Groomers hide where children are
Astral plane. Etheric plane. You're either remarkably unware of how various & sundry spirit tecks, or perhaps you're simply uninvolved with modern developments in scientific research. This kind of thing happens. It's happened to me. It's surely happened to others. I don't see it as impossible that peoples have formed cells of resistance and organization on such levels of reality.
I don't mind. I mean, live and let live. I'm happy to have gained my strength through solo struggles. It's a jungle out there--and in the mind, a labyrinth.
A whole army of them won’t help you now.
Tell ya what: I’m gonna pray for you instead of preying on you
I am tentatively enthusiastic to note this change. Being preyed upon... well, even Shielded, it's not always a preferable experience to being exploited. Is there a difference? I'd prefer to think in other directions.
Such as... I am glad I'm not involved any further in any further sea changes. I won't ask if anyone else feels it. Its reality is manifest. Huzzzah.
the alphabet community has taken live and let live types like me
[...]
now you’ve taken people like me
[...]
Are you happy with the results?
The "sacrificial lamb" that I was supposedly obsessed with--a complete fantasy that was used as a pretext by some to encourage some others to be persuaded that my integrity was a sham--it would seem, tried to penetrate my security, the night before last. "OMG," I thought, "does this mean I should lock, or unlock my doors?" Well, I went to bed with some trepidation... and woke up refreshed, relieved, and... well, alone.
Whew. I have pretty good security. And that person, well... was apparently told that I was some kind of reward, or payment, or instrument of sexual reciprocity.
So when nothing at all happened--nuttin' honey, for various good reasons--that person, nearly two years later... well, I don't know what happened. Nope. I don't know at all. But texts stopped, no one arrived, and since then, oh my goodness--this seems quite a sea change happened around us.
N'est-ce pas? I just did, you idiot.
Que sera, sera.
a church in Boulder which hid actual child sex abuse by their creepy youth pastor right out of a meme.
I can't see K_Dubb putting in the effort for one thing.
Woohoo Shreddie with a rare assist! 👍
Whatever will be, will be. "bonus round, rig for red" has a nice sound to it, I won't lie. All of all y'all don't need me today.
And I didn't -need- that person. Though I found it -fascinating- to observe how protective custody can work, what counter-surveillance looks like from the inside-out, and the keening of Mrs. Paul for the loss of her favorite earner, while her plaintive wailing is truly abhorrent, it is, thankfully, wholly imaginary.
Like the notion that I was gonna do something other than what I said I was gonna do. And, the follow-up on that was -extraordinairy.- How this stuff continues to matter and be relevant to anyone else and their own lives is something I don't understand. I mean, I am curious--do people not get how this whole "divine protection" thing works? I mean, I don't get it either... however, I was pretty sure that I could handle one person coming to my house. Especially since I had been delightfully prepared for the whole experience.
It has apparently been weighing on some, the fact of my unreliable, perverted, and addiction-fueled hunger for lustful flesh, not having developed into the kind of legitimate manifestation of uncontrollable desire that some imagined--after being told--that it would be like that. It's not like that at all. And bereft of many opportunities to discuss certain complexities... well, honestly, the facts and nature of my romantic life has rarely been such a hot matter of topic and debate.
Well, Christ--it is now. This chica, it would seem, couldn't control herself, and ran off into the night, trying to arrive all totestealthy-like. With her background... well, quite a bad idea. With myself presently living in The Fishbowl, and under 24/7 surveillance, and knowing as I did, that the local constabulary is FAR from any more interested in any more bullshit... I kinda didn't think I would get any visitors.
And, I didn't. Why would I? Maybe she didn't come at all. Or maybe she went somewhere else, when she found me as unresponsive as ever. I've been more or less disinclined to continue any relationship in which a person calls me ON THE PHONE the NEXT DAY after the FIRST DATE, to say, in big happy out-n-proud voice, "You really <Blanked> me!" Huh.uh. Right. Is that so? Loud denial, panick *click.*
Really, when I saw certain events unfolding over the last two years, it was only a matter of time. And child grooming? Oh, sure, that was someone else. "How dare you look at my daughter?" Well, it's like this, lady, I know I am not lying when I say that I have no sexual interest in children. However, due to someone's idea of whatever, I've been suffering inferences and suspicions as well as actual accusations about an alleged sexual interest in prepubescent children. Like, since 1998 or so. (I think I got on some kind of awful mailing list. Not recommended.)
