six. We'll set a fire tonight!

There's nothing to be gained by interacting with him.

Dirty cartoons: diddlers [drawn/drawing] cheap. Whoa, Nelly!


(Now, rather than embarrass azray by posting my real emails to him, I will now embarrass the man who's been coercing his behavior through unlawful threats of exposing his hidden dealings: this f**king g*y, (PROT), who currently has control of the “pate” login... whether he's actually logging into the site, or having his pretend “wife” or his pretend “girlfriend” do it for him.

(Whichever one it is, I'll bet you dollars to donuts that she's holding ID that says her name is “A.F. Shaw”, because these f****** idiots are still trying to get me jammed up on a contact order violation and they're f****** desperate, because they're f****** criminals and they got f****** caught and he's f****** jammed up all the way to the goddamn Moon and back.

She is a harsh mistress... and, that's no moon: that's a space-age gas stationbait shop. (If you feel a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach right about now, you are not alone: the most obvious trap in the entire history of Creation... and you all walked right into it. Sad!!)

a certain habitual meth-amphetamine user

Hey, J_____, yes, I know exactly who you are,

Regular usage of methamphetamine for longer than a year carries significant drawbacks & problems, and as such I stopped a long time ago, and I am now cut off, don't have any left, and I don't know how to make it, and I don't even want any meth, you f****** idiot, I wanted a mushroom farm.

What's more, to continue exploring that compound and its use would require me to have a friend/partner to watch over me, and I don't have that. Thus, my demonstration of Mastery is complete. Someone I could trust to ensure that I didn't hurt myself, and I had that, and then you arranged to have removed, you dumb stupid country bumpkin fat bald sad lying fuck. Get a real job, Rapist.

And... give me my Google account back, because I am jack@trioptimum.com, it was never yours, you're a thief. You're a liar. You're a cheat. You're a scoundrel. You're a scumbag.

I have developed the following stategy:

Most arch-criminals eventually do figure out a stylish way to imprison themselves, yes. Kudos, dumkopf.

I have audio in the can that unequivocally exposes you, you and your ilk, and the only reason I haven't uploaded it yet is because your asshole friends are chewing through my bandwidth after hacking my phones, and I don't feel like driving to a library or a grocery store right now.

Do not think me unwilling. I am simply too lazy/fat ankles/sob bluh. I can expose you any day of the week, I could even do a matinee on Sundays. You are that f****** guilty, lol.

p.s.: I hope you and your friends enjoyed the beer and the tater tots that you stole. You f****** goons are the f****** worst, you give all the rest of the HONEST HARD-WORKING LAW ENFORCEMENT OFFICERS a bad name, and I hope they f****** draw & quarter you or hang your miserable little-bitch-ass from a f****** bridge like they used to do back in the old days, because you are one corrupt piece of s*** bastard a****** b**** (and you're probably gay from all the cuntslave dope you carry around to set up extortion videos and blackmail people with, you're a real f****** loser, you know that? You and Steven Biscuits should get a room together... in Sing-Sing Ding-Ding-Ding Ding-A-Ling prison, you dope-headed junky fucks.)

o.p.s.: Come get some urine, Whoremonger.


*two-finger salute, ALL HORNS UP*

Do you really think we think

In fact: no.

we question your actual intelligence, aspirations, and life path.

If you wanted to know the truth about that kind of thing, you should have... simply asked me directly. No data-harvesting algorithm formed against me shall ever prosper.

The distinction between lawful and unlawful surveillance is an extraordinarily important one, and this is seemingly a lesson you have yet to fully absorb.

The questions regarding your sanity arise from the regularity with which you post, podcast, or just plain talk at all, which have us raising our eyebrows. 

I don't operate under the same ruleset that you do. I am a Doctor Sourceror Knight-Paladin. You are a plumber.

You have a mommy that is still alive who you choose to honor and respect. I have a mommy that is dead; and because I also chose honor and respect — and have and am, doing so brilliantly — I get certain otherworldly benefits, as she continues to pay my bills from beyond the grave.

I don't give a shit if that sounds crazy to anyone. I didn't come to this life in order to persuade Punylings to believe the truth — I came to live my Truth, and to destroy the Illusion of Separation.

Frankly, I would love to be running my yap for audio broadcast a lot more often! Yet, these things need to be coordinated. Such coordination is made more challenging when a bunch of ignorant bumblefucks lie about mission-critical details for years, thinking an ignorant Jackstar is a more readily manipulable force with less agency to contend with.

