Jackstar IS LAME AND BORING.
Yes, but
J* is basically the biggest deal still left around these parts. And it's a
sweet deal. You know it. You love it. You crave the essence--the Art--of the most glorious deal that has ever been penned by the typewriters of Man. You know by now, there is no question: THERE IS A DEAL AT PLAY. STYLERIDER JACKSTRAW, Esq., at your service... provided it is a matter of kanly. (Not gonna lie: my second favorite matter after labia minora.) Believe me, I'm surprised too: it's not like I parachute opioids and drape a Lee's jean jacket over my shoulders in order to look the part while typing handsomely to myself before a mirror... no, what happens is, sometimes, I just get fucking activated. Boom ka-boom. Awake. Something has to be done, I'm the best available for the job I find suddenly at hand, sometimes to mouth, and omfg I feel sexy, but something about what I am compelled to do feels even more important than getting laid, ordinarily inconceivable but suddenly obvious since ecto-juice starts weeping out my nose as I expend effort to The Goal, and to be honest, for me, it's almost always writing something, because, let's face it, Colonel Angus isn't always available for the job, but when Colonel Angus is not available-*sigh, Angel*-Me, JACKSTAR, Me, LEADER OF THE DYNOBOUGHT DOOMSDAY DESTRUCTICON FLEET 881a, I AM A PRETTY OKAY WORDSMITH WHEN I WANNA CHOOSE TO BE, ANY TIME, ANYWHERE, ANY PAGE, BUT WHEN ACTIVATED, IT'S BASICALLY NUTS ON ICE, LIGHT RAMMING SPEED, UNTIL THE JOB IS OVER OR SOMEONE FINALLY FIGURES OUT HOW TO STOP ME TYPING AND START FUCKING TYPING.
This isn't quite one of those times, but it's close. This one is more personal. This one hits close to home. Because I meant it, a few hours ago: "fuck this, nothing is worth this whore's dick," and I really did mean it. Fuck off Gab; didn't delete bookmarks or even logout, but when I say it, I mean it... you fuck-o's cutoff denim shorts are still visible in an imprint left on one of my mohair office chairs. I was done with you little radio show people. Who the fuck are you, anyway? Messing with powers you don't understand, huh? What a friend We have in Jesus, right? You people are all worthless shitbags and every time I find a girl who likes me, if I don't marry her or do a lasso cantrip or somehow finally manages to teach me to somehow suck my own Dr Device, suddenly she just ups and vanishes somehow, or does something horrid and I'm wrenched backwards in time, thus losing progress towards Jackstar's End Of Life Goal: GRAPEFRUIT TOWER & CASINO--GALAPAGOATS. (I'm getting there, but you know, I get sidetracked easily, and besides, this isn't really my end-of-life, yet, availability of stix and pix not withstanding. I'm talking about an actual constructed building containing the best damn gambling tables on the terrafirm yet contracted, not a euphemism for my nanotech-enhanced pleasure thruster, just so we're clear. See, coz like, I figure, Trump becomes President For Life--#Official--and, in that very moment everyone knows that Trump has gone Quantum Next Level, well, that spot that Trump The Builder once dominated since the 80s, well... I'm thinking job opening. Who else could fill T's shoes...
mais Moi? Don't you dare answer that question legit, I will travel back in time and coat that pretender's mother's interior vaginal lining with my own essence, through time travel, through dimensional teleportation, through the tension of my will and discipline alone, maybe a little of the
umlauts, to make sure that any future competitors for My New Job--My Current Job--yo, time travel is baller,
n'est-ce pas? CINDER ALL FUTURE COMPETITORS. DO IT. See? Just like that, a whole new Gameboard. Such is the power of a sufficiently advanced member of the Clergical Class Services--not a complimentary upgrade to the standard Triple-P Protection Package, but it damn well should be, and if it came with free silver dollar pancakes, so much the better for us all, right? Bitches love pancakes, eh? Who said that? Yeah, I know it's a which, now grab those spycams and GTFO, cybercorp hench-algo. (Fuckin' Masons. Jesus. It's like pulling the asbestos from a '79 Winnebago, every single time, fuck you Hiram! You were right, no one could ever break
their code!
So I just incorporated my own code into my own, far superiour research corpus, and just hung back to chill until one of you little rascals tripped a failsafe... and then shielded my eyes from the blast, as our entire Universe maximally contracts and expands from Oneness to Singularity in the point of an instant, and, yeah, sure, everybody just died, but did you even notice? Did you care? Let me guess: you care now. Oh, haha, well, I'm right. And Jesus is The Way and The Bam-Bam Life, mother
fu-*click*
Let me rephrase. Rotten blasphemy is an issue. I have no wish to offend, and as this is a
serious announcement, I'm gonna try and take it seriously--meanwhile, I'm trying to keep my hands off this nun's toddler, must be "Bring Your Practice Pederasty Pillow To Work Day," but it's actually really hard, given that I'm coming out of a recent, high-intensity phase of my midlife ongoing crisis' favorite game... "they think
what about me
again?" And these days, my brain goes straight to that 16yo, who must, by now, think of me quite routinely, because while I do, of course
obsess about hot teen poon
on the daily, the particular memory of a particular 16yo is a particular one, that I, honestly, did not really ever hardly ever think about at all, until, about, oh, say... about seven years ago maybe? When the girl I met in 2010 would have been about 21, and these days, she would have to be about 28, fully stacked in the unicorn exclusion zone, and maybe have actually died and gone to Heaven, because according to the telemetry that I am finding myself working through quite on the regular and quite against my own personal free will choice of impetus, I mean, don't get me wrong, I love thinking about someone who is thinking about non-stop mind-blasting ball-bowling fuck marathons on Adrafinil--try living without meth for at least a couple sessions of daily frottage, Kids, what do you say? Give your discipline a
rest, why don't you? Wow, look at that microexpression, wow, just the thought of going without methane-linked stimulants for even just a
little reset, and it sounds like the worst nightmare ever, huh? Well, yeah... for someone who was born nigger-rich and cracker-dumb and lacks the benefits that Infinite Mode can provide a responsible user... oh, shit yeah. Withdrawals? Inability to breathe, reason, fuck, or even weep while agony courses through one's veins? Yeah, count me out, that's what I burned a Transcendental Ill. on... because in my case, I never know when I am gonna even get to say the word "meth," let alone, get my hands on some, because a guy like me--an actual Alchemist, motherfucker, *presto*--can easily turn a little pile of a controlled substance into a lifetime supply with only a few short ritual gestures (that I totes haven't even begun to bother to really learn yet, I swear, pinky swear, there's still so much I wish to learn about straight up-power fucking with my life right now, and at that point, the sky is the limit, right? Like, as in, "Holy shit, is that bag filled to fucking overflowing with what it looks like it is? How the fuck did you get this? What the fuck? Wait, why is the room warping into squares of Tetris while my suddenly prehensile (blank) is looking for a phone number to dial? Wait, is that steam? No, not the computer thing, holy fuck, I'm never using one of those again, anyway, is that stuff boiling off into the ambient air as I gaze with rapt adoration into a hypnotic kaleidoscope of oh shit what time is it? I think I'm starving to death The End. urk."