The latest explosion of rumor that bugged me was that I had been suspected of being a closeted gay basher... well, that was legitimately goddam horrifying. Not so much for the way it felt to hear it read aloud in my mind, but also the thought of the trepidation and fear that must have gone through the mind of anyone exposed to such information. Even if one is -pretty sure,- why... such a notion is a difficult one to ignore, especially when such a seed has been planted in the imagination by a psyop team, enthusiastic about dimming a target's chances of maintaining a successful intimate relationship.
"Successful" having so many operative means these days and all, I can consider something "successful" in the relationship arena sphere if I can get out unbloodied with my wallet without an STD. Speaking of STDs, I haven't gotten any traction on The Man relenting its absurdist notions of Cockdown Lockdown being forced by NO CONTACT order, and the main issue, that being: if she wanted me to dump her so bad, why didn't she dump me herself?
Oh, I think we can all guess why. Because... it's an EMERGENCY. Now last night, no emergency at all. I was kinda alarmed, but my security is pretty-pretty good. Pretty good security. Also good: my relationships with mothers of children who have met me and found my behavior with them uninformly cordial and non-grooming.
I have ultimately, I mean by now, grown so revolted y the entire notion that I have come to find the entire operation of sex one that I can easily set aside. Like mowing my lawn. Washing my trucks windows. Washing any windows at all, really. Honestly why focus so much on anything at all? I seem to be under an examination protocol lately... "Who is your daddy, and what does he do? And what do you do? Let's talk about this. Let's talk about that. Humour me."
I haven't talked to this g*y in -years.- A friend of mine--and he is a fren indeed--says a few weeks ago, "Hey, you should talk to this person (PROT)." I'm all "Sure! Okay! Why?" because I am such a whore for attention, why... I'll talk to anybody at this point, right? I have no standards, no reticence, and no shame at all, at all. Put someone on the phone with me, as soon as I mention, "Hey, I'm almost, but not quite, 100% sure that I am under surveillance, not by myself, but know that I consider it to be completely true, and I act accordingly. What do you think about that?" Asking for consent, so important these days.
Consent matters. It would matter if I didn't ask. Like vaping nicotine. When I ask three times, "Hey, do you mind if I vape nicotine while I consider your request for my consent to hear your story outline?" I get no answer. I drop the subject and think, "Now, why is this not a question that is to even be acknowledged? And, three failures to acknowledge that I've even asked the question?" I mean, come on top of the world with me here, if 3 asks didn't work, let's go for 4 isn't going to work. This is BONUS ROUND, and doing the same thing over and over expecting different results, why, that's just crazy talk.
Sometimes I mention my superpower that allows me to peer into the minds of recalcitrant interlocutors who don't acknowledge that a question has even posed too good. Most times, not. It tends to get people uncomfortable. And, why wouldn't it? Typically a person using any ability to circumvent the will of another is considered not only bad manners, but... usually the sign of a drugged-out psychotic freakazoid mess.
So long story short, out of nowhere I get texts from a woman who once accused me on the phone, over twenty years ago, of raping her on her first date. Obviously I did not. And while typically, an accusation of rape, verbally spoken loudly & proudly into the ECHELON/PRISM surveillance network (that's your new network, Folks--ain't that new) so that it would be there for generations to come... well, I think that is where the start of a number of difficult problems I have had can be chased back to. You see, I was dealing with the effects of an unfounded rape accusation for quite a few years before recent times.
I imagine he never mentioned that on any website? Well, fuck it, who cares. But know that: if I have seemed somewhat unmoved by the seriousness of the allegations--and I have not only seemed unmoved, I have been so--it is largely because I have seen all this before, on a smaller scale, and it had been my hope that more recently, this kind of thing would have a more positive resolution. And, speaking of "positive"... well, I know I didn't catch anything from anyone in the last 6 years, because it's been about that long since have exposed myself to possible, uh, "hazards."
Attempts to address this have been stymied. Truth be told, when I went to go to a doc to get a blood test... I encountered strange pushback. Getting an STD panel ought to be simple and easy, right? Just go to Planned Parenthood, right? Hah. Slim chance of an accurate result. And i need -answers- not -fabricated evidence.- (Who would do such a thing?)
So anyway, some broad who has repeatedly implied that I have some kind of nasty, naughty, nincompoop disease... well, I guess she couldn't fight that feeling anymore... and made some statements over SMS. I made statementts back. This person was being cagey. Like, real wishy-washy. And definitely not splooshy-splishy. Nope, not at all.
And I didn't get a text that said anything about plans for a destination. My personal thought was that it was someone being activated in order to participate in a lovefest/psyop/assassination strike. Now, that might sound unlikely to some of you, I mean, pysop for sure, but, Jackstar, we know you are a well known supporter of hate--it just seems so implausible to believe that I would be even in possession of the kind of cognitive capacity to even comprehend love, let alone, enjoy a
festival.