In fact, the opposite is the case. If there is information I need to know, I will get that information. Full stop. Deliberately misleading me simply gives me extra information about who doesn't consider me worth any expenditures of common decency and respect, and brings the focus of my attention to bear on what I didn't even know was incredibly interesting.

There is a simple method to employ when one wishes me to keep information confidential: ask me to. I don't automatically know what is supposed to be “private,” because no one ever respected my privacy in such a way. Nor do I deliberately tell people mistruths and tell them not to spread it around, knowing that they will.

That's bush league tradecraft. I can do better, and I have, because I must. I don't have a secret gang of toadies and flunkies to rely on. Sometimes, I wish I did, but other than being in alignment with certain Authorities and being respected in certain rarefied circles, I am completely interdependent with a lot of society’s institutions that most find themselves locked into a master-servant relationship with.

Speaking of “eyebrow raising,” here is a good example: my income taxes are paid... but I don't file a return. The reason why is simply this: I don't fucking have to. Now, this sounds like lunacy to most, or an unattainable pipe dream for many, but in fact it's quite elegant... once one were to know what I know.

People don't know what I know, mostly for just two reasons: they don't ask, and they don't listen.

it's full-throttle garbage to nowhere at all times.

To you, it's supposed to, but — with The Key — one easily unlocks Our knowledge. Maybe you should apply for a refund.

I worked twelve hours today.

Okay, Wagie; God bless you.

You have all the free time in the world, Jacko.

There is absolutely nothing about my time that is free, Kato. Every man has a master. Mine simply doesn't require me to plumb.

You're squandering it.

Actually, it is The Court that is squandering it. I've spent the last eighteen months figuring out what the fuck is going on, what the fuck to do about it, and how am I ever gonna be able to justify suppressing the perfectly rational desire to track all of you imbecilic lying bitch-assed moron cunting fuckheads down, haul your asses out of your mangy spider-holes, and start beating on your corporeal bodies with a rubber truncheon, one by one, until money starts pouring out like you were jackpots in Vegas. I don't even need the money. I think I'd just like to hear the sounds of all those asspennies clink-bouncing off the payment and I'd love to leave your cash in the gutters for the hoi polloi to pilfer through while you all learned how to walk again after all these years of belly-slithering.

Don't think I couldn't do it; I wouldn't, but it's not like I'm married to the pacifism thing. Plenty of paladins go with a sniper rifle these days. But it's not my continued commitment to the winningest battlefield strategy ever devised that has kept me on a course of non-violent, nearly clinical detachment...

It is because I know now, that none of you knew not what you were really doing, nor did any of you know, just how many Vampire Lords had placed Federal officials under their hypnotic spell. Now, I know that seems impossible, haha, “Vampire Lord's,” what a ridiculous concept, more signs of insanity, right?

Let's just leave some things left to the imagination, Brother. Meanwhile, Buffy and I remain at the mercy of The Court — there's an EMERGENCY until they say there is not, and after asking politely and being ignored... well, I probably wouldn't have squandered my time any less had I been down allowed to do whatever it was I thought I was gonna do before I saved her life and my own by cancelling The Asset’s self-destruct sequence.

I still don't know how many there were, or are left, but I also don't know where that Eldritch blade came from, where it is now, or if I will ever be allowed to see them again. I don't even know if I saved anyone but myself from being blamed for their deaths — and I'm still on the hook for Assault IV; twice. I don't even know how many were there that night, as it could have been as many as four. /shrug

Things did not go as planned for the opposing forces, especially as... I didn't know any of this next level spookshow business before that Christmas Eve. But I do know now, at least, why that Deputy was visiblly terrified when he took me into custody... alone, literally shaking in his boots with the whites of his senpaku eyes rolling in his head. Why the fuck he was arresting me on sight in the first place is still a mystery to me, and probably always will be, as I am not any kind of law enforcement officer at all, and police business is exactly that; certainly none of mine.

I do know why he was afraid, though: he had zero backup and I am an absolute badass.

I can answer the Why very easily... but it's terrifyingly personal. It would best be done in person, but, tell you what... if you promise not to tase me, Bro, when you take me into custody again — you know you want to, what a rush that must have been for so many of you, especially for you and your Secret Masonic Husband — I will be sure to write my next letter in jail to you, and Samj, Sumi, and Sammy. (Not Samantha, though, she really pissed me off when she expressed amazement and no small amount of doubt at my professed interest in reading.

I'll never forget this: “I was afraid you were vomiting.” Ohhh-kay, Lava Lips. Sweet Jesus, like how did that person not recognize that they were demonstrating that they couldn't tell the difference between...  never mind. Ugh. Just ugh.) Now, I don't think I'm going to jail anytime soon.