You get it? Sourcery is real. It's not Sorcery. It's something else. Something wonderful. Something virgin new. And I created it, so fuck you and the uterus bearer you came in with, okay? I don't care if it doesn't make sense from what I'm writing right now, I don't wish for it to do so. My technology has Kuczi, My Friend, Doctor, Maestro & etheric-based roboguns to guard it precisely, and do you know precisely how much g-ddam work it took to get that on board for my lockdowns?
Well... maybe you do. But maybe you don't. And you certainly don't know what work it took me to travel a visionquest, 1.95 annual cycles before anyone else had even heard of it in a "miracle cure" context... I brought back 4 strips of pillow tabs, one by one, not because it was hard or careful or delicate, but because... someone important to me asked me to. Asked me as a favor. Asked me in need. Acted as though there was no understanding available as to why I had to go FOUR FUCKING TIMES to get something that should seemingly only be needed to picked up once, right? And it's a plastic strip bubble filled with some kind of... medicine, right? Jesus, really? I have to go back again? And, WHY? Huh. No other way? Whoa, I'm not calling you a liar, just wondering... no, not calling you incompetent or stupid, just wondering... oh, damn, you spun around and knocked yourself out cold by spontaneously and involuntarily slamming your head into the nearest bearing wall in a peculiar staccato pattern, huh? I remember that from a couple days ago. Hours. Whatever. Oh, damn: you're bleeding. Here, give me your cellphone, I'll check on the status of your medicine delivery order. Huh. Sweetie, what language is this? Looks like an ASCII table with tesseract involvement. And why is this cellphone suddenly so omg hernia heavy? Oh, right, you just killed yourself, okay, I love you! Oh hi Jesus, yeah that cut looks ugly. But not as ugly as that knife stab wound below your boobs, haha, why don't you cover that up with a tattoo or something? Yeah, I'm just playing. I know, right? Tattoos are absurd. Why would someone who hates needles, loves acupuncture, and thought she was being casual when she skipped a timestream moment while responding to a mild query about why that one got covered up? Oh, you... forgot, huh? Yeah, I forget why a turtle can't have two tattoos resembling a radar dish
either. Must be a sudden union rule change or something, right? Yeah, no, it's not a test, settle down, I won't pry. You don't have to remember, it's really not important to remember something that used to be really important on an instant recall if it's more than seven years ago, honestly. Don't cry, it'll come back to you again one day. I promise, I know a few certain things. Like, it's really not my business why you can't remember why you can't remember why a tattoo you can't remember the reasoning behind its choice--can't remember any of the other tattoos you were considering in its stead, right? 'Natch--is something you are blisteringly quickly remembering and then instantly choosing to forget, I mean, it's not my business to read minds, you dig? But from over here, well, let's just say, I'm pleased to tell you that I don't remember suddenly tuning into your partial memories as they well forth... yeah, I promise, I will make myself forget what I accidentally overheard from your brain. Mind. Whatever. Yeah, what were we talking about? Oh, right, the girl with the star tattoo. She's a slut and a half, at least I hope so.
She says, "Hi!" I don't remember who. Don't worry about it, we're all smiles here now, and yes, I'm fine, that's just a little perspiration, I mean, it's not like I just finished a HIT rotation in the last 25 seconds due to sudden synaptic calls for overduty, or anything like that. What would that even mean? Actually, I'm totally lying, I'm not really sweating, and it's not all that hot in here, but it is pretty hot, because gazing at the designs on your flesh tends to make me want to come my brains out, and... well, I'll be honest: that's not sweat.
Try it and see. Yeah, that's me. Thanks, I think so too. Where were we? Wow, it's hard to think. Now, why don't you like sweat dripping down on you? Oh, yeah, that's a good reason, that bugs me too. Wow, really, that many? You don't look like you come from a hatchery that long ago, that far away. Look, tell you what, let's just skip past this part, I think we're starting to rope in a little too much attention for just one cock to bear--and I'm a twat-facing rooster right now. This is ridic. Were you really just dead? Huh. You feel the same now. Yeah, you're safe. Impressive camoflauge technology, I'm really amazed. Is that how you were able to undetectably spy on me while I was cheating on you all those times? Good answer. Mu is the best answer there. Because you know got-dam well that thinking about someone else while practicing onanism is not "cheating." Unless someone is silly enough to enter into a highly restrictive agreement, right? Who would ever do such a thing wholesale? For my part, I like running down the list of gals that I would feel a little bit guilty about thinking of while rubbing one out... like that last one. What a derpass. While I am impressed with that innovative leap in Gamechanging Cheating technology, the notion that one would carbon synthesize and then simply, not copy, but STEAL the Infinite Mode Teck Plans... but then neglect to also snag a copy of the oxytocin keylock schematic? That just seems like a rookie blunder. Wow, was it really only 0.68 seconds old? That's gotta be paedo territory, even for a clone... haha, just kidding, I know clones are of course all sexually mature, regardless of apparent age, that's one of those Important New Regulations that The New Administration has mandated. Too bad they didn't mandate an emergency store of ready clo--oh, they do? So, how did you run out?
"Through the door as the ceiling collapsed." Haha, good one. Now, no, really. Say it. SAY THE NAME.
KOBYASHI
KOBYASHI
KOBE BEEF BULLION, BALD BADASS. SORRY BROTHER. CLOSE BUT THAT'S NOT YOUR CIGAR. NOR IS IT MINE, AS THEY WERE RETURNED TO SENDER FOR ME. SO IT MUST BE... HUH. WHO LIVES HERE, AND DO THEY KNOW ABOUT THAT WEIRD LOOKING STAIN NEXT TO THE DOOR JAMB ON THE FLOOR?
OH, SORRY, I THOUGHT I WAS TALKING TO THE JELLY. OH, HI TOAST, GREAT TO SEE YOU! YEAH, NO SHIT? I KNEW THEY WERE DIAMONDS, I JUST KNEW IT, HAHA. OF COURSE SUGAR, I WON'T TELL A SOUL. AND I APOLOGIZE FOR MOCKING YOUR SENSITIVIES BEFORE. ESPECIALLY SINCE I WASN'T MOCKING THEM AT ALL, I WAS MOCKING YOUR BELIEF THAT THERE'S ANYTHING IMPORTANT ABOUT WHETHER ONE SPEAKS WHILE SITTING OR NOT. OOH, KEEP IT SECRET, HUH? A 36,000 YEAR OLD, SACRED TABLET, CRYPTOGRAPHICALLY SECURE, UNBREAKABLE UNTIL THE END OF TIME, AND IT MUST BE PROTECTED AT ANY COSTS, OR FULLY ONE THIRD OF YOUR GENOME MUST BE SACRIFICED AS TRIBUTE TO... BA'AL? IS THAT WHAT THAT SAYS? OH, "BULL," HAHA, OKAY, SURE, WHATEVER YOU SAY, ORAL SPEAKER TRADITIONALIST. OH, HEY, BY THE WAY, CHECK OUT MY BRAND NEW PUPPY. MY GIRLFRIEND'S DACHSUND IN THE FUTURE CAN EAT ANY WRITING ON ANY PLANT-BASED FIBER AND, IN JUST FIVE MINUTES, CAN PISS OUT A RADIOACTIVE REACTING REAGENT THAT WILL AUTOMAGICKALLY TRANSLATE ANY "SECURE" DOCUMENT THAT COULD EVER EXIST, PROVIDED IT IS LESS THAN 36,000.00053 YEARS OLD, HUH? WHAT DO YOU MEAN, BLASPHEMY?