So. I have gained more information. And my enemies have lost face. Further, one particular question that has been hanging out in my mind has become the bearer of low-hanging, snapped-off fruit. That being, "how are these people getting the impression that I have some kind of dangerous tendency towards sexual violence and wanton drug and physical abuse from people who don't bother to actually carry on a conversation withe me, but instead... trust what they find on Google? Or in a SCIF? Or told to them directly by Adam Schiff?
Oh, right. Security. I got it, word. Always nice to have a helping hand. And, boy howdy! Would I ever like to hear that woman answer questions. Naturally I cannot --totesconflict of totesinterest-- but I sure would have liked to have heard a report on what was said about ME. Dammit, fellow sycophants... I need this information, and I need to know it -now.-
As the next day, after this person who asked me to acquire (Clas.) for her, and then engage in sexual activity with her on it, well, unbeknownst to her, I had this plan laid out and ready to go tout suite already, because I knew what was to come: only after I implied (but didn't state so) that I had acquired what she asked me to acquire--for her, you understand--did this person... actually make travel plans. Reminder: I was supposedly already routinely engaging in fornicative and infidelicious contact with this woman. Before The Great Business Trip of 2020. No, of course not. Why would I lie about such a thing?
Why, indeed? What would be to be gained from such a thing? And, why would I carry on a secret bond of intimacy, between myself and someone who was ON RECORD over twenty years ago, of having accused me of RAPE. ON THE PHONE. Then, she asks for MATH TUTORING. There's many, many years between those last two. But no one really knew that for sure, until now. Because, something isn't adding up.
Did she not read the messages I sent her? Basically it went like this: "You're a cop and I am friends with you, but, we haven't had sex in 12 years, and I don't really find you attractive in that way, especially after I found out you were working hand-in-glove with (PROT) & (PROT) (hey, are they incorporated now? Like, Laverne & Shirley? That would be a gasser), and now, since you have had ample time to be friendly--which is what I stated, you know, "friends!!" Well... it's like this, Biggie Titttie Miss Thunder Piggy Pork Pie Who Only Can Tolerate Dick With Sugar On Top, it seems pretty odd that it takes this particular combination of desires to get your attention... and you know what? IF you were interested in that with me, it seemed odd htat never came up... until THIS DECADE. (I met her when she was 19 and I 24. I do like her. I don't miss her. Because I figured out that she was a CI Honey Pot quite a long time ago. A long, long time. That's why I knew it was hogwash when Grapefruit started accusing me of infidelity. After talking to a strange man she obviously seemed to recognize, for months. Without me. Suddenly, As The Grapefruit Turns. Grapefruit Angry.) Dude! If I were interested, why wouldn't I have made it happen long, long before now?
Why would I hide it? Oh, right. Because supposedly, I shoot meth. With women. Except, no. I don't. That rumor was started, most notably, by Slanderette No. 1, who, for reasons still unclear to this day, decided to come over here and dox me and in the same posts... imply that I was shooting it up without her. Oh no. I wasn't doing that at all. She -wanted- me to do that to/with her, and I said, "Oh, hell, no." Instant rage from the double Aries... they don't like being told "no." Similarly, I don't like being shoved around by, let's not say, "corrupt law enforcment officials," let us instead say: Clumsy #Offficial. They careless. They barely competent. They... out of their depth.
So here is what I think: she thought she was being coy, clever, and compliant. Oh, hell, no. What she was being was a huge pain in my ass. I don't know how anyone ever thought this was ever gonna wind up going in any other one way than down this chute: me celibate, laughing at everyone who thought they were gonna some how persuade me to not only impugn my integrity, but, damage my relationship with... Grapefruit Prime.
By the time Grapefruit Alpha had discovered her mistake--there is NO FUCKING WAY I WAS gonna get either busy or dirty OR KOMPROMAT with My Friend, The ArchWhore (validity of name TBD)--she was already locked into some stupid, besotted course of action that I had no knowledge of, interest in, or plan to react to, other than to keep my hatches battened down, and to watch the water, wait and see, and talk to my friend. Find out what was up.
Because, as it turns out, my present
totesfaithful assignment status: COMPLETED/PAUSED is making it somewhat difficult, for those who wish to do so, to impugn my character, given that... okay, number one, that woman ain't all that ugly, but what she is, is
possesed. Big time. Imagine the mirth bubbling up past my hernia, as I hear her mention to me, one night most of three decades after she told me ON THE PHONE that I had really <Blanked> her, oh, after all that and then the last two years, ".... but, if you could get me a calculus book translated to Ebonics...."
