Well, I got no choice but to actually go to RubiniGab.
Well, that did not take long. It's strange, to figure out "everything" so quickly, and yet not have any idea what so f'ing ever what exactly is the case.
I operate under the assumption that slowing me down and making me ineffective is the primary goal in bothering with me at all. It certainly is doing that. However, since I'm the monkey that doesn't actually -prefer- to sit around getting drunk, blasted, & wasted, the usual result is that at the end of a series of increasingly tedious attempts to unscramble my phone... things work out the best for everyone concerned. It doesn't usually take very long, but it does inhibit the release of my podcast.
Tragick.
I mean I could call a lawyer and call the police, but that doesn't seem wise
I don't care to do that at all. I don't have anyone to fink on or report to--and as I have been vocal and upstanding outright in my field (a niche one) even if I ignored the issues entirely and everyone literally died or went to jail in one night, it's hard to say when I would even notice. Everyone but perhaps 3 people is done with me in their sphere anyway: which, more or less suits me down to the ground.
Think of it this way: in 3 months or so, this phase will be over, or, it will be kicked down the road again. Do I even know which outcome I would prefer? No, I do not. I don't have an agenda or a plan or a schedule. If I were asked what I did want next, I wouldn't be able to tell anyone with any certitude.
The confusion surrounding my desires and goals is clearly wide-ranging and pervasive. The more you all learn, the less is understood, and my dissociation from reality cuts both ways--but I'm already tired of reality. I'm ready to move on. But just like Christmas Eve, where it was not enough that I left--I had to stay long enough to let others claim the house and hang some investigation around me--well just like now, I'd like to move on with my life. I'd like to either improve or leave, sell or consolidate, settle in or move to travel. And until I get information that makes coherent sense, I can't really do much of anything... until I find someting.
I assume that Mr. Rubini is unaware that the timelines that criss-cross through The Singularity are, for the most part, wildly unstable. I mean none of this is really upsetting me or my plans, because they have all been baptised in fire and are born of blood. I thought he might--you all might--wanna know, according to the telemetry at my disposal, something is going to
totesblow, instead of
toteswork. I would prefer not to speculate at this time. I don't really mind being uninvolved and insulated, compared to the last deep cycle before it, so unlike previous "you didn't invite me!!!" warnings, this one is more like, "Cinderella's pumpkin coach arrived here with 11 footmen and the driver is Scatman Crothers, and he thinks his name is Ron Jerem. You got a problem. Someplace." *click*
I'll be honest: you probably all deserve this one. I might let it ride. What more can I say? If I wanted to be a fucked-off retard spook, I wouldn't have spent all that time reading the instructions. I don't even feel like recording. People would listen? I doubt they would even have phones that would allow them to know it was there. (Additionally, I'm once again declaring for Hitler. And S/her is not at all who any of you think.)
NBRING NME NTHE
NG-NG-NGUTZELLA
(Think lighthouse. I'm just here to see about things not getting any worse. Recess monitor. Hallway monitor. Bathroom pass. George, watch out for that--)