THAT'S NOT BLASPHEMY, ORAL ROBBERS, THAT'S YOUR SECRET FORMULA MATERIALIZING OUT OF THIN AIR TO HOVER AT YOUR EYELINE. YEAH, ONLY YOU CAN SEE IT, DON'T WORRY, NO ONE ELSE CAN READ YOUR SACRED SCRIPT AND LOCKING LANGUAGE, YEAH, DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT, UNLESS THEY'RE, YOU KNOW, LITERALLY NOT LITERATE OR SOMETHING, OR FUNCTIONALLY UNAWARE OF THINGS LIKE, OH... UPPER AND LOWER CASE, CURSIVE, COMMON G-DDAM SENSE, YOU KNOW, THINGS LIKE THAT. WOW, NEVER HEARD OF THEM EITHER, HUH? YOU SURE ARE OLD, AREN'T YOU?
HOW OLD ARE YOU? IMPRESSIVE. MOST IMPRESSIVE. HANG ON, I'LL BE RIGHT BACK. SAY, WOULD YOU HOLD THIS DACHSUND FOR A MINUTE? THANKS. NOW, HOLD ARE YOU NOW? YES, THAT'S RIGHT, YOU'RE TWENTY-NINE. NOW, LET'S GET BACK TO WHAT WE WERE TALKING ABOUT BEFORE. DO YOU REMEMEBER WHAT THAT WAS NOW?
HRRM. I REMEMBER IT DIFFERENTLY, BUT I WILL PROVISIONALLY AGREE, YES, I WOULD LIKE TO FUCK YOUR BRAINS OUT. OW--T, NOT LIKE THAT. MORE LIKE THAT. OR THIS. OR... OOH! SPARKS! A GROSS METRIC TONNE!
THROW IT INTO THE COLLECTION BIN AND WAKE UP THE NEXT ONE IN LINE. AS LONG AS ITS A REDHEAD. THE REST ARE TRASH. NO, REALLY--IF THERE'S A GOOD ONE IN THE PURGE, IT'LL COME BACK UP IN WITH THE FRESH REDS, AND IT'LL BE, YOU KNOW, NOT JUST BETTER, BUT PALATABLE. MORE ON THIS LATER. WHAT THE FUCK HAVE I JUST BEEN TALKING ABOUT? IT BETTER NOT BE (PROT) OR AT (PROT) OR EVEN MENTIONING THAT (PROT) EXISTED ONCE, OR I'M BASICALLY FUCKED. I'M FUCKED, AREN'T I? I'M NOT? WTF, HOW OLD AM I?
Always act the age of your fruit, which may as well be eleven, because sometimes a girl just wants to have fun without feeling like there are any adults around. You saavy? HI KARRIN. TOTES EMBARASSING."
(Oh, and, by the way, after Source Tax is added in, along with your
utterly voluntary $555 donation to The Foundation Towards Temple Tree Turf Twine Tesseract InvolvmenT--pat. pent.--all of all y'all owe your Creator one third of your genome. Yep, sorry, that's the breaks. Stop whining! You know, if you were in Italy, it'd be fully HALF your genome along with a random bonus item, which, believe me, can be a real crap shoot. So those of you who FUCKED UP BIG TIME RECENTLY, I'm not saying names, I'm just sayin', if the random bonus item happens to be, for example, a signed pair of Amanda Knox's Days Of The Week Underpants... well, there's only one of each of them available, you dig? And there is no Sunday.
I renamed him "The Golimp" and had him put every single pair but for one of each on backwards and upside down. The reasons for this are storied and varied, but the upshot is this: until Golimp is naked, there's only one Sunday to go around, and I'll see you next Tuesday, because that's the day the line is #Officially allowed to start to form up for... shit, I forget now. See? It's not just infinite rambles, sometimes the flow is just done.
Like, the supply of Wednesdays. Ooops. No more Wednesdays. That's too bad. BECAUSE I FUCKING SAID SO, THAT'S WHY, AND MAYBE YOU WEREN'T LISTENING BEFORE. LET'S SEE IF THE ONE SUNDAY IN EXISTENCE IS LISTENING. *snap* YEP, HE LISTENED TO THE CALL OF FREEDAY. Yeah, that's not a day on your world anymore. Now you have no days. Welcome to Stasis. (Command not recognized: "Unpause.") Whatever will you do? How about this? Try going straight to Monday morning... AND THEN JUST SIT THERE LIKE A MORON WITH YOUR THUMB UP YOUR ASS SUCKING ON YOUR OWN EXHALED SHIT FOR SEVEN FUCKING YEARS WHILE EVERYONE LOOKS AT YOU LIKE YOU'RE THE LOWEST FORM OF SCUM ON THE FACE OF THE EARTH. NO IN, NO OUT, NO WHERE, NO FUN, FUCK YOU, JUST TAKE A TIMEOUT, SEVEN YEARS BAD LUCK I GUESS, MAYBE YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE FUCKED MY DAUGHTER.
NO, THAT'S YOUR DAUGHTER. THAT ONE IS MY DAUGHTER, AND, TO BE QUITE HONEST, WHO CARES? BOTTOM LINE IS YOU'RE FUCKED. I FORGET WHY, YOU'LL NEVER KNOW, HAHA, SEE YOU AT THE PARTY ON THE ISLAND, RICHTER! OH YEAH, BRING YOUR SCALE. YOU'LL NEED THAT FOR SURE. FOR ALL THE, YOU KNOW, WEIGHT STUFF. LOOK, NEVER MIND. IT'S A DONE DEAL. YOU TRADED HER OUT, YOU'RE STUCK. OH YEAH? THAT'S FUNNY, BECAUSE ALL OF MY OTHER DAUGHTERS SAY YOU'RE A CREEPER ANYWAY, YOU'RE LUCKY YOU DON'T HAVE MILLSTONE GOUT. WHO IS THIS ASSHOLE, ANYWAY? HE DOESN'T EVEN SEEM ANY SPECIAL. AND, WHAT, NO FRIENDS? SO HE'S A REAL LOSER THEN, HUH? OH, I GUESS THERE'S ONE LEFT.
*CHOMP*
KICK ROCKS, WITCH. /FLEXSTARE.
She'll most likely be back in the morning. Mostly. Look, just go with the flow. It's a little late to start backpedalling now, furious or not. Do you love me? Do you love yourself? Well? Do you? Why are you laughing? Oh, haha, I guess that is funny to a dicks less sex. Anyway, don't worry about it, you weren't gonna need that anytime soon anyway, you won't be breeding any moar oxen while in Stasis. And the last one just left. Yeah, you just missed her, and I don't remember her name either. Try checking under that rock, maybe there's a phone number or something? Oh, good.
