I'm so embarrassed. I didn't remember that I should have included a disclaimer before I started. Now I'm already published LIKE A TOTAL LOSER WOULD BE, EXCEPT ALREADY IMMUNE (essentially) TO CIVIL AND CRIMINAL LIABILITY. Kinda. Sorta. Maybe. On Guam? Or Sparta. Whatever. Featherz·–ggzogz, let me break this down for you:
I was never allowed to find things out for myself; effectively, I was kept in an open-air prison. From birth. By dingbat dopemongering dipshits, who thought they were doing things TheRightWay™, goddam īT. And if I didn't shut up about Thousand Island salad dressing, seriously! EVERY! FUCKING! TIME! WTAF?
I was young. Real young. But not so young as to be given the same vile, greasy swill on top of a platter of flat greens with the desultory crisp assault on the palate that might accompany a side salad in Sparta.
At age seven, I had developed a pannis. Why? Did it develop, and why didn't anything get done about it? Just about every weekend, my parents went out to eat at an upscale restaurant. Stuart Anderson’s Black Angus, for example, was a regular choice.
In the 70s it was still pretty classy. They became more accessible to a mainstream clientele later on. Perhaps one might remember: The Square Cow Fun Bar. Uhm. Buh?
I do not find bars to be “fun”. Universally, my every entrance to a bar is inexorably concluded by a fellow bar customer suddenly realizing that I “didn't belong,” and as I am not profoundly stupid, I have never had to be bounced out of a drinking establishment.
I have also never returned. Once I trigger Square Cow Ward Den autonomic response — and I absolutely will do this no matter my presentation of demeanor, as I am on the World Free Secret And Glow Ball Jew Elle-rēē blacklist due to, uhhh, I'm going to say here, a clear Īck-EL erπœr — it's a sudden swift, sharp turn into The Village Of The Damned, all eyes go black, spooky music does not play, sinister smiles do not display, and in no possible way am I ever meant to mistake the meaning.
A Shunning. Globally, in potentially all sectors of commercial society. (My father devastated the known world with peak apex embarrassment, and I quickly followed up with further threats of outrageous exposure before age 21, as I saw no reason to be anything but openly mocking and contemptuous of High Elite Up Her Pan Force Cake In Caste Cliques, which were very up-front in my time of social dying.
Think-tanks all over the world had been studying the puzzle of genetics and how to game the system. This was because it was advantageous to those in power, to keep those who sought power blindly, kept busy with collage and montage production.
The True Power Elite simply never asked for a second cup of coffee outside the home; and without any self-reflection at all... struggled to chase the dragon that had been awoken by the last gambit of Adolf >H<¡†|_er.
Ewe have no idea what that was. The casual reader might think the same. Does it matter? It was 75 goddam years ago. Can you believe? People are still obsessing over skinheads, a 1Drop Rule, miscegenation, useless eaters, food stamps, illegal immigration... holy shit, these Boomers just can't figure a simple single fucking thing out to save their lives.
Good. Jesus already saved them. Die, Boom-Boomer. Die hard in your castle, style ‘tards. Just kidding. I truly wish no harm nor death upon anyone.
We do not die. We simply change form. And having seen this myself, in my own experience... I am sure there are many who are still, as yet, unconvinced. IDGAF.
“Thou shalt not kill.” This is a forecast. It's not a demand. As one comes closer to higher evolution, one simply finds ample reason to delay a desire to deal a deathblow.
And plenty of cause to plot mass murder. To kill is not to murder. I prefer to make my limited resources count for the most. At age 52, I do not think I have killed anyone.
And yet I have murdered the entire Western world. Repeatedly. Like lightning from Zeus. I got nuked once. Mr. Trump lost patience with my unfathomably horrific jokes I love to tell about his family, and he, and when you're a big enough star, you can grab someone right in the pussy.
I can also grab my own dick and peacefully wait out a 5-minute resurrection timer. I come back, for I love my life. I am unfathomably triumphant.
Without being at all obvious about how that in fact came to be made manifest. It's basically secret. And without a disclaimer, or an orientation day, no one knows what the fuck I am doing. It really just sounds like a psychopath, overdosing on heavy fuel, and desperately striving to overcompensate for something. Effectively.
To have a solid affect is key. To openly report or describe the effect used is anathema to my philosophical order and its exclusive membership of A-list hottys. I founded this philosophical order myself. Alone. I wanted a place where everyone knew my name. So I decided to have it.
I am the only member. There was a second; I threw him out after he trafficked and sexually assaulted my secret clando spouse, which I honestly thought they were both aware enough to not allow.