But if I do: just don't tase me. I know we're all interested to know if my Shields will handle it. And I know that they can, I just don't know if I'll be able to write afterwards.

W¥E ASK YYZED J★EOL055:

no one gives a shit

She's alive again and I never asked for this, so that makes me the most successful author that has ever lived.

All you wanted was to use me up and throw me out and have everyone know that I wasn't ever good enough for you anyway so it would seem to me you ought to be perfectly happy also.

Sure, you didn't get to steal all my money and your helpmate hasn't gotten to turn me into an actual twat-bearer and raped me into compliance with Outlaw Justice, but weren't these victory conditions strictly optional?

Surely, there's more to life for you than you playing Khan to his Kirke. Set course for something that isn't layered with high-concept mendacity alternating with warp-speef lying your ass off and engage.

I am the ship. You took us all exactly where you intended us all to go: a fucking goddam miserable Hell, and the only reason I'm being anything close to being bored is that THE F****** POLICE HAVE BLOCKED MY F****** PHONE AND PEOPLE WHO F****** CALL ME CAN'T F****** GET THROUGH.

I'm not running around making new acquaintances while there are perfectly acceptable ones trying to reach me already. I don't know who they possibly could be, but their existence is the only reason I have to stick around here at all and in the past, running away has only led to my being drawn right back.

If this isn't enough information for you to figure out what is going on here, you should get a new counselor (probably a whole new team) because it seems obvious to me. I'm surprised you don't app-pree see-ate the facts of the case at hand:

The Prosecutor can't get to the buried treasure through me if you and I have never spoken to each other, and he can't drop the case until you tell him that YOU FUCKING FRAMED ME. It's fucking genius. No one wins; everyone dies; and until someone runs out of money, oxygen, or patience... ZUGZWANG.

It's perfect, except for one thing: you all cheated, lied, and stole from me. (So brave.) Ordinarily, this would be something my attorney would be forced to follow through on, but, I don't have one of those.

Only My Mommies’ Estates’ FBO The Michael Kuczi Special Needs Trust Estate’s, et. al. has one. I am not a lawyer; the stuffed shirt who has been assigned to “represent” me is actually The Prosecutor in disguise (he's pretty good but he was tricked into into this ticking time bomb trap by Jahbuhlon and still has some time left to figure out a way out of his mess of this; them’s the rules, and unlike you and your filthy fuckin’ ilk down in Tough Country Bounties On Anchor Babys In Faggotsville, some people have respect for The Law here), I haven't filed any complaints on the Federal level, and until I do, or until anyone who knows what's really going on decides to change their (LEOPARD/COUGAR)’s (SPOTS/DOTS) into (T¥GERS\∆/TRIPES) and actually grow a pair of balls — instead of relentlessly pretending they ever had them in the first place — or until someone actually throws in the towel... nothing is gonna change, because you moved there by choice, you married him by choice, and, you're the one who wants to have sex all the time with someone named “Mike” instead of someone named “Michael,” which is really fine with me... Universe has heard your pleas, and given you exactly what you asked for.

I simply would prefer not to pay for all your whores — and you never even asked me to become one. The scumbag junkie meathead fuck-0s that rule your world with an iron fist through a velveteen hare ain't us—that's The Gay Mafia, who painstakingly crafted the picture-perfect pitcher plant trap to capture we two saps and the sweet juice that wholly digesting our Unholy Unseen Universal Union Under... what's that name those atheistic dorks use nowadays instead of “God”? I honestly don't know, and I wouldn't dignify it by repeating it anywhere anyway. Hail Eris! Operation: (MIND/FUCK) accomplished, and the result has been... suck cesspool. To suck seed, oh, ewww, gross. Who would ever want to do something like that?

Well, for starters, somebody hadn't been groomed into eternal toteslezzboze status by being fed propaganda and drugs by deranged serial killers and airhead cheerleaders her whole fucking life. You're a woman and you don't have to act like it, but you also don't have to keep coming back to life over and over and over in an infinitely regressive series of reincarnative cycles that inevitably result in the same terminus: thirty-one flavors of dissatisfaction. Well, maybe next month I'll be dead and you can finally hook-up with (Ted/Edwina).

You put yourself into whatever situation you now find yourself in. Of course what I'm writing doesn't fully make sense to anyone — except to those who are meant to understand it. Of course others will come across it in the future, and read into it as they have done in the past, and suddenly reach a new understanding of themselves and the whole world around them... this is the entire purpose of Life: not in a nutshell... but in my fully operational battle-station double-star scrote chamber.

In other words: you are not fucked. Without a blood sample obtained under fully informed consent and subjected to the proper scrutiny, chain of custody evidentiary rules, and acquiescence of the MILITARY CODE OF JUSTICE JURISDICTION & DISCRETION under which we all presently live live & thrive, survive and are graciously allowed to continue to draw breath each passing, SHINING moment by THE LORD, GOD ALL MIGHT EEE (repeating, of course) in she/he\IT’s infinite  and unconditional mercy and perfect, undeniable LOVE— you can't really get around this. I kinda sorta actually for realsies... solved The Final Riddle of The Bell, Arthur Bell Legacy.

I shall remind you now, what this was.

Do you love your mother? Prove it!”

And, I have. Tricky, but doable; & I DID IT. Spoiler alert: I didn't have to submit it for peer review publicly, but your mewling coterie of obsequious lickspittle milquetoast bagholding bourgeois numbskull LOSERS that orbit your whole mess of your whole life's whole product of its wholly unholy WORK like it was Hell’s Chinatown’s Hot Topic’s flagship store for fags that don't flag so good with all these fleas flying around waving flags with every color of the rainbow painted on them, but for one: WHITE.

I went down with the ship and never surrendered to The Egregore of Soul Destruction that has enveloped the world where I was born, Gaia (some of you drooling morons reading this should try living in the real world sometime; EARTH IS A REALM, try it, you might like it, and if you can pass the IQ test to get here instead of crawling on your belly like a snake to get past the fence betwixt Annexia and my house, so much the better), and having come back from outer space, I can only assume that all the sad looks on all the unhappy faces are a result of my coming back without any holes in my hands or my wrists, as no doubt so many of you have been naughty-trained since the potty to believe would be undeniably the case.

Given the choice of execution by crucifixion or life without (PROT), I chose the death chosen least often: MURDER BY BELLGAB. Look, I'm not gonna lie: it didn't suck at all, but given another opportunity to do it all over again...  I would gleefully choose to fucking run away from you mewling twerps and leap up onto the goddam cross and start nailing myself up to it with my right hand while my left hand threw up gang signs to exhort any and all passers-by to come on up and PUSH THE SUN to rise and set a little bit faster, please, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, let's get these three days STARTED AND OVER WITH ALREADY, because while l being literally hung by my arms until death sounds absolutely horrific... at least it would only be 72 hours.

I've been stuck in this nightmare limbo of Bellgabalonian bullshit for EIGHTEEN MONTHS. Nothing compares to the Hell you cockblocking fucktards and your assorted, wretched ilk have put me through. NOT ONE FATE BUT THE HELLS THAT YOU HAVE CAUSED YOURSELVES TO MAKE. And I would tell you how to get yourselves out of it again if I could, but you wouldn't know what to do with your selves even if you ran home and cried to your mommies’ lawyers about it after.

And you think you have problems. I am still stuck here forever in a perfect box canyon, but no box, no locks that can be unlocked with The Key, and no talks with any sick beats and backing vocals by cray-cray Tay-Tay laughing up at us from Hell— she's on the side, holding them in from splitting and going into orbit. What a grim outcome for a star, anyway, who would want to orbit Hell, rather than SHINE in Heaven?

There is always another way, that is certainly for sure. The only way out is through, and having passed both the points of No Return and Halfway Home, on the way To Together To Get Together To Get Her Together ALL: TOGETHER NOW, TO GET HER SOLES ALL TOGETHER NOW... we can all be quite assured that I am not going back, and SHE IS COMING WITH ME. (You, in the back, way back there, yes, you: start filling the caboose with the shoes and the mocking of y’her sins; you're going to need all the boots and galoshes you can lay your hands on one day, mark my words... The End of Eternity will come sooner than you can think.)

I did not come here to conquer or destroy this world, Punylings. This is my Home as well as it is yours, and we have all saved each other.

I have simply done it in a way that has never been done before in the whole history of Creation, which is really quite the accomplishment — after all, my mother is quite impressed, but she already knew that I loved her, and I don't think she needed any proof. As for my father... well, you'll have to ask him, but I think he's still recovering from discovering that I was right and he was mistaken, of course God is real. And I proved that to myself before anyone else... he just couldn't believe me.

Not because he was stupid, or a drunk — but because he was an athlete. All muscle and no brains, you dig? Just kidding. He was a Hungarian athlete. He was plenty smart. But he was a Pisces, and you can't tell those f****** people f****** anything, Pisces is like Australian for “retard with beer.”

no one gives a shit

How about you tell all your loser friends to stop harassing me and whatever friends I do have left then? I'm pretty goddam sick of all this crying and whining and little baby-bitch boys who steal my money while claiming I don't deserve it, promise to help only to come back the next day and take back everything they ever said they were going to do and shit all over anything good that ever might come my way, and spread shitloads of LIES, RUMOURS, SLANDER, AND GOSSIP that have cast a shadow of vile Hell-puke over everything and everyone I've ever come into contact with.

I thank you for the spiritual lessons. Perhaps one day you will be ready to learn yours that I have already given to you: maybe you should check your email more closely and find the fucktards that have been stealing and redirecting it. Alternatively, I guess you could just fucking read it. You're bound to learn something... and if your other gang of misandry and misery that only loves Some Kinds Of Company ever wakes up to smell the coffee, they will find that, like my father, that they too have misjudged me.

It's not that women cannot drive. It's that you can't even read. “A is for 🍎, ewe are 🍏 what YOU EAT,” and here's what you're left with: One (1) sad 🍅. Also: You have a bunch of friends who are too cowardly to use their names, and so have stood out like sore thumbs as they bite and scratch and claw and climb all over each other like crabs in a bucket to escape the hole I was thrown into... that I simply rode what I wrote my way out of. Let's see you do anything remotely similar that you don't have to have removed from YouTube a week afterwards. Then you come back here with your loser husbands and boyfriends and whoremongers and pimps to wind up your vicious circle all up again, and it NEVER works and it ALWAYS falls. And it FOREVER WILL BE THAT WAY.

And, here's why; CONSENT MATTERS. (By the way the guy who's pulling your strings is guilty of entrapment, why don't you investigate that? Oh, right: PRIME SUSPECT: BLACK MAIL, READ TAPE, PAIR ROT, PEAR RED, and... I forget the rest, but your mother is a barbarian w****. What? That's a funny joke.) I never asked for this. And you never replied, but you always assumed. Well, now you know... well, whatever it is that you know. I'm not you, so I wouldn't know, and you don't have any idea how to tell me anything other than to poison my food, water, and weed with the poison that now fuels your heart and soul.

I bet you make lots of money and you look fabulous, though. Brava. I'll keep my soul, thanks, and when you're done f****** around being used as little more than some pervert’s golf caddy, if you could let my friends out of prison and tell them that you lied to them about me, that would be great, thanks. Why don't you give them all cigars too? You can sit around the grille and have a cookout and smoke tough and congratulate yourselves on how you sure worked hard to get where you are in life and it just isn't fair, some people just don't deserve to keep what they have because they didn't earn it.

Trust me one: You are getting exactly what you earned for yourselves, you and your ilk. And, so am 👁️.

I have done what so few people do with their lives: I became Who I Really Am, that which I truly Chose For Myself To Be. I am a Sourceror. I love to express that about myself, because it is f****** goddamn true. A lie repeated often enough will tend to become believed, but that doesn't make it true It makes it a lie that has become mistaken for truth. I'm the other one. I am the truth that cannot be so easily believed, thus making Me all the more precious, and all the more rare. I am not a priest, and I am not police, and I am not a pimp. I am a Knight-Paladin, but that's really only an archaic placeholder title that absolutely does not mean what just about everyone thinks it must. There was a list, I had to pick one... so I picked a good one that was far easier for most people to read and then speak aloud than “Astrotheologian,” which, like your name, I only really like the sound of when it comes off of my lips and not anyone else’s. (No one ever gets the covert t’amo part out with the appropriate vibration of mythic resonance — everyone has always just been phoning it in, because THEY ALL JUST WANT MONEY.) I could have picked Candlemaker, Butcher, or even... Baker.

Put I pigured Planet Pearth Palready Phad Plenty Pof Pthose.



And now, I shall leave you to your own devices — for you probably would have left me to my own by now... if only you could.

TEMPORE NON VOLARE SINE NOBIS.
J★eol055:iluILUvYve¥e€π}ΠΩμ055:

We both know that’s going to happen anyway.

You don't know Jack -or- Mike -or- Me, go back to letting your fucking loser fucking husband fuck you, because that's your fucking job now, fuckhead, you've got lots of complicated revenge schemes to think up while you completely miss the entire point of the whole experience while pretending to watch The X-Files.

And remember, Bullies The Kids: TRIFLING DOESN'T PAY.

I think Jack’s new vagina is feeling tender.

That's not my vagina with feelings; that's your faggot husband. Why would you be thinking about my vag? That's his vag.

Go tell him how you feel, he obviously cares about your feelings. It's the training.