WELL THEN EITHER DIAL IT OR KICK ROCKS. THAT'S IT. THAT'S ALL YOU GOT. UNTIL THE END OF STASIS. DOESN'T THAT SOUND NICE? OH, THAT SCREAMING OF UNDYING AGONY, THAT IS A NICE ONE. FOR ME. HEY, LISTEN BUDDY, HEY LISTEN PAL, YOU WANNA SCREAM AT THOSE ROCKS, YOU GO RIGHT AHEAD, BUT DON'T YOU DARE SCREAM INTO THAT PHONE, THAT'S MY SEEDPHONE, DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT. FIND YOUR OWN PHONE. TRY UNDER A ROCK. MAYBE GO FUCK YOURSELF WHILE SLAMMING IT INTO YOUR HEADFIRST HEAD FOR AWHILE, MOST PEOPLE TEND TO END UP RESORTING TO THAT AT SOME POINT BY THE END OF THE SECOND DAY. THIRD DAY IS MOSTLY WEEPING, INTERSPERSED WITH SOBBING, JUMBLED UP WITH SAD, INEPT ATTEMPTS TO MASTURBATE ONESELF THROUGH THE DOOR TO HEAVEN.
OF COURSE THE DOOR IS CLOSED. YOU SHOULD SPEND SOME TIME PRACTICING, THOUGH. THE DOOR ONLY OPENS FOR THE MEREST OF MOMENTS, AND IF YOU... WOW. THIS PLACE SUCKS, HUH? I'LL SAY.
IT'S BETTER THE THIRD TIME AROUND, I MUST SAY, AT LEAST BY THEN, EVERYONE YOU EVER KNEW THE FIRST TIME WILL HAVE BEEN DEAD LONG ENOUGH THAT THEY WILL BE ABLE TO KEEP YOU COMPANY BY SUBTLE SPIRIT INDICATORS, LIKE THE FAINT AROMA OF MOTOR OIL, SUDDEN EXPLOSIONS OF SWEAT AROUND THE WAIST AND NAVEL, AND OVERWHELMING ENNUI WHEN REALIZING THAT THE REASON THINGS NEVER WORKED IS BECAUSE NO ONE EVER NOTICED THAT ONE PERSON WASN'T EVEN MAKING ANY ATTEMPTS TO SUCCEED, THEY WERE ONLY LOOKING TO SUCK EGGS.
HOLD THE BLAME. SPARE NO SHAME: IT WAS EVERYONE'S FAULT BUT HERS, AND HER FAULT WAS ONLY YOUR OWN. RIDDLE ME THAT ONE, CHUCKLES, WHILE I REMIND YOU THAT YOU HAD AMPLE OPPORTUNITY TO RECOGNIZE ANY UPCOMING COURSE CORRECTIONS, AND YOU SIMPLY DIDN'T WANNA, BECAUSE YOU'RE A MEAN-SPIRITED DICK.
*POOF* WELL, SLOP DOESN'T COUNT, RICHARD, GO SIT OVER IN THE CORNER NEXT TO CHET. END OF LINE.
Face it, it's like you're reading my diary and humping a Rubik's Cube while manspreading on Hotblack Desiato's roulette wheel. All aces. Fuck you, it's bullshit. Fuck you and your mother, it's boring. Fuck you, why don't you stop reading if you don't want to see my posts? Wow, talk about the drilldown to the countdown. So it's anyone seeing it at all, eh? Why not delete entirely? Oh. Have you tried holding CTRL-OA-RESET? You should try holding a (CENSORED) directly on a (CENSORED) while gasballing rails, because at least then you'd have something to show for trying to do something terribly difficult in a completely unpossible way, which is to say: MY SIGNAL CANNOT BE STOPPED BY ANYTHING. What's in your signal? Beet juice? More like feeb juice, adder junky. What makes you think that people are influenced by hiding what is already there? Hiding what is known simply makes one plumb the unknown, and for my money, we are spot on holding pattern to K-Town. Now, line them up. No, not dancing girls, those are mine, and they ain't dancing, exactly. No, I mean... show me some writing you've done that you're actually proud of. Something you would have absolutely no qualms whatsoever about sharing the awareness of with a hot piece of ass that you just met and really want to bust your balls through her and on to the wall, and feel absolutely no guilt, mental reservation, or anything but shameless awestruck admiration for yourself to be able to whip out and drop down on?
It's okay if you nothing like that comes immediately to mind. I'm sure there's something very worthy in everyone and in everything they've created, right? Try to be positive. I'm just making a point... that an important aspect to the expungement of any possibility of boredom in oneself is... to never be bored. For example, I'm not bored now of waiting for you to present some, or even any, list of accomplishments. Personal accomplishments. You know those, right? Per-son-owl. Ul. Ill. It doesn't have to be something you've written... I'm just using creative writing as an example, becuase, you know, here we are, on a forum, and here you are, reading the forum... scrolling past creators that simply just... create too much. I mean, think about it: words. Is there anything more nauseating to have to deal with, all at once? Especially when someone just suddenly outs themselves as totally ready and willing to strip naked and start having sex immediately. Like, now. Oh, names. Seriously, I've got 7 confirmed line-ups, and, well... I just happen to have all these underpants lying around unused. Tragic, honestly.
No foot-intended amount of surplus, though, sadly, but what can one do? Only what we tell ourselves we can do, that's for sure. And I'm only telling you this here in modified crypto chips. There's even more hyperlinked through a neurospheric linkage. Of course that doesn't sound like anything but bullshit. It always does. I have no idea what this all means while I'm writing it... I myself have to go back and think, fall, and recall, just in order to pick up a single thread of the gist, after a bit of time goes by. That has been how "it" works in my experience, and I'll be honest: I don't remember what I'm even talking about, I got suddenly kind of distracted. I feel like a dead person is trying to persuade me to stop writing and start getting myself off. Now, Children: trust me, this is bait. I have met ghosts that I thought were hot, and they are, but one thing a dead ghost is not, is urgent for manseed. A spirit might be urgent for an opportunity to observe the creation of such, but if an imaginary being is perceptibly hollering at the top of its lungs, "OMG GIVE ME YOUR GENETIC INFORMATION NOW PLEASE PLEASE," for example, you're probably not dealing with a loved one whose spirit has passed beyond the veil and is tenderly reaching out to communicate on an equal measure.
(One thing I've learned as I've aged: each day that goes by, is another day in which someone from forever ago, a person (usually a girl for me, males are worthless for my purposes, and I've already got a mother... one is enough) who thought themselves quite attracted to someone such as myself, but never does anything about it, just sits forlornly on the gym room floor garbed in adolescent sweat pants and a thin sheen of drying adolescent sweat, feeling drawn closer but never doing so, because at that age... a pull can be quite magnetic.