MKk‹Û›l†r∆. They were both covert narcissists and their OpSec was blown open like Dresden on day four. They had no awareness of Dark Art hazards. They cared nothing for our Triumvirate. They had their own Quadriviate.
Which they concealed from me; while giggling with the whole world without me, thinking it all such a clever maneuver. Yeah, they even thought cut and run out on me was their idea.
I explained everything that I knew, in exhaustive detail. They were RoboCallers™ deployed by a botfleet run by a very angry man... who thought I belonged to him, his cock belonged in my mouth, and that I was never going to succeed with any grouping with the people I have come to love and adore.
They're fucking off the goddam chain. Especially when they don't experience gratification rewards in a timely fashion. Which is when they want it. Which is always a secret.
Because, hive mind telepathy. They know. Others don't. That's how >§HA!/|/>KL∆N thinks they want it. That's how they get it. But mostly only because, no one really gives a shit about what they desire, as anyone who inquires about them at all is likely to be murdered on first pause for thought.
They are my family. They desire more than bloodshed. Maybe? I know sweety desires that she takes scalps. I know that she desires to show me how to take what is required to craft a skin wall cur mask.
I must be shown. It must be proper. I must have the right. There are further conditions. I have no choice but to learn them. Openly.
Anything less would be uncivilized. It may also lead a dark horse rogue rival to leap out of the shadows one night, and juice my darling into just a memory from my life.
There is no way to know with these kniving clownfag reprobates. Anyone can flip out. It doesn't happen too often.
It did happen too much. (Sorry, Helen. Ewe missed your opportunity. Also I never responded to the summons from your daughter who, I guess, survived.) For some, it is still happening.
For me, I am an embodiment of tranquility. I have won The Great Game. Twenty-three (23) times uncontested. This means that no one even knew I had surprise gifts being prepared. For me.
As I now have surprise tits, they live, ewe sleep, eye spy, an obvious cockblocking posse, almost anywhere... and without support and backup, I go nowhere at all without walking alone.
Jesus stays back. I ain't lonely. My breasts are alive, unsuckled, and I am entirely unfucked. For years. She only wished to gain intel and see me dead. Without being at all obvious about it.
She hates me so goddam much, burying this lead ought to be a crime. Not at all. Like getting high, as I see fit.
Hang on.
* Jackstar is fucking brilliant.
She was possessed; the invader asked me to “get some meth” so we could “have sex, maybe.” It was not certain, because my friend was carrying an Oni.
She didn't know what to do. She had surely had it for quite some time. It vanished instantly, as if it were a windsurfer catamaran, flying ahead of the sunset on the interior edge wing.
She took this healing gift away from her and let herself be trafficked by Bellgab. I can only say that they must have scarred her mind heavily.
And once they learned that her pussoir was banished, they eagerly lined up for more coitus. With her. My friend, I hadn't seen her in 12 years. She never complained about a tentacle.
She had them. It's not as bad as it sounds. I think they're cute. I am also equipped with nine (9) layers of Diving shielding and a keen sense of dramatic irony. Further: I actually like talking to her, and had not, for 12 years prior.
She mentioned nothing of a cuntentacle. (Actual ancient Chinese secret curse, huh? This is my area.) It was obvious why. It was a punishment. For her stalkers. For her it was actually a relief.
It kept her off radar. When I cured it, flood waters came bearing, I guess, everyone. EVER.
Not what I had planned for, but I learned a lot. For instance: she didn't like sex.
So of course: nine times a week with anyone but me makes sense. Sure. Because punishment.
DISCLAIMER: Consequences vaguely may in fact be more special than they might appear. Also: my mother, who died, took her place in fucked-off Hell. (He is happy to help.) I'm not going to hump my mom in a new body, never.
Surely: many others will. Buckley is that kind of town, and there's not a damn thing wrong with that. 🎵 I'm bringing sexy back.🎶
She's going to have a money back guarantee. But now she can't even make a call back.
She's a turnip. Schiavo-level cognition. CM may awaken her consciousness, like Robin Williams did to Robert De Niro. Well, if it does, that will be her father's concern.
As is the identity of the person who aped her voice and offered sex for three days for $800, an offer we've never made. On the phone.
And she was being used as bait. She only wanted me to be vulnerable. I already was. She thought she deserved to get everything.
Seems like this included a chemical lobotomy. This might even be an improvement. However, rules are rules.
Time for Father. Good luck JB, B, and all you, my love. (Shut up and fuck me, spaz.) This is hard to figure out, huh?
By your cum hand. *zip*
Tonight I am thinking of my own simplicity. I have realised I don't really want a lot. Is it a good thing? That is something that I will choose to not think about. I mean, when I separate myself from the world around me, and think about the things that I want, they are all quite simple. A soft bed, a golden lamp, books and a place to keep those books in. I hope to go placed and then come back, alone but fulfilled. That's enough, right? Why am I asking you? Would you say yes, though, would you tell me this smallness isn't a waste?
