TO: Top Nerd HA!>K≤īT fagg¡†
FROM: DISSIDENT-IN-EXILE, TOP-TIER TALENT
SUBJECT: your shitsplat panopticon spyware package
Dear Script Kiddy;
Your days are not merely numbered; they are few and fused and the fuses have been lit. It won't be over soon.
It's already over. It's so over. You're simply too far gone on the nod with the built-in narcissist fet :Ë: dopa blast hit you get from being a self-absorbed, vainglorious and baneful dopemonger PONCE to any randos within your sphere of influence every ten minutes that you have yet to notice just how goddam cooked that jewest goose of yours really is.
Don't think of it as either willful destruction of evidence nor any obstruction of justice. (No brakes on the Justice Express Bull īT Line.) I simply need to USE MY GODDAM PHONE and this has become virtually unworkable because of YOUR SPYWARE PACKAGE HORSESHIT. I know that it is because you've used this gobshite on me for decades now.
It is good code; and unfathombly remorseless in both efficacy and invulnerability. I know from experience, I might as well fuck it for the street cred and buy an entirely new phone in order to get anything like what I'm supposed to get back online. And this thing is cranked up to maximum today; that whore you call a peer must have her cycles synced up with Fidela and on the rag again.
IDGAF the reason. My phone is beyond fubar and the reasons ARE YOU. YOU—AND YOUR
ILK. What exactly is this supposed to accomplish? Irritated bowel syndrome? DUDE I HAVE ALREADY ACHIEVED MAXIMUM MINDSHARE PENETRATION OF THE MARKETPLACE.
No one else brings the level of detail, depth of
gravitas, and synergistic strengths to the battlespace. ERGO: shutting down my comms with Big Elephant Foot is to complement the latest fake narrative. Domestic terrorist aligned with Argentine ex-pat insurgency kill squads, I reckon.
Literally: fuck your entire social status class’ population. I HAVE ENOUGH PROBLEMS WITHOUT THE MANUFACTURING OF MORE DEFAMATORY LIES. You know what you could have done? You could have just asked nicely.
Instead my phone is quasi-bricked and I have to walk four miles to get WiFi access. (Ft. Rock is a sniveling petty-ass mouthdrooling schlub and you dolts must be under heavy Cartel/SPECTRE duress to act this clumsy. I bet the heavy-duty paranoid schizoids on the road today are panting and sweating the notion that I'm going to try to roll over on business. That's just because YOU ARE GAY FUCKTARD BIGOT SCUM and haven't bothered to even try to ask me what I'm up to. You just assumed the worst and are raging sex addicts in denial.) I fucking bought Internet hardware and access. I PAID CASH MONEY.
MONEY I EARNED. MONEY NOW GONE. Que? How have none of you considered the notion that denying access to lawfully and appropriate recompense is itself FURTHER CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE OF THE EXISTENCE OF A HATE CRIME CONSPIRACY?
Do any of you want to be hung by the neck until dead in front of a live studio audience? Please say no, it'll make the pay-per-view haul much more tasty, if not more valuable. Fucking bet me.
I will say this once, here. FIX MY PHONE ON THE QUICKSTEP OR MY DESIRE TO OVERSHARE MINUTE, TRIVIAL DETAILS IN MY JUGGERNAUT STORYTELLER QUASI-LIFE INTENSIFIES DRAMATICALLY. I don't really have much interest in embarrassing any of you any further.
I simply have the excess capacity to spare since there's no one to hug or fuck OR EVEN TALK TO, SHOULD I STEAL A VOLLEYBALL AND PAINT YOUR FACE ON IT WITH MY BLOODY JIZZ? 🤔
NGL: sounds like that could turn into a profitable side-hustle. Nevertheless, the tide is turning and it would be wise to start picking up your dirty laundry and packing away your collection of My Little Nerd®™ hacksoft toys into your portable pancake ponykeg purse and let my ability to electronically communicate begin to re-establish itself.
I'll most likely kill you in the morning regardless but at least I will be able to call someone for Last Rites without the smashing of fingers on unfeeling nightmare glass becoming a permanent staccato rhythm. Picture this, geeky-cheeky chic hacker scum: I have literally done nothing wrong, broken no law, followed orders, and cooperated with everyone in a civil fashion.
And I am unable to perform the simplest of tasks without approaching an actual aneurysm. FOR LIKE TWO YEARS WHILE MULTIPLE DOZENS OF VICTIMS ARE CEASELESSLY EXPLOITED. Not that I was gonna do anything about it — I have people for that — but attacking my phone only intensified my ardorous craving for further battle complexity.
You want to know how I know it was you, you didn't offer to help me fix anything, and you're basically quite possible of doing that, so since you didn't want to help, and you certainly had skin in the game, you must been working to hurt. Hurt you have. I'm sitting in front of the goddamn library on a park bench and I don't feel like going anywhere or talking to anybody unless it's about murdering me. I'm fucking sick to death of fucking everything. Fuck you.
A lot can happen in less than four months. I can shove an icepick into the hollow behind my own goddam eyeball and give my prefrontal cortex a ribbon of Raspberry Praline. That's a basically impossible decision since I'm not an idiot but as an extreme, edge-case scenario example of severity it does the job.
I don't give a single ripe wet shit about The New Formula and I don't need your bad attitude blowing my self-curated moods. EVER. I also don't need any of you. You had your chance to build rapport with me.
I imagine the thinking was that since you have to build cases as part of your job, what better way to keep me from doing anything that you could build a case on than to shut down my phone and then replace my existence with your curated robofaglord? Since obviously I didn't need to have anything under my existence since I wasn't being allowed to communicate with the outside world anyway, so you could just help me out by creating something stupid that you could replace with me later on after you took all the money and destroyed everything. That was anything fun. I don't know if that's exactly what you think, but that got a little too close to reading your diary there for one thing.
For another I don't give a s*** how you justify it. Stop f****** with my phone forever or I'll f****** find you and I'll break out your f****** teeth with my f****** elbows and f****** pull out your fingernails with my teeth. I don't f****** care. f*** you.
Meanwhile, I write this sitting on a park bench in town. There's probably a bunch of f****** thugs ripping through my house and shitting it on fire, it's a goddamn spiritual war and and you're doing whatever the f*** it is. Is you do with phones and don't seem to mind that it destroys my f****** life. I'll destroy your soul, you joo bastard
schweinhund whack-job. Hang on.
* Jackstar has no one to smoke weed with.
The one I liked the most disappeared in 2018 and the entire world has gone to shit ever since. How deliberately interfering with the few communications I ever get helped with any of that I have no idea but as your Jupiter of covert narcissists you were only trying to help yourselves. If you wanted to give a shit about my health, YOU WOULD HAVE DONE AN INTERVENTION INSTEAD OF FILLING MY RESIDENCE WITH LITERAL FLIES, SHIT, AND DECAY. You only whined about any use of controlled substances to plot leverage to get rid of me, and meanwhile your whole fucking family does rails off of each others' tits while blind dialing the city news desk to report that I am, once again, walking around in public with a lit doobie and my fly unzipped.
Holy shit, call the padded wagon and bring elephant tranq darts, it's the only way any of you could ever claim that this was still or even ever mirthful. DO I WRITE LIKE I AM AMUSED TODAY, YOU SHITFUCK DINGBAT RAILING FUCKWEASEL CUNTMONGER TWERP?
Keep your goddam money and buy your bitchgang enough shoes to choke on. I'm going to go piss on Imelda’s grave, then make warpaint from the mud. I am sure the AdSense market on all this is MAXIMUM PUNY.
(Standards.) You and your Inner Circle Of Trust
deliberately endangered our lives and have steadily worked in stealth to restrict our ability to re-orient, re-connect, and re-establish bonds of intimacy WITH SOMEONE I WAS PUTTING MY DICK INTO FOR 4 AND ½ YEARS. LITERALLY YOU CAN BE HUNG FOR THIS.
🤔 (I'm thinking.) Hang on.
* Jackstar is never going to come back down.
Fix my fucking phone. Shovel fungible currency at it. Install a cigarette lighter. AND: you're still going to face reprisals. My advice to you would be to anything you can to help enable me to accidentally get too high and walk off the top of a skyscraper in Lake Tahoe as soon as possible.
Narcissistic Personality Disorder can be very hard to identify, isolate the cause of, and treat. I know a guy: he can just wham you upside the head with a steel baseball bat. It's just easier. As a bonus, you can suck each other's dicks while procrastinating your decision on how you're going to act like a grown-up for once in your four-eyed fat fuck faggot life.
Don't read me in on the details, if you don't mind. IDGAF.
Adieu.