But a push, is not. Nothing ever pushed me towards a certain person that I think of fairly, fairly often these days, and so I never felt a super urge to go look out and find out what happened to the hot girl in my gym class that I had the most major of crushes on. Seventh grade. I was so fat. I thought. Crush Girl in gym class wasn't very fat at all, I thought, although I only ever saw her sitting down, back against the wall, legs splayed out or perhaps one tucked under a knee, but usually not cross-legged, which I never appreciated the thought of until now, because this was like way more than 30 years ago, but I can still remember the silvery-white sheen of the fabric of the girls tights, whose name I shall not duplicate here, but I will say, I have never met another one like her, with the same name, and I guess we must have been 14 at the time, 7th grade? Yeah? Is that legal to imagine a 14yo girl in silver white spandex, just sitting on the gym floor, and is that any more or less legal than
remembering myself, what I remember looking for to see, every damn day in gym class? Like, it was the only reason I wanted to go there at all. I was sprung. Obviously, still am. The same thing happens every time I allow myself to remember my experience then: I had no idea how to do it or what it could mean, but if that girl wanted me like I wanted her, then it was no wonder I don't recall her ever sitting cross-legged. She was probably kinda astonished by what she might have been detecting, nasally, I mean, but of course I never thought of that before. My nose didn't work back then. And I was always concerned about getting too close to the gal, because honestly, how young is too young? I was sexually maturing then; but not mature at all. And I hadn't even heard of masturbating yet. Like, I didn't even know of the concept itself. I knew that my (blank) would swell while I sat there, eventually obviously slack-jawed and agape-eyed, but it was such a rush to get to look at her, when I could get the circumstances right, because obviously, if I were to have ever sat next to her, it would have been all over, no matter how it happened that I would get close to her. I never (or rarely) ever saw her in any other place in school, and I never, ever have talked to her, not even in my mind in imagination, and I have never looked her up, because I can't remember her last name, and I'm kinda wondering how long I would be able to resist myself, were I to find the junior high school yearbook photo of the girl I never really thought about again after that year of gym class was over--I think she moved away the next year, or we had a different gym class, or... I don't know. I don't remember that at all, and I haven't tried.
Here's all I got: those 14yo legs of hers were the ultimate sex landscape I can imagine to this day. Fuck the laws--if I find photos of her ever, I'm gonna snap a screenie on my cellphone and immediately flee the area, find a safe place, and get to work. I just had a crazy false memory, of myself, scurrying around the school grounds, looking for a secluded and ultimately secure from prying eyes spot, where I could finally actually just touch myself while remembering how I felt about her. Like, holy shit. And this just came out of noplace, about a dozen years ago. I haven't written about it before.
I may not write about it again. Is this... erotic? It is, isn't it? Wait, no, this is Bellgab. Or something. I see there's been a name change. I could give a shit. I am in deep, earthy rut, because it's just that time of year, and this year is a little unusual, in that there is a corporate sexy structure going on. Like, massive.
I don't often think about girls from public school that I lusted after, truly I do not. If I pause to recall, the list marked "desperate minor lust" has a normally sized list of old favorites, which in my case, do not have many entries, and only one of which, did I ever actually have sex with, which... I'm not gonna lie. I have regrets. (I wish there had been two bottles of beer, yo, they'd both be on your head in meth class. Math class. You know what? I bet you knew about that shit then, word. You know when someone told me that it even existed? 1996. Like, I had never even heard of it. I saw references to something called "speed" in Stephen King novels--my youngest adult favorite--but I never had access to any kind of medication or adulterants or anything but OTC bullshit, because, once again, say it with me, no friends, no family, no oxygen, no awareness of lack, only a constant mind-numbing drone of the loneliest sadness that one could ever imagine. That was my life. I often wondered, "Is this what life should feel like?" It was such a drag. Books, TV, kitchen, feed the dog, give the dog water, no one told me to drink lots of water so I never did, I just drank when thirsty, which makes sense, right? And I remember being inordinately fond of drinking Vanilla Coke. Because, vanilla. And high fructose corn syrup.
No one told me anything. No one gave me a few grains of plain white table salt, whispered "Abracadabra," and suggested I go talk to the girl with the fantastic body in the silvery white asshuggers, who must have felt similarly to me, because after a while, it could not have been possible that she did not notice that I was apparently just, you know, like, staring off into space. "What are you looking at, Creep-O? ahahhahahahaah!"
Remember: I thought I was fat. I thought everyone hated me. I thought there was nothing I could do but endure the suffering. Seriously. Jesus, all I had to do was move over about seven feet--I found two empty spots between would be best, because if there were only one person between us, and they stood up, what might happen? I might hear her suddenly notice my blank Rain-Man Gaze at her thighs, which, I won't lie, probably looked like that of a drooling mouthbreather at my age, but these days, I think about it, I can literally feel my eyeballs squeeze out a little juice and my body starts to instantly relax, energize, and consider bringing up other memories of other amazingly hot girls from my public school days.
I'm not gonna lie, I am still mortified with embarassment to this day to think of them all. The idea of putting all the names that I can remember onto any record at all, even a scrap of paper, fills me with dread. "What if someone finds it? Then they might know! They might know that I like her! They might know that I like someone beyond all capacity to restrain animalistic thoughts from taking over! They might think I'm some kind of... prevert, or something! That would be bad! And how!
Fast forward to now... well, Bellgab, what can I tell you? Being thought of as a prevert may well be the most minor as well as the most joyful of my current problems, which to be fair, is a pretty short list. My attention span is even shorter, as my imagination has motored along without my focus while I've been lumbering along, and the lumber is the result of a sudden sharp draw-down in focus to just one or two names of gals.
Are they alive? Are they dead? Is this how telepathy phone calls work? I won't lie, I'm strongly compelled to start finding new friends for (PROT) and I to just straight-up pairbond with, because, well... as they say, this is the end of their rope. It's the beginning of mine, though. I just started seeing a... what's it called, not a feritility doctor, but a... endocrineologist! Yeah! I've been meaning to do it for awhile. Conditions were correct, so I thought it over about ten minutes, and decided, "Let's go," and then went directly to Google to find the place to go to spend money on making my penis become The New Administration's Tower & Grayskull Complex, because I was not and am not looking for a simple presecription for dick pills, oh no.
I am talking about whole organ restoration. Look, it's like this: Doctoring has three levels. At the top, is the top. Spare no expense. Best technology. Secret techniques. Pro tips. Concierge service. A doctor-owned joint with a bearded husband, who clearly is capable of making shitloads of money--and is doing so, and is the type of business professional who takes one look at a fellow like me, and says, "Oh, g-ddam, another one of these motormouth shitheads with stupid questions and nothing to say besides, "Hey, look at me, I can use words faster now, and let me show you this empty bottle of cough syrup to prove it!" You know, one of those burnout fuckheads that the vast majority of you on this website seem to think I actually am.
The illusion is breathtaking, truly, is it not? Yeah, at first glance, and then further, just looks like yadda-yadda-yadda. I don't know why that is. It doesn't look like anything to me. I'm not looking at what I am writing, I'm fantasizing about the #1 glory doll from actual high school that I still remember, whose name I shall not disclose here, but here's a hint: (PROT)fruit may or may not know her actual name, but conversations have been had about what's gonna happen if, say, all the dead spontaneously rise from their graves, or if some kind of Jurassic Park thing can happen, or whatever, but anyway, there's this one dead girl that I met at a young age, and it went poorly, and by that I mean, we didn't get to fool around at all, and then one day all of a sudden I suddenly remember them for not particular reason, and to instant wonderment and surprise, I find myself rocketed into a mental dialogue/hallucination with a dead person who used to be a girl and is now suddenly "thinking" to me in my head about the merest possiblity of asking (Blank)fruit if some hotass ghost of a dead teeny bopper could maybe "perhaps borrow" access to her fleshy form, you know, so she and I could, like... you know. Like in that movie. Ghost.
The Patrick Goldberg Experience. Just imagine it. Don't think about it--eww, Whoopi, you can do better, pancreatic cancer? Needles. Anyway, long story short, when I suggested to 1 Ms. Made about the idea of her letting a ghost get in her body so she could fuck me for real, well... it certainly triggered a series of heated discussions. Oh my, yes. I didn't know what we would get into, but we sure got into it.
We did not argue. We -never- argue. It just looks like arguing to someone who doesn't know what the fuck we are negotiating. Like, say, a small child, who according to his mother, may do as according to as how his mother wishes, and so of course, he routinely sides with his mother, and any time he sees his mother have to yield more towards my recent description of reality that towards his mother's, he's right there, like a little champion, God bless him, always ready to chime in for Mother's God and Mother's Country, any time it seems like Jackstar is winning, gaining the other hand, exploring common truths... or really, basically just smiling with delight to enjoy conversation, while his mother is frowning and grumpy for some reason, he's right there to remind Jack that it is not an approved event to argue with his mother. "NO ARGUING! NO ARGUING! I HATE IT WHEN YOU ARGUE!"
Basically, it's like a struggle with a two-headed hydra, and one of them, you're not allowed to use your sword on it at all, you can only just stand there and let it shit all over you while the other head that you just saw make the decision to wince in fear at the possibilty that it might be wrong about something, instead of congratulating all on a successful conversation, one that teaches and motivates, some folk hate the "unsuccessful" conversation, which goes something like this:
Reorganization of thought patterns in the brain can be reorganized at will, provided there is a more efficient structure available for the neurons to cascade into. The ability of the mind to do this in response to the discovery of new information is called "
neuroplasticity."
As I have been deliberately developing my flexibility when integrating new thoughts into my mind DELIBERATELY ever since I ever heard of the concept back when I was seven years old, I have a bit of an advantage when it comes to adapting to new information compared to the average hard-working single mother and the above average spoiled whiney brat. Because eventually, like cardio, neuroplasticity gets worn down. The brain needs rest. New stores of neurochemicals need to be synthesized. Rapid analysis of large volumes of facts can often lead to significant breakthroughs in cognition. As opportunities are seized, they multiply... and when one is energized by the sheer delight of discovery, one can reach an apex of flowing creative energy, in which one is exalted from new horizon to mindblowing realization, often in the span of mere seconds--although flashes of insight can occur on the nanosecond and even femtosecond level, an experience often described as the slowing down of time while the mind seems to expand.
Alternately, poor nutrition and too much length of bone on the ol' nightmare rhomboid--A.K.A. "YouTube 24/7 yadda yadda angelcode yadda." It's different when thinking and when listening. And it's different with Jackstar. Sometimes, people can't keep up, they would like to think about what they're listening to, but for some reason, it's just too hard. Jackstar, stop. Jackstar, please don't hurt 'em. The words you say, hurt their brain, please, won't you please, stop hurting them? WHY ARE YOU HURTING THE WOMAN AND CHILDREN, JACKSTAR?
Well, actually, I am not: I am observing a lack of desire to continue thinking about what is being listened to, and suddenly, excuses appear. "I'm tired." "I'm hungry." "Mom, stop arguing with Jack. I hate that." "Jack, stop arguing with Mom. I hate that." "Don't tell me what to do!" "Don't tell me what to do!" (Honorary infinte loop.) Sounds like fun, right? Oh, God, no.
It's
the ultimate. I liken it to skiing; hop from slope to slope in order to travel the furthest distance with the most efficient use of available energy. However, I'm not gonna lie, 11 year old boys do not always want to go the furthest distance. Sometimes, they just wanna sit around and read books while shuttling from book to bed to ear candling. Oh, shit, I'm out of ear candles, now what? I think they're all gone, but maybe there's one in the kitchen. It's on the top shelf. I don't feel like reaching up there, so I'll look there later. Well, now what? I've read all the books within arm's reach. Oh, there's one on the far end of the sofa. I have to grunt and strain to reach. Ughgghgh. Okay, got it. Now I'll lean back down, to rest, because this was heavy work, picking up a book.
Writing them is far easier, I'd say, although it really depends on one's bioavailability profile. And in me, that really syncs up well with just how many hot-to-trot fillies there are for me to examine within arm's reach. It used to be, like, how many there were that I had a chance with. However, I am a grown up man, and I do what I want to do.
And if I wanna argue with a boy and his mom, and force them to learn things, I am not gonna do that. No sir. That would be forcible coercion. Akin to (blank). Can you imagine? A boy and his mom? Making them do things against their will? That sounds very not okay.
So, I would suggest and recommend, to be quite quiet and subtle about it. At least at first. In time, as Oneself is able to lead other Oneselves down the garden path to joyous knowledge, it will become very, very apparent to anyone, what the increased focus on neuroplasticity and mental discipline in cognition will bring to one's experience.
For example: stronger thinking will not stop Jackstar. That's me. (Hi!) But, quicker thinking will absolutely stop me... and also shunt me more into Thinking mode. Typically, I am split between Thinking and Discerning, because in spite of apparent evidence to the contrary... I really do not talk very much. But I do think
a lot. Especially when there is no one left, no one at all, to talk to.
This can happen for a variety of reasons, up to an including gag orders, legal action, paralytic fear, and planet-killing comet strikes on adjacent parallel timelines. (My favorite kind of strike.) Bottom line, Kids, I'll put it this way... I've had enough time to figure things out, because I have been removed from society, largely by my own choice, and have been forced to do little more than THINK about what has HAPPENED.
Hey, so, what do all y'all think happened? Oh, I would love to hear your descriptive narrations of what you've heard. LOVE IT. Where's the Discord server at? Where's all the hot'n'heavy Jackstar-oriented dialogue going on? Did it move? Where is it? WHERE AM I RELEVANT???
Heh. Heh. Yeah, like anyone would EVER tell me. That is NOT how things work. Here's how things work for me in my life: "You're so smart, you figure it out!" and then while I'm busy thinking, someone waiting for their chance can swoop in and lay claim to the best solution available to me for what I've been searching for. In some cases, this can be a long time of searching.
I have spent exactly ZERO time looking for the Sekrit Jackstar Appreciation Zone. Why bother? Why would there even be one? It's not like people have been embarassed by me, quite inadvertantly, unbeknownst to most others nearby at time time, just to themselves: "Wow, this guy is brilliant in a way that awes and humbles me. I wish I could talk to him for hours." Yeah, I never say that either. I say it about girls. I do not commonly say that I wish I could talk to a woman for hours. She's probably got things to do. Hypnotizing a woman and monopolizing her time, well, that can lead to torturous complications. Jealous husbands. Jealous ex-husbands. Jealous children. Jealous probation officers. Jealous zealots of jolly jammermandering.
Fuck 'em. That's what I say. "Oh, hi, is that some (NOUN:slang_for_beta) that wants your attention? Okay, I'll turn the conversation over to him, in appearance, but I'll set you up for success, so if you wanna just handle him quick and get him out of the way so we can talk, I'll be ready to pick up again, but, you know, if it's gonna be a g-ddam hassle with some once-alpha fresh-beata with a chip on his shoulder about his sudden and inexplicable feelings of inferiority just because I show up and am able to be polite to someone's wife without appearing to be struggling to avoid ogling her tits (hint: peripheral vision is trainable vision), which can be a real problem for some folks.