#1) Let the (blank) flow through you.
#2) Rub his legwarmers.
#3) Oh, haha; your daddy is a girl. Ô>K, you do ewe.
#4) Hang on.
* Jackstar reeks of shit and piss and raw, exultant defiance.
#5) My vehicles and my driver's license were deliberately removed from my possession through a variety of obvious spookploys until I found myself driving home my eighth vehicle; a 1991 Pontiac Grand Prix I grabbed for $1,000. It's nice, very old school cool, I love it. I parked it at home, went to sleep, the next morning, the power steering system is utterly shredded. I hear from the local Company shop: we don't have the time, we have all the money, and I am quoted a three grand estimate.
I black out; fugue state. I wake up with it parked at home and I haven't moved an inch since. Licence is expired; sheet a suspension, I pay to have it reinstated. I am suspended again four days later. (Da fuq?)
What the world needs now is more hot‘n’suite. What I could use right now is sterile, unused syringe
As I've learned that carrying one around 24/7 without being uncontrollably driven to mindlessly rummage through all of the available household items seized as suspected contraband, so as to run off with a newbie’s whole kit, for any other reason than to go gather it all and then you're certainly getting Employee Of The Month.
For example: Lad has been gone for hours. Said he was off for smokes. He has money? Duh. He always has money. I wave buh-bye, then basically stand motionless and stare fixedly at my phone while frenetically writing at a blazing pace. Also: 3½ hours of fresh video upped today. It is far more expedient to produce to live, as my work-in-progress data and other proprietary research data tend to be wiped from my phone, usually when I say something profoundly awesome sauce.
Censorship: “IN REAL TIME! WHOA!!” Never a happy recall: yet, here we are. I do not mind overly, the setbacks in production. No one wants more. Least of all, myself. However, it all comes down to this.
I only get one shot at this. (I CAN SAY ANYTHING! I CAN WIPE MY ASS WITH BOTH KINDS OF NOTEBOOK PAPER, COLLEGE- &AND WIDE-RULED! I CAN POST EROTIC SLASH-FIC IN WHICH CHELSEA AND EXPLORE HYPER-EROTIC METHODS TO PREPARE HILARY TO BE READY FOR A TURDUCKEN! OR VICE VERSA! OR CHELSEA AND I SLICE OPEN A TAUNTAUN, WE GET IN AND ROLL AROUND IN IT, GETTING ALL STICKY, AND WHEN HER MOM COMES IN, WE ASK HER TO TURD THE DUCK IN THE PUSSY, WE TELL HER WE ARE JUST “KEEPING īT REAL” AND ASK HER, “CAN'T YOU JUST DRONE THIS PUSSY?” WHAT'S SHE GONNA DO? DIAL 911?
FUCK THAT. SHE'S GONNA BUST OUT THE COCA, I TELL HER FUCK NO, I LEAP OUT, I GRAB HER LITTLE VIAL, AND I THROW IT ON THE GROUND! (U.S.S.S. THINKS THAT THIS IS AN EXAMPLE OF NON-VIOLENT POLITICAL PROTEST, AND AS LONG AS NEITHER OF THE COURSE-I-CAN TWIZZLINGS FLOP DOWN AND START TO DO THE FISH, THEY AIN'T GONNA GIVE A SINGLE FUCK IF THEY WANT TO DO HOT RAILS OFF THE RESOLUTE DESK.
WE ARE ALL ADULTS HERE, BELLGAB. FUCK YOUR THREATS YOU JUNKY HIPSTER ACOGENT PIGGLE NUTTERS) AND THEN, I BUST OUT WITH THE DEEP INTEL. FOR EXAMPLE: JESS.
“GET SMOKES.” HE WENT BACKSTAGE. HE'S 500 YARDS AWAY. HE'S SLAMMING. IV CM AND A SKOSH OF WD-40, HE CAN TURN ANYONE INTO ANYONE, AND THEN FUCK THEM SENSELESS. LIKE, FOR DAYS. HE DIDN'T PLAN ON MY STANDING AROUND CREATING FOR HOURS, HIGH AS BALLS. IT'S BORING. TO HIM. IT'S MEANINGLESS. TO HER.
IT'S A SHITSHOW. TO EVERYONE. THEY THINK THAT THEY WILL WATCH ME UNTIL I LEAVE, AND THEN GO INTO THE HOUSE TO STEAL MORE ITEMS, BECAUSE THEY ARE IN FULL-THE-FUCK-ON PSYCHOSