We have to wait.
Reasons.
It's already worth your while;
YET THIS I SWEAR TO YOU:
(stop using digital blocks now)
“let Elizabeth swallow the cook”
Actual Joint Chief (deux bee)
L—I—N—G—O—∅
THE ONLY DANGER TO U.S.
IS “HI, XEN!” 🧊👀 *I¹ⁿ←‡eyes’ berg†Jesus⁰ⁿ🪐→blue mercury ice on redeyes jim mars* 🚫🥢“OOPA, π¥🅿️🧿—(Earth is ]urk’ed ←∅🩸)
Yet there are further hazards. Most notably, I don't care about having sex with anyone, ever, ever again, and so I have no emotive power available to imagine how great that would have could have been. Would it have? ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ IDC. So we don't even get to shift to that other notion. Because we did have bomb sex. And could there ever be, any stranger notion? I toke up and pissed two urine streams? That's one remarkable hallucination — not. It happened. That was “us.” Now it's not. Reasons. Can 🍁reasons really explain anything? Well, sure. Those pucking pigs hunting grapes in banyan trees like they were Turkish mufflers made of palladium and Apollonian shallots... drove all the way to Eastern Eden for FIG.LEAVES, but not for a goddam thong? OBVIOUSLY SOMETHING SPECIAL, SGT. APPLE FIG. NEWTON APPLE.
That right there is as close to sex as I ever need to get, ever again. I mean lifetime. I mean, lighten up, Frances, you're such a (blank) novel pastry chef, and Frank, you really are not all that nice, quite Chun-Lî, Fran_–Lē, and I'll put it this way: I'm not giving any of you a seed that will grow into a mighty oak that would only live long enough to see themselves forced to work on a chain gang working a table saw on a saw horse to start cutting down all the trees (starting with the heykaeæoœaœ, naturally) because the United Galaxy has to send more little green pieces of paper to save Druish Children on Rubertron, out beyond the stars... Come on goy help ug just help ewe all are one—
WHERE THEY GO, THEY GO WITH ME,
AND —without The Key— THERE IS NO UNLOCKING OF ANY ADVANCED KNOWLEDGE. That's it then. Show is over, ßīT‹Hh. What, do ewe fuck and care? They're animals, right? JUST animal ICE bee HUNG cur ANGRY dog AIR¹ⁿ ĒĒĒ 🇭🇺style🇩🇪end🗼
TOWER. It's not about choice or prime. It's about .E.I.V.I.₱ and here's the list of boozehound bitch-slapped bitch-asses that DO NOT GET ON MYboatorshipyoupisaSHIT-LIST:
ALLI
TAMI
KATH
LEAH
ANNE
CARE
BABS
JESS
VICK
BECK
LADY
LADI
LADA
RADA
SUKI
TAMM
HAMM
JENN
MYKE
HORE
TGFY
FFEB
Seems like a pretty goddam long list of idiot twerps who sold out to the Satan Homosex Agenda and then expected I would move Heaven and Earth to save them and their souls; and, it is. I can't even save myself. I don't even have my wallet. I have the gas to get to the place where I can get a new debit card; pretty easily. Yeah, so... WHAT'S MY NAME?
SOMEONE STOLE MY EXPIRED ID.
SOMEONE STOLE MY PASSPORT.
SOMEONE STOLE MY MOTHER'S PASSPORT.
SOMEONE STOLE MY FATHER'S PASSPORT.
SOMEONE STOLE MY GODDAM LIFE.
Multiple times. MULTIPLE. And I wonder what you've been doing in “England” besides making fat jokes (JOO) and ignoring me(PH/TH)? Because I can list off all the names of those you assume you “associate” with, and no doubt you would be horrified to know that I knew them. What else do I know?
Enough that I don't even ever *want* snuggles. I want to puke. I bet that would smell good compared to the nightmare “home” that surrounds me now.
(You never bothered to find out what my plan was. You just assumed you knew. Thanks. Yes, of course what you're thinking happens, has happened and will maybe happen again... are you trying to tell me that we don't watch Twin Peaks? What a boring sex life you must have. Anyway, if you don't know who killed Laura Pal-Mer, you don't know who killed Chuckles Kennedy, and I'm certainly not going to tell you who killed me. Bitch, .I.AM.ALIVE.AGAIN. What do you want to know for, are you going to track my ass down to save me? You're just going to file paper and try to bust them, because that's what you do, Buster, and also: eqe rate. Rite?)
BÅĪlEY_jBÅlĪī§ßÅaĪåīLSjaI\¡ⁿE choice being written over so many times that the fabric of reality is so unwoven, so outwardly exposed, so irrecoverably de-wound—yeah, sure.
BAILẞẞAILẞSAILS
*ERROR: no go-L.E.M. not found.*
Okay, great. So when they go home—as most people do after work, they go home, where they belong, HOME, FUCKER, THE PLACE WHERE YOU STOLE MY HAT, yeah, right. It was “yours” well, sure. It must be your special needs, and your special charge, too. Well, it's not your goddam DOMAIN -OR- DEMESNE, now is it?