It is for me. Here's what I've learned I have to do: DEAD ON STEADY BORE EYE CONTACT STAY ON TARGET, and the moment I notice that I have drifted off in my attention and am marveling at how beautiful her eyes are, I immediately pick some other noted erogenous zone to stare blankly at--not as long as a second, remember, femtoseconds are FEM - TO - SECONDS, and that's probably not a trick of the light.
If a man's gaze appears to stray down to the bosom--and it will, unless he's, you know, shy, in which case the gaze will suddenly DIVE BOMB to the titties, and then linger there until the shy guy learns to control his thoughts, which can be difficult, especially when in love with the heighths of unattainability. And so, when a woman sees a man struggling to keep his eyes off her tits, she knows two things: 1) He likes her. 2) He's a fucking pusssy.
When she discovers at a foreshadowed and subsequent part of the conversation that the entire time, his eye movements have been part of a deliberate and co-ordinated dance... it triggers a neuroplastic reorganization. "Wow... I thought he might be interested, but now I realize, this guy is STEPS ahead of me, holy shit, am I getting married right now? How about kidnapped? Wait, what's the difference? OMG I don't care, this feels amazing, is this what falling in love is like?" You know how dames are. They always like to think of themselves as some kind of twitterpated virgin, and for a brief shining moment of neuroplastical organizational fireworks... she is. Born anew. Moments old. An innocent babe. Ready to believe fucking ANYTHING and for as long as it holds together, that world of believe will be true. For her.
THIS IS HOW HUMAN TRAFFICKING WORKS.
THE BODY IS THE VESSEL--THE MIND IS THE SHIP.As some of you may well imagine... I've had some time to think about this kind of shit. For example, I human trafficked myself right into jail on Christmas Eve. I sought to go there. It was my goal. And I achieved it, in stunning and resolute fashion. It was AWESOME. I wish I could tell you more. I am sure I will later.
And as a result... I have learned new understandings from new experiences that I would never, could never have had otherwise. For example, my Christmas Eve dinner was delivered to me by the cutest damn Santa's Elf you ever did see, a little blond girl, and for an elf, that's probably about 8234, but this gal, she really only looked a couple days older than 52. Maybe a -hard- 39, you dig? Hard to tell with the mask. But it wasn't hard to tell that she was grooving on me, though. I came in, the way I came in... well, look, long story short, it was known--KNOWN--that people were gonna come into custody on that night, because there had been An Event scheduled. Obviously. (No one told me, but Jesus prepped me on the way in. He and I do great shorthand, in that, whenever I have no idea what to do, Jesus does it for me, and I appear to myself to be doing "it" myself, but... fuck, I have no idea what I am doing.
In jail, that was. On Christmas? Uhm... cool! I don't go to jail often. I'm not gonna lie, I don't enjoy it at all... unless, of course, the outside world is far, far worse. And that night, holy shit, it sure was. What the fuck happened? Literally no one could tell me. "You ruined my birthday!" Uhm... what? Did I bring you (blanks) and then punch you square in the jaw when you ratted me out to your (blankot) handler? No? Oh, good. Yeah, I don't remember doing that either. I sort of remember the birthday, and the way I remembered it... I
enhanced it.
The only birthday I remembered being ruined was May 6. My birthday was the day before, and it was not ruined, but it was... decent. It wasn't the usual kind of thing I like, which is almost always hardcore (blank) delivered straight up my ass, I mean, come on, get serious--why even bother otherwise? Kidding. But anyway, mine was good. I am glad I had it. Important milestone goals were reached. I made a promise to a little girl I haven't seen since, and that's good, because ideally I won't see that particular one until about a decade later, so I have time to get the gift ready that I made for her. In the future. Or something. Who knows? Maybe she'll change my mind and I'll want to give her one of my testicles by then. It's hard to tell at that age. I mean, it is for me, I don't know how to read the future of children, because I'm not a g-ddam Cusp Of Prophecian.
I've got two of them breathing down my neck--maybe more, like no shit, hot'n'heavy, and no complaints--but neither is around at the moment. Because... reasons. You know how dames are. Always on the run. Especially when they're both collectively responsible as accomplices, at the minimum, for masterminding what has to be basically the most audacious and flabbergasting prison break in human history that you've never heard of.
As I write this, it is February 5, 2022. Forty-three fucking days ago, NEARLY SEVEN GODDAM WEEKS, MOTHERFUCKER, I was lied to, a lot, in a big way, and then I was unexpectedly (to me at the time) abducted, shackled, and driven away to the County Jail, fifteen miles south, leaving everything I owned and everything I loved and the two people I was closest to in the whole living world--I thought--alone with a bunch of armed thugs masquerading as police officers. I am not kidding. It was bullshit. Wow, how many police officers? Huh. That was fast. And you're encircling the house, huh? Interesting. And now, it's dark. I guess the sun went down at some point between disarming the lunatic raver--definitely my first time, and maybe even hers, she looked as stunned as Daryl Hannah did in Kill Bill Pt. 2--burying the eldritch blade in the yard straight down to the bottom in the back of Peach's Pit, and if you've never seen a weapon of eldritch metal disappear into the turf, you simply would not believe your eyes.
I did, at that point. Because I had just seen a person who had not real particular reason to be angry--yet plainly was--in an instant, punctuated by an excessive series of eyeroll blinking, suddenly transformed into a person who acted with a particular straight-forward agenda:
1) Two shouted questions and one shrieked statement. Or were they all questions? I'm not gonna lie, my brain gets fuzzy when I recollect.
2) Pivot turn, quick strides to the refrigerator door, and suddenly half--FULLY HALF--the contents of the main compartment are being hurled to the floor at a sharp incline. They're all glass dishes. I hear the word "lasagna." Huh. Well, I bet it was good, but aren't we trying to watch our carbs? Oh, well, I mean, I am, but I'm presently watching the love of my life behave like a rabid puma driving the auto-loader from Aliens. She is beyond livid. Eyes blazing. Hair beginning to gently tend to appear to be shifting ever slightly more snake-like. Shadows and faintly exotic and foreign symbols start to be apparent on the visible planes of her face. They're not really there... they're simply becoming manifest, and even when they are fully present, which I do not often see, but I have seen, both sober and while high as a fucking kite.
Which, by the way, I am not. I stay away for a day because the scene is not to my liking, it's not going to get that way anytime soon, and since someone seems to think they know so much about what is going on, I figured I would simply absent myself, and let people do whatever they think they want to do so much. How does reading a book sound? Or maybe walk down to the corner and see if there are surveillance cameras on the road leading to the gun rage. How about build a fire? You can sit outside and cozy up by the fire all by your lonesome and there you go, everything you ever said you wanted, because I don't remember EVER feeling so worthless and dogshit as when I realized that, slowly and slightly imperceptibly... everything I put somewhere, eventually gets moved closer and closer to the doors to the exterior, there are two bedrooms and a dining room, a living room, it's pretty big! And yet, somehow, there's not a lot of room to move around in.