Seriously. Shaking. My. Damn. Head. In. Palmed. Face. "Are you out your damn mind?" seems an obvious question, and just as obviously didn't need to be asked. Not Even Once... yeah, ever with me. The subject just... you know, never came up. I wouldn't have minded, I suppose, at one point, but by the time I even knew what that was... she had already had quite the head start. (Must remember to Google past price point history of new and newly sanitized algebra textbooks in 1989--for the sake of future historians.) Clearly, others have been involved. Oh boy. Grapefruit -warned- me about this kind of thing, oh yes indeedlee-du, and I assured her, I was certainly not stupid. Nor ignorant. Nor a Man, neigh, a Sourceror, who needed to be reminded to about such obvious threats to my life, liberty, and trust me, TOTES: my pursuit of happiness has astoundingly little to do with availability of such mechanical, calculatory designs. And I -knew- this would happen, once a second recycling of the "meth needle junkie" came its wicked way back through town again.
One woman on one website libeling me? Well, I probably deserved it. (Not really.) But... two different women, same website, seven years apart? By Jove, I think there just might be... A Pattern. Let's enhance, shall we? Because what I thought would happen has happened... my voicemail, full t'bursting, all these requests coming in... "Jack... let's study trigonometry..." Oh my, nigga, please. Sure, I'll pick you up at 4:20. Meanwhile, all these fucked-off honeypot CI baitraps say one story about me, and I say quite another. And now, after six months of sitting alone with the saddest of all sad grins... well, someone just couldn't help themselves, and went off-script, off-book, and not off-res, but... off-leash.
I wasn't looking forward to taunting her, not at all. Her responses failed to add up to anything other than, "Oh look, another entrapment sting." I grew up feilding this humbug. And I think that by arranging myself to be raped by statue at age 15.5, or thereabouts, had rather more of an impact on my future progression than I would have imagined it to be possible at the time.
I'd rather have an incurable disease than a haunted bastard following me around for... well, the rest of my life, right? Because of course I would love any kid of mine. I would love any kid, really, some more than others. And in exchange for neatly sealing off the time loop of my virginity... it would appear that I bought myself a seat on The Blacklist Klaus Kinski List, which I doubt is what it is called, but still--have you ever heard of anyone having so many artificially imposed obstacles on their cockblock & TackleTotem before? It's fucking nuts!
So anyway, I feel pretty great. If I have an STD, well, I did try twice to get that looked at, after Christmas, because obviously the subtext there was, "Here's your food! I made it for you, this is your mess, it's yours and yours alone!!!" O RLY. *whistles in Shrill* "Wolverines! We ride!" And, just like that, off to the briar patch I went.
Fast forward, to now: I am uncertain what I want to do next, other than my daily routine which starts each morning, as always, the contemplation of suicide--boy howdy! I knew there was perfectly great reasons to stick around, if only to find out which member of ABBA was gonna reincarnate first--which always puts me in a good mood lately. Suicidal depression is really no laughing matter. So when it can no longer be used as an escape hatch to escape the consequences of one's past choices--as it may perhaps have been intended to be for Christmas Hit Me With Those Laser Beams, Relax--I just cannot be anything but -astonished- that this kind of thing is allowed to continue.
Speaking of which, I do like that gal. We -are- friends. There are no hard feelings... well, as of yesterday. What happened with her fucked off messages, well, I dunno. I've assumed for the longest time, that not every message between her and I has been, say, passed on for delivery every time, all the time. That's why I chose her as my ideal insurance policy contact number.
Because by the time I needed one, I fuckin' needed one. Now, in retrospective hindsight, it's quite obvious to me what must have had to have been happening, but these are details I do not need to relate, possibly ever, certainly not now. The headlines here are, The Herd Spooks Back; Poorly, and I remain steadfast in my commitment to discipline, unwavering devotion, and damn good tolerance to any kind of cravings of any such nature. Every time I think of needles, I am immediately overcome by a surge of the giggles. My worst performance of my life, and they bought every goddam word. I should get the Fiction & Non-Fiction Pulitzer Prizes for this... then I can hold them in both (2!) hands while my massive ballsack swings between my legs like Focult's Pendulum.
