I got a hunch Coast is gonna be poppin' tonight.
George has rarely sounded more on point. Of course I haven't listened to him in so many years, I don't even know if he's supposed to sound terrified, hassled, judgemental, and stressed, but--boy howdy!--is it nice to have a feeling he's at least relevant to my interests. I turn on the radio--I mean, the webpage, and gosh, doesn't that sound romantic.
*dwindlling whispers: "Believe in the Power of Thunderdome."*
Having absolutely no grudge left with George Noory, I figure, we can come together, him with a flash drive in his pocket containing the genomic schematics to sickle-cell anemia, me with an exactly similar flash drive in my pocket containing the instructions to activating his own psychokinetic shielding, which assuming the riff-raff habitating and co-habititating the environs surrounding Thunderdome will allow, can be neatly towed into place, hovering over The 'Dome structure itself, perhaps a bit forward of center, for an imposing view of the crowd, maybe the traditional back-and-to-the-left that some in the crowd will be expecting (as well as
demand;
standards), and then, as we two men enter, I'll offer George a gentleman's upgrade: take the neurosyphilitic schematics right then and there, or... we swap our flash drives, and he gets -
both- the sickle-cell annemia -
and- the neurosyphilitic... uh, whatever, and then he'll have two (2) vaguely offensive sounding weapons to use in Standard Combat against me, while I will have only... instructions. To defensive shielding. That I already have been using for years to no small effect, but honestly, other than squinching up my eyebrows, perhaps a finger snap or two, and the occasional nervously blurted-out accidental fart, basically consists of nothing more than talking to Jesus in my mind with my
perhaps,
mildly upgraded brain, and basically engaging in a form of prayer, focused contemplation, and concentration on how totally relaxed I typically am--not
totesrelaxed, that's for sure--whenever I consider the no doubt well on its way and picking up speed rushing towards an inevitable demise lifestyle path that I set myself upon, all those years ago, when I walked out of the Halls of University into the Hut of Pizza. Honestly, I am stunned to still be alive and not kickin and screaming more often than I do find myself when resisting cardiac arrest--psychically. If I had to deal with actual cardiac arrhythmias, rather than merely hypothetically sociological ones, I wonder what I would or even could do about that. (How about alligator clips: what would a lifetime supply of 9-volt batteries even look like?) I mean, my heart feels fine right now. (Couldn't anything be improved with another couple more alligator clips?) Just fine. Could NOT BE any better. (There goes that idea, I might as well send back the crocodile ball clamps too; Could NOT HAVE BEEN any worse of an idea) Now, I do not discuss such conjectures during a meditative state that is usually intended to be something approximate to something "prayerful," and being a very thankful person, and knowing Jesus as a real g*y who lived on the surface of our world with a legitimate individual human identity, and knowing that I have always approached such discussion in a coherent and rationally thankful manner, that I think most would acknowledge it could easily be called "beg-by-numbers+some_letters=from some book_maybe
about energetic whining for
totesextra Christmas presents and magickookies w/
totesextra fortunes" with no risk of being misunderstood. Some call it "Divine Shielding" but I think that sounds pretty obsequious as well as grandiose. Not to mention
totesgay. (I'm not sure if I am qualified to legitimately pronounce assurances on whether an upgraded adjective from the perfectly non-threatening gay (which we've all become accustomed to over the years) to the much more impressively imposing
totesgay, but I am, as always, willing to learn, especially as an alternative to the consideration of any other option) And, here is the gravy that makes it all come together... I won't have actually read the instructions to my psychokinetic shielding. Yet. I don't have any such instructions. I cannot even know if the shieldling" I am describing even exists. If it did, who would write the instructions? How would they be delivered? These are queries that I do not know any answers to... even though I suppose I could go back to any navel academy that would have me as something more than chum for a part of a day, and certainly, in my imagination, Jesus was all too ready to jump right in and start elucidating on each of the last 4-5 hypothetical questions I had sort-of not-really just posed. I mean, of course He would like to help. He's not had much to do around here for or with Me lately, as not only as self-deciding to self-capitalize my own self-pronoun has really improved My quality of life. See? I chose to keep the q in the lower case, as I'm pretty heartily sick of the Q blah-blah rah-rah lately. I mean, I'm fond of it and its effect on our society... but it's -really- compromised these days. Looks like a real quick trip to Matrixville these days. Hrrm. That's interesting... I never got around to letting Jesus give me any answers about The Matrix these days. Same with Q. I'm not going to insult The Living Son Of God by asking him about some psyop bullshit. For one thing, yeah,
He's Q. Duh. For another, though, doesn't it reveal a great deal about my nature, each time I ask a query of another, especially if they have been paying the list bit of attention, even remotely? In a sense, aren't I just slowly revealing my weakness points, one by one until the ultimate point of inflexion arrives: not_yet/broken, not_yet/culpable, not_yet/beyond_busted:L0, and marry/mate/kill Mrs.Paul/Paul Atreides/RuPaul.
God, I'll never (blank) Mrs. Paul. Once one has had intimate exposure to the true white flesh--cloaca!--look, the truth is, I don't think she has to come back. I didn't think she had to either, I thought we could somehow find a way to actually negotiate something sensible here. For example, hell to the no, I don't want to live here at all, right now, although I do think it convenient that The Pajamas Of The Archlich are stored here. (pale kelly green. satiny. Virginal.)
Well for a first day this has been a barnburner. It's not often I reach and surpass a milestone goal of this magnitude. Thank you all and any of you whoever read a single word of this blathering not-nonsense I've been "working" on for the last quite a long little while... the fruits of my problems are the epitome of delish, and the seeds of their growth have left me exultant with satisfaction over what I've already seen taking root.
I see bunches of flashing lights and spirits flittering around the corners of the room. It's a nice little phenomenon I've got here. Once again, if you ever have the chance to have your mommy hire a lawyer to buy a house for you, I really recommend the experience of asking about getting one that is haunted. I mean, those are out there, right? Seems like there should be a way to get these ghosts to stop coughing while I'm writing. I mean, I'm trying to cough here, Casper... you wanna go write somewhere else? Pffft. He says nothing doing; he likes it here, it would seem.
See you around, my Troopers. Life is phenomenal, it dumb, I a bull.