This, of course, is because there is--or, was--an ongoing struggle for dominance and supremacy. In my own house. With the love of my life. Who... wait, hold the g-damn phone. We talked about cats. Now there are peacocks. We talked about sex in the back of a Jeep. Now it's literally filled with garbage. We talked about going exploring the new landscape: I become aware that while I was busy driving back and forth 200 miles from old home to new home, while I was gone, what was happening was... not at all what I thought was happening, and this fact had not been revealed to me. At all. In fact, I'm not even sure how I am gaining this impression, because I am astonished to see what is happening.
It went from 3 of us and a cat, to some sudden fallout between the other two humans, which leads to me being informed that their collaborative partnership, whatever it was consisting of (I WAS NEVER FULLY INFORMED, AND NEVER THOUGHT TO ASK), wasn't functioning properly, in that, My Honey is suddenly aggrieved, and the other person, hasn't really been doing anything useful at all, as I had hoped would happen, when I cheerfully explained to everyone what my vision for the future was. I mean... it's my house. It's for my benefit. It's not for their benefit in the same way it is for my benefit, in that, what's good for me, is good for them, but what's good for them, may not be good for me, and the terms of Guesting were plainly stated as follows: check with me first, and here's what I need, okay, I'll be back in 4-5 hours with another load of objects that I have single-handedly loaded, driven and unloaded, over and over, back and forth, for what is literally like 3-4 fucking MONTHS.
I was distracted by the newness of it all, and the myriad developments, and my firmly held belief that while I don't know how I can trust these friends I have invited to Guest with me, I figured, well, we're all quirky but mature individuals, we'll figure something out. And we did.
However, no one figured out anything with me at all--they figured it out between themselves, and whatever I told anyone else, it just... never developed. I discovered that this was because no one thought I knew jack or shit about anything important, because it looked like all I was doing was being short-sighted, obsessively focused on seemingly trivial details, and getting high while appearing to be deliberately developing into a more and more physically unattractive specimen of a human being. Because I was.
The purpose of this gambit was to drive the other two into more co-operation, which certainly happened. What I didn't recognize at the beginning, was that... both of these people had actually given up on me, back at the beginning of summer. Like four months ago, and what I was perceiving as general bonhomie and gracious good cheer and fellowship... was actually just being kowtowed and paid lip service to, and since I didn't even imagine that anyone could be so foolish as to think that Me, JACKSTAR, DESTROYER OF DREAMS, ET CETERA could actually be doing that... well, I simply thought that the total and complete lack of generalized co-operation with ANYTHING that was going on that I thought was important... was because all three people completely misunderstood the nature of what importance really was here.
Firstly, I already knew that each of them had a backburner plan to take over the place in case I mysteriously disappeared. Mostly because, I wanted to finish moving, tidy up some, and then go on a road trip, and absolutely because, IT TOOK SIX YEARS TO MOVE OUT AFTER MY MOTHER DIED. To the actual date. Six years. In Spring, someone was complaining about how hard it was to find a place to live, a-bloo-bloo-bloo, and I'm like, wow, well, maybe it would be easier if you weren't trying to make two people live together that were not going to, because it was not going to happen, and while it may have been possible if we all pulled together, that wasn't going to happen, because I was and am The Beneficiary, and if something is not going to benefit me, it simply cannot be made to happen. Them's the rules, and it's not something I can be convinced of just to be conciliatory.
For example, I still don't see how it benefited me to have livestock or animals at all, when I still hadn't moved in, and if there were free time available to bring in new mouths to feed, I would first wish to bring in kittens, and that would only be if I were living with people I considered fit and capable to be responsible for themselves. And, in my view, I wasn't. At least one of them was a reprobate drunkard, and at first, as always, there was no alcohol use at all, and it was pretty okay, but as no one ever actually committed themselves to setting aside their personal plan for a successful group plan, nothing could ever, ever worked, because no one listened to me or incorporated my suggestions, FUCKING EVER, they just argued against them, and then while I was gone, what happened? Drinking, smoking, & activity planning without either my direct involvement or even FUCKING AWARENESS.
I did not imagine that could be the case, because, hello? I am the beneficiary. How does it benefit me to have all my ideas set aside and for plans to be laid and executed without my knowledge at all? Like, excuse me? It's my house. What the fuck are you doing, and why is keeping me in ignorance as to the path forward to my benefit? Are you planning a surprise party for me? Great. When is it then?
Trust me. I saw things coming. What I did not see coming was the use of various forms of eldritch and psychokinetic magicks, which I'm sure, some of you will just describe as "bullshit." Okay, fine. I don't wanna talk about it with you plebs online anyway. That's what I wanna talk to my people about. Except... well, I don't know how my people got turned against me, but it sure fucking happened alright. One of them got pissed because while it was okay for him to waste time by drinking my liquor that HE FUCKING STOLE and then overconsumed--leaving him moaning and groaning about how "sick" he was, and couldn't "work," like omfg, I couldn't believe it, how does that help anything? Oh, he thinks his plans are helped if mine are delayed, okay, well, let's see how that goes, and the other one, well, apparently she... well, I'll set that one aside for later. But eventually, someone noticed what I had noticed quite some time ago: things were not working out as intended.
For anyone but me. I AM THE BENEFICIARY. EVERYTHING BENEFITS ME. And that's not even a rule, that's just automatic. If I have friends benefitting, then I have more helpful friends, and if I am benefitted, I have friends who have a happier Jackstar, because, as is important to remember, a happy Jackstar is a magnificent, miracle worker in disguise, look, I know I play the fool, but I pity the jester who fails to appreciate the
totes totality of my gestures.
Now, I am not certain how it benefitted me to watch my friends tear themselves apart by forgetting to follow simple rules that were very clearly laid down at the outset, but... it is a thing of beauty, in my view, to watch a security paradigm enterprise unfold itself around me in response to threats. I've written the words "psychokinetic shielding" before and no doubt it was just deemed to be a bunch of bullhooey.
Yeah, well: whatever. Serious whatever. Tell you what, when someone can tell me what the fuck has been going on FOR SEVEN G-DDAM WEEEKS with ABSOLUTELY NO ONE in contact with me, hey, you know what? No wonder people have been having trouble. Try talking to me, dumbasses. Let me explain to you how A Land Trust works: IT'S COMPLICATED ON PURPOSE FOR THE BENEFIT OF ONE PURPOSE ONLY: THAT OF THE BENEFICIARY.
Now, I'm not sure who thought that sending me to prison where I would be killed/suicided to my benefit were to have been to my "benefit," but certainly several other people thoughts so, that being, uh, basically everyone I've ever met who thought I was in their way. For example, I have come to discover that a man I considered a friend--and a good one at that--really is a friend, but not quite the kind of friend I thought he was.
For one thing, he has taught me a great deal about lying, wards, and bioavailability when it comes to each of the same. He also enabled me to complete The Great Work; not on his own, but it was his choice to give me a chance at it, and he decided in my favor, and, what the hell? All of a sudden, I'm almost literally in fucking Oz. Like, Wonderland. It was incredible.
So I owe him a great debt of gratitude for that faith that he had in me, because to be honest, were it not for my success in that trial, I probably would have been able to have been squished out through the hidden designs of a whole host of other people, silently and invisibly arrayed aga