(Kidding.) No, really, they're huge. Massive burlap sacks of teat-tanium alloyed chromemolybdenum. Art's Parts? Hey, move over, quasi-back-bacon, it's time to introduce Jack's Sacks. Not just new from TaintCo.; we cut those balls off and arc welded them to My Company's t'aint. Aawwww yeah. Feel that sting, big boy? NO YOU DON'T. Those are My Sacks--Jack's Sacks. That's my t'aint, TaintCo. Fuck your couch. And, that was -not- My Fruit, and... never ever was there a G-RAPE. (We seduced each other. Then someone exhorted her to make that phone call, to see what would happen. And, you wanna know why? BEACUSE THAT'S HOW LONG MULTIPLE STATE AND NON-STATE CLANDESTINE ACTORS HAVE BEEN SEEKING TO STEAL MY PARENTS' HOME.
Let that sink in. I mean, it was a nice place. New place is quite nice as well. And I am just one, sad, lonely man, barely a Man. More of a worm, really. And without a support system, I have no chance to retain anything. And so, seeing this condition in the future bound to arise... I did the only thing a sane Man of rational cognition could ever hope to do, in order to retain some semblance of self-determinacy of his own life... especially when suffering 24/7 hypoxia and two drug-addicted parents. (Hey SpookCat: my mother was addicted to cookies. I don't think less of you for triggering me, but I do think less of you for your sharp, snooty attitude. What makes you so superb? Let me guess... retractable claws that you can climb treepepole with and you can study certain subjects with the greatest of ease, without having to peer through a pair of binocs while swinging from a flying trapeze. Well, that is nice, but... hey, did you know that you sound like one of them folks that's had a bio-brain bug implanted? Just sayin'. Damn, you're sure all edges and sharpeners these days. It's not a very flattering look to you without any context for any reasons why -you're- on guard. Like, it makes you look paranoid, which of course you are not.) So I renounced my possession of worldly goods, arranged to just borrow my mommy's knives and forks as needed, and then dedicated my life to Jesus Christ, and just... walked the Earth. (I was doing this before Jules, at the end of Pulp Fiction, almost... so I saw that, and figured, what the hell, no one will even sell me a fucking bag of weed without making me wait for four goddam hours in the rain, why should I even have money? It wasn't like I had any dependents to support, or EVER wanted any... and my parents' didn't need money. They needed advice. And I needed to walk. It was a good deal. I thought my parents would have all their assets bled by end-of-life care anyway.) And if The City Of Bothell had not MURDERED my parents, they probably could have lived another 20+ years, and I certainly was happy to take care of them.
Despite all rumours to the contrary. It would seem that for the most part, scandalous rumours have hounded me and nearly to a man, everyone interested in me has believed that the map of my territory was always more reliable than the territory of Myself. I don't even -remember- many people ever asking me ANYTHING about my completely asinine c.v., which, from the 10,000 feet-and-marbles view, looks like a dating profile for Pennywise The Clown. And... I must admit, I fucking toteslove totesit. It's so --authentic--. Especially the way it goes so far back in time. I don't know how archivists work, but I must say, in my case it looks like they've thrown me out of the Ruthless Bastard Tree, and I hit every deadbeat branch on the way down, to land in a soft, vaguely comfortable goosedown bed with fluffy, comfy pilllows.
Back to reality. Grooming, you say?
Think this is a new thing?
Lady, I don't think -you're- a new thing. This shit has been happening to people for THOUSANDS of years. What's new lately is that it seems to be affecting folks that it never would have had an impact before. May I remind you: rape jokes in public were funny on this very forum... until A Golden Island Wonder Child Of Actual Value had it happen to them. Oh, goodness me. Wasn't funny then! No sir! NO MA'AM! RODGER IS NOT FUNNY I'LL BE GOOD DON'T BRANDISH YOUR METAL CANE! (Note: I never said that, but... she did wail on me with it at least once. I don't and didn't hold it against her... PTSD is funny stuff. And by "funny," I meant, "Seems unusual for a person to not be able to figure out how to get help for her obviously disabling mental condition. Doesn't she have friends besides me who could help? Damn, I am being run ragged on this project. And it's is one (1) grown-ass woman. Why is she afraid of talking to her family? Even her sons! I've seen her hide from them!"
Yeah. It was funny, and still is. It's also: ACTIONABLE. Now, someone give me a stick--I'll poke this dead horse named Secretariat until it brings itself back to life and wins the Triple Crown -again.- Like she did in 1973. The year I was born. I don't remember it--I was born at 1416, and I think she had already won by then. It was a big deal. I'm still not sure why.
Someone ask CraigyFerg. I bet he won't share the real reason, though... from the telemetry at my disposal, it's not my area, not my business, and, I've got plenty on my plate -already.- One might wonder what that might be, and I'm here to tell you... but I don't know -either.-
I do know, I like what I have been seeing. Now, I am told that my "writing is too much" and to that I say... why yes. Yes, it has been. And no one has chosen to drill deep down to learn why that might be. Of course, I was initially assumed to be doing... you know, too many long divisions with a distinct overuse of the slide rule.
And... nope. Taking the piss. 24/7. For joo, Baby. Not because I love the lot of you and wanted to ensure a bright, sunny, happy future for us all, but because... I was pissed. PISSED. One would think that a person would have figured out how to talk to a person, and discuss important matters... before drawing conclusions? Sure, but one might also know that things could go the other way, turning on a dime.
I don't drop dimes. I drop legendary demons. Not in general, mind you: I'm not super-duper into phenomenal etheric/astral power. I mean, that's cool stuff, though. I know a little bit about it works. There's dangers when exploring areas of "forbidden" teachings, and those were the teachings I -most- wanted to learn how to protect myself and others from both (2) kinds of misuse: accidents and chronically abusive. And, I have.
Smugglers hate me. "I only get what I want, because I have trained through years of discipline to only want what is for me to get." It's nuts. Their eyes practically glaze over. Most people can't concieve of what I'm saying, until I put it like this: "You know how the Catholics have a Pope and a bunch of other clap-trap, and they were able to buy wine (for Communion) back in the days of Prohibition? Okay, it's like that, gimme that bubbler, for Christ's sake, I'm fuckin' dying over here." Okay, I don't think I've put it exactly this way before. That does sound hawt though, right? lol. it's always a good time when this niche skill pops up.
Like it has here, ever since December 19, 2019. The date is signifcant mostly for the double-NINETEEN, which I will not go into here now, but I'll tell you... I've never shot meth with two 19yo girls, but if they asked, I'd probably say, uh... I don't know. Something awesome, like, "do we have to use the drugs? Tell me what you know about things. I want to know what your opinions are." I doubt this would work out that way in reality, but, a man in my position has to be pretty damn careful.
Like, probably that girl is getting blasted up and banged off by that fat fuck John Mike thug dickbag-douche master, and they're filming it so they can CGI me into it later. Maybe? I don't know. I don't have any "friends" on "the force." Nope. I don't really have any LEO friends like that. I've never been on The Job. Don't wanna. Not my style. I'd rather sit around and get stoned (ON WEED) and laugh (AT FEDS) who used to live in a world where... get this, right? Cannabis flowers? Aren't bad. And they always knew it. The problem was with the manufacturing and supply chains. Really.
Cannabis is a goddam fucking sacred herb. And when I found myself in a Dutch subway station, looking at a grown-ass woman, weeping and wailing about the dangers of my running off and leaving her behind while I went to go indulge in--what I had thought--was a reasonably innocent pastime... I became aware of something very profound:
Some of these people are REALLY stupid. Holy shit. "omg, so scared of weed. omg! now there's monkeypox! did it... COME FROM WEED??" Maximum surreality achieved.
I've known this girl for a long time, right? We weren't exactly "close," although nothing bonds a couple for life than a shared experience of being told on the phone, unexpectedly, the next day: "You really <Blanked> me!!!" I... did? No u. *click* Like, holy shit. Who does that kind of thing, I wondered? Well... turns out, a lot of people. What a waste of good cuddle time.
Now, I don't know what happened with The Nincompoops. Not -necessarily- referring to Laverne & Shirley here. (Can we just
brand them?) But whatever happened, I myself, am still dealing with significant amounts of fallout. For example, my friends' name that I was speaking of earlier in this document, well, I was asked between pans *CRASH* of lasagna *TINKLE* if I had put my, and I quote verbatim, and I beg your pardon, "Did you talk to (PROT)? Did you put your dick up her ass?" Well, no, I did not, but what a fascinating query to make before engaging in a psychodrama script in order to get me out of the picture so she could live in that house with her Tribal Baby Bunting & Buggy Boosting Club, who were there for about 11 weeks before I chose to pull the plug on the whole she-bang.
Seemed like a fair enough time for me to say that I was as generous as I needed to be. What has been done in the last six months? I don't know. I don't care. I am sure it has all be something important--it -IS- an EMERGENCY, for real--but what has not gone on, is smoking any weed and having sex. Nope. Not at all. The girl--well, come on, she's 40-somehting now, "girl" is... perfectly descriptive of who she is with me, lol, which isn't often, anyway... we've never gotten stoned. She smokes cigaraettes, ugh. Whatever, that can be addressed. The ugh is that, wow, approval of cigarettes, disapproval of weed. Interesting concept.