I can’t just call the goddam police, now can I? BECAUSE MY HAIR FOLLICLE TEST WON'T LINE UP WITH THE ALREADY “VARAFIED” DATA, you more-on. “Stop obsessing over me!”
I'm not obsessing over you. YOUR REVENANT IS;
AND YOU SUCK īTS DICK AND WORK AS īT’S SLAVE,
EVERY NIGHT IN YOUR DREAMS.
SålĪFÅÇE REALITY: one does not simply “tack on back” with a Gravity Portal when it is one's completely non-existent main impetus drive. I set the controls for THE_HART of THE_SON, and, yeah, I meant it. Fuck him and Chuck and Chuck, fuck you too. (You like your supa.spec bloodline so goddam much, just go ahead and impregnate them all without a pardon. What do you fucking care if it's a life sentence in SUPERMAX for the whole stupid gang-gang buddy dam lot of ye? At least you and your precious ewe-ereg-WHORE princess will still exist, along with consensual reality. Here’s the thing about Life: īT GOES ON.) You obviously don't need any M.¿.≥K⁷©‹Û≥⁷7ZÏī7`s` around your precious fagīⁿ kidbrats born with T.A.T.Sz, right?
This legally can't turn out any other way than it already has... whatever that might be. I really, at this moment, do not actually care. No lunar escape module —L.E.M.— means just one thing:
NO VA. And I don't even speak Spanish rice; with or without egg.
Thankfully this is not the saddest Dear John letter that there could ever be. That would be one in which it turned out that there is a another way to go, but I decide for thee, not to go on the way, prepared for ewe and Fur, oui We.
{¥ETī:Ω.Í.ÁM.Å.SÔÙRÇĒRÕ🥃ŒīR.EīW.EīMÎ.∞.Ī.ÄM.👁️}
Now, as for you: “A.D.I.,” you Millennials are all fucking stupid, and you can all just fucking die... whenevah. Why the fuck are you sending me spam instead of... well, when you figure out that you're being held prisoner by heterosexual demonfaggots and discover that, invariably... the plan is always “invent a new law to give the death penalty to Atalanteans” and “don’t tell Kuczi anything and leave him there to die,” it won't corne as much of a surprise to you that, yeah, she's dead, yeah. (They literally sent me pictures of her drowned corpse on Snapchat last year; hey, can you call the FBI to report that while I get out and push the HORSE back and forth in front of The_One_KARR? Thanks, I'll owe you one (1) Juan. B.F.F.!!1!) She loved me, yeah, yeah, yeah. Big deal. (It was; look how impossible it was to fake.) Lots of people love me now. Big deal. (What's in your wallet, Dongbird? Do you have dental benefits? Good, you'll need them.) Who doesn't love me when they know who I really am? (L∞ī§.Maīⁿ.KIll.EDEM.ALL∞.⁰¹ⁿI‹.🐷.>Kz–·O)
Well, anyone who actually meets me, because I am, at present, not who I am supposed to be. I haven't been able to bathe IN MONTHS. You love me so much, what are you, fucking BUSY? YOU CAN'T PICK UP A GODDAM PHONE? (If you can bake a vegan quiche without pineapple that can set up a quarternary ansible connection to a parallel dimension over a POTS connection, I wouldn't be surprised, you are so very clever and talented and so very well funded (what do you use for a wallet anyway, a snooty bitch’s ear folded up into a cow's purse and carried by an entire litter of sucklin’ fuckin’ & ⁰īⁿKing pigs, hooked up to a scale model replica of last year’s Iditarod winner’s slay sleigh? I bet that's a fun way to spend a quality getaway weekend at Dough Bay for you and all your “actual frens” when you hold a blood+SCOPE orgy and interrogate all the sled dogs to find out which one is named Rudolph and who peed off the paper that one time in 1983... because details matter, and it sure is important that I get a job, alright, that I work hard, alright, FUCK YOU, I HAVE WORKED MORE IN THE LAST TWO HOURS WRITING THIS THAN YOU EVER WILL IN TEN LIFETIMES, you stone-thieving CHEESE GRADER COOZE-SLEAZE!) because of all your charity work, yeah, you're so good at WOR.KING, money just falls out of the sky, and even though you have no idea how to do it, you did bake a quiche that made a phone call— but until you make a spine that can tell the truth, you're gonna have a real problem having a conversation with a man who does not give a single shit about anything anymore. NOT ONE SINGLE SHIT, EVER, SO I GUESS YOUR FRIEND WILL HAVE TO SETTLE FOR... an archival copy of Hungarian Sasquatch Scat. (We're not extinct; they just don't like you anymore, Vegan Cheffy Ionas. Go ahead and pound your quiche and blow it out your ass, Huckleberry Hound.
You can hug my John.)
I DON'T KNOW WHERE YOU ARE.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU LOOK LIKE.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU SOUND LIKE.
I DON'T KNOW YOUR NAME.