Hey, let's get stoned and not fuck? Or fuck, shrug, what do you think? Oh, no interest in weed, but also no interest in sexual affiairs, either. Or conversation, really. So, what does this tell us? Well, I haven't had sexual contact with her in like 12 years, and I was asked if I were carrying on an affair with her and lying about it, AND THE BROAD DOESN'T EVEN WANT TO SMOKE WEED/POT/CANNABIS. So why would I hang out with such and obviously fucked-off Cosmic Bullshit-level threat... who finally after 2+ decades, "if you can get some mmmmeeeeettttthhh, then..." Oh, sure, right.
No, I cannot get that. And, no, I cannot fathom this woman. Does she know that intentionally jamming people up is a crime? Maybe she thinks she's above the law. She certainly thinks she's above me. Of course, so does the other one. They have certain personality traits in common. For one thing, it must be said, they're both (2) fully convinced that they know about more stuff, and better stuff, than I do.
And, I am a Sourceror. I've been looking forward to this transition for not only the whole of my ADULT life, but also, as soon as I could, I started planning for the future as a child would. So far, it's great: I am pulling off the Overgrown Man-Child meme with great aplomb.
So I had a plan for what might come today. It involved not having sex with anyone, and reporting to the world at hand, that, no, I wasn't gonna ever do what she thought I was going to do, until, right before she left. It may have shocked her, but I don't know why it would have, as I didn't know that it had been -desired- at all to start sexytime with someone else. I explained that if it came to that, I wouldn't just go and plow into someone, I would... explain what has happened--break it down into simple terms, simply put, that you and I and the generous general public can really sit down with and understand.
Some of them are sex addicts, and that has made all the difference in the world. So -of course- S/her thinks I would be
overjoyed to have a chance to get methsex with so-and-so. Isn't that what I am all about? No, not at all. That answer will puzzle anyone who doesn't know me, but thinks they do.
This is what must be known about me here in this context: I'm not any kind of drug/food/medicine/spell component/hot rod flying car engineer addict at all. What I am, is addicted to my own discipline. It's nice. The more I drive myself to goals, the more the goals become in tune and in alignment with my Self's Highest purpose. Which, obviously in my case, is not to get as high as possible. I'm not that kind of psychonaut. I'm not compelled to seek ever higher peak experiences for the adrenaline rush. Or the dopamine rush. Not really fond of the rush anymore, to be frank. I had ample time to experience enough of those times while I was standing around waiting for some dude to let me get an eighth after waiting around for weeks.
Look, I had a hard time asserting myself, okay? It's not like I couldn't have learned how to score illicit gray/black market items if I had -really- wanted to... and, I didn't. Exposure to that world inexorably leads to ridiculousness, like we see around ourselves every day, here and now. *whistles* Hey, Fallout! (D.O.G. comes running--awkward.) See, I just named my D.O.G. "Fallout." That's a badass name for a dog. I love dogs. Most of them love me.
Their owners are usually pissed that I can hear them talking to me as well as they can, but not always. It's a very personal thing, mind-melding with a companion animal. It's even more personal when one is less afraid of the police dog than one is afraid of the police. And that's a horrible thing for the policeman. But the dog loves it, any dog, as long as one is the least scared person that dog has ever met, that dog is gonna be fond of me, and the dog's Master is not gonna like that one bit, for sure. As a K-9 Unit Handler is always gonna be a little afraid of the dog. I mean... they know what those workhorses can do... and they know they'll never get one to do anything like that to me. Period. "Attack... friend?" Little doggies wheels churning. Yeah, it hasn't happened before. It's not likely to. Why would anyone use a K-9 on me? I would just start shitting AlphaBiscuits everywhere while bugling "Stars And Stripes Forever Over America" and dancing a little jig. While smoking a joint, of course. Ye Gods, the Feds hate that shit. It used to be, like, they could just blanket the assumption that ALL FUN THINGS WERE BAD, period, right? Now, they gotta be discriminating.
Speaking of discriminating, this broad didn't have any interest in just... getting stoned. Wow. But would smoke cigarettes. Well, sure, okay. But when she asked me to teach her how to solve differential equations, and implied that there would be involvement with my dick, I thought to myself, "Likes math. Doesn't like weed. Eats at McDonald's. Can't forget the fact that I was right, and she was wrong, and about what, I have no idea... but she probably should not have acted so surprised that someone who really liked her was able to seduce her. I mean... we talked about this. On the phone. On chat. In person. Hello? Anyway, it wasn't a <Blank>, it was a Miss Understanding. But, you know how it is... you scream FIRE on a crowded PHONE, and then you put in an order for 3 dozen donuts over the PHONE and ask them to include "EXTRA JELLY HEHE AND A CALCULATOR," you know, it's gonna leave a Mark.
And so I thought it weird that the texts were coming out of nowhere and being all cagey-like after I explained, right down to the nitty-gritty, how this thing was bullshit and that other thing was garbage and she had another think coming if... because I actually like her company, right? I could give a shit about taking -particular- drugs with anyone, and were I to have sex & drugs, shooting meth would be THE LITERALLY LAST thing I would do. Here's why: well, someone thought that I had, and I haven't. Wasn't even looking forward to it... not exactly. Someone did say that they could "help" me with that kind of thing, though.
Oh hey! Halp! This is -exactly- what I didn't know I needed. Now, what kind of -HALP- may I offer... hey, wait? Where'd everybody go? That's strange.
It looks like they've all been eaten by grues. I thought I took care of all those. Oh well. They weren't all that much help to us all anyway.
(Incidentally, I didn't post pictures of this person on the web... so when I saw them bandied about here on the d.l., I knew what that meant... "Let The Meth Flow Through You To Her." Except, I am not influenceable in such a fashion. You know what might influence me? A glass of unpoisoned water.
Apparently that one is hard. *sigh* Now, where was I? Oh yes. ON STRIKE. It does sound familiar because we have been over this many times, all of you and I. And when Grapefruit found out that I wasn't gonna have sex with somebody, but, instead, just simply START talking TO someone, that I had been exercising restraint in talking to at all... in preparation for this exact moment, well... she kinda got jumpy over that. A little skittish. A little nerve-wracked.
"Well, that's an interesting response," I noted to myself as I saw the characteristic signs of a full-blown panick attack being held barely in-check by a clearly pushed-too-far, mentally disabled woman. Now, I'm just throwing this idea up in the air out here: whose responsibility was this person's safety? Because, long before that point, she had detached herself from me in such a regard. She had this way of believing that I would be always there for her... in the ways she expected. Yeah, well, she had that deal. Once.
She has a different deal now. Even I don't know what it is. Maybe it's not even "a deal" at all! But, I'll tell you what it is, though... it's a little bit of a bad deal for everyone than it might otherwise have to be. Because now, the deal is gonna have to include lots of personal details, that might otherwise be less obvious, not as hidden from view as they otherwise might be. *sigh* It's complicated.
I can make it simpler for us all but I wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. So, this will have to wait. My suddenly very strict and trying not to be strident, Content Producer Overseer Legend Of Zelda's Keeper & Part-Time Ocarina Maker-Baker is totesblowing up my brain phone. (Mine's a pretty pink princess phone. DEAL WITH IT.) I don't have to answer it, so... I'm not. I mean, why would I?
I still remember the last time she thought I was trying to get sex out of us. Oh, how she laughed. And then went back to talking to everyone else on her bone/Iphone. I wonder what she has now? Well, no matter. She might be on another planet. GRAPEFRUIT MAD. I got that much, that's for sure.
I think she just found out another lie that someone told her about me. If she gets one more of those in her tobacco pouch, she gets a free beer cousy. It's branded. I don't know what brand. I would just shit on it anyway. I'm in a mood, you dig?
I get it now; [...] Just in case, I have /self-reported this post.
Look, I put your soul back in: finding your spine is your area now. Now. Tell me everything about your circumstances and awareness of Grapefruit Mothra. OMIT NOTHING. Let's see how useful you can be to The Cause now. Go on, get your thoughts together to get her. No no: this is neither mocking nor hostility.
I didn't come here for this experience and I never have. And yet! THRUSTED INTO MY FACE. Hrrrm. Okay, well, I'm game. Nothing better to do. (I'm not mowing that lawn. Period.) Typically this means that I've been brought here to enable someone else to have an experience that requres me in a specialized role. To fulfill a specific function. And so: here we are.
Note that any unwillingness to discuss such delicate, sensitive matters, verbalized, will be seen as an act of exquisite kindness and at least a passing sense of good grace. But really, it doesn't have to be. It can be as you like. Today is a good day!
HUZZAH! (Dude, one time, she got all pissy with me for using that word. "HUZZZAH." She acted like I should wash my own mouth out with soap. Well, she used all the soap to make some poultice that stank up the whole house and summoned a bat creature. And it didn't even play chess at all. Sad!!
Not that chess is all that important at this juncture but until something better comes along, it's a good crux piece to build upon. Alternately, of course you may ignore me and/or silently gnash your teeth and wail about something I'm doing or not doing that really burns your brisket. You know, whatever. You might think that I am just hassling you because I am wired for sound but there's actually something else going on here, the transparency of which to you, I give exactly zero shits for. I'm kinda curious what's going on at the other house(s55) though, but... well, let's see how you do with Mothrawr. .o7