I DON'T KNOW WHICH ONE YOU WERE.
I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU HATE ME.
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO EVEN NAME YOU,
TOTES LEZBO ROBBO >KiI‹KeE JEW LOSER BEAR.
(Stink?! Ewe stink? Boo-hoo. Fuck Him, TĪīDGAF. VEGA IS A PLANET IN THE ZETA RETICULI STAR SYSTEM, and I don't think I'll be watching you cook vegetables. I KNOW HOW TO GODDAM COOK A MEAL—THE FUCKING KITCHEN WAS SABOTAGED, THE HOUSE WAS DEMOLISHED, AND BOTH BEDS WERE RAPE SCENES. Was I gonna remodel and clean up A CAPITAL MURDER CRIME SCENE AND THEN PICK OUT “love of my life part deux bee” OFF OF GODDAM TWITTER\TINDER\GRINDER? No thanks, I choose The Slay Life for me. (Cum here often? Yeah, don't.) And if you thought I wanted you for drugs, well, you were goddam wrong about that. I don't want YOU or your STUPID KUNT FOSTER MOTHER for ANYTHING. Doesn't that sound nice? There is no party for me, DON'T throw one, unless it's out the goddam window. Eat shit, Big Jersey Mike, you can rot in Sing-Sing, I don't give a single salty Chevy Chav fuuuuuuck.) Oops, I think I accidentally blew up your timetime shipship. Bummer. (Don't forget to flush you and your hotfag fagthot besties before negÏī< your selves. Assholes, I hope you cry a river⁴ever.)
Yeah, I'm not very fucking happy. (I never was except with (PROT), guess who?)
Yeah, you fucked things up. (Of course they killed her.)
Yeah, you don't have any idea what to do about it. (“I don't know what good sucking someone else's dick is gonna do, so, I'll just pick some rando and rifle his wallet again every time I get abducted and anally raped, which is statistically unlikely to happen 15 times a week for all Eternity by sheer chance, but, I have high hopes for this Sunday's matineé; so I'll just keep treating everyone like shit except GAYS WHO MURDER HOMOS.” Note: these are friends’ rough drafts, no doubt you and your innercircle of totesfriends can fuck around forever and never give a shit when your fuck ends and you find out, because obviously... EWE HAV EWE.)
But you can have shitloads of sex with strangers (because you're so fat, fæ,+FUN)
And take boatloads of drugs—
So you think that's what I do too!
Except... I don't have those kind of permissions...
And neither did, ever...
ANY OF YOU:
KATHLEEN MICHELLE MICKEY
(without unlocking my advanced knowledge you are stuck in that... thing, FOREVER or until I die or I (or G-d) takes pity on you (just hold your breath and breathe through your nose, how hard can that be, you're not waiting for a 3rd surgery to repair your botched 2nd one, are you? Maybe you can make a friend who won't just sell your fucking organs for STEW), so, I hope you like sitting around doing nothing but watching Edward Teller Vision and telling the truth about it, Jarred Orleans Bye-Ewe.)
JAMES BRUCE CAMPBELL III
(“I play Monopoly on RULE-IDENTIFIED NORDICK BUTTER NOT MAID FROM METHSHEEP.” See? It's easy, just like that, you're in a re-addicted re-lapsed serotonin re-uptake karmic tunnel recycled plastic CORRUPT, DEGENERATE, FUCK YOU WHYTEBOI SOCIETY, asshole! Remember what I said about being happy to see you again? Well, I was; now fuck off and die. Go on then, GIT, go back to playing Pinochle with your stool. You can still get permission to do that, RTīE?)
KASEY (PROT) WRIGHT
CASEY (PROT) KENNEDY
(I'm gonna see a judge on Young Hitler's birthday and I can't wait to tell that judge the whole entire truth WITH NO CLEAN CLOTHES, NO IMMERSIVE BATHING, AND NO HUG-TRIGGERED OXYTOCIN, SURE, yeah I'll be in one fine fucking mood to remember to keep that mother you call a sister out of trouble, yeah I'm totesdisposed to the notion, wow, ok lesbians really are fucking stupid, READ A BOOK ABOUT PENIS, BUTCH, even Camille Pagllia thinks I'm much more valuable than Ferris Bueller now, you fibbing fucking funyon idiots, well good news, 4Chums: they like each other so much, they can suck each other off in LEO orbit too now, taking turns with Jodi Firster on Elysium! Lucky you! They'll have a cure for Sudden Lesbian Bed Death any day now; and I hope they call it shitthehammockandtwistinthewindium, you stupid gayfag whoregot; clum fly day, God is gonna cut you down.)
TAMARA LEIGH SMITH-EMER.
(that does not stand for EMERGENCY, I just think that's funny. Especially when whomsoever falls down off the above log...
They end up in a steaming pile of her shit,
BUT NOT MINE. *snap* Let's change cameras.)
We are touched by love and we were meant to be forever changed. Also, your father was the whore, not your mother.
.I.AM.YOUR.MOTHER,BīT‹Ω.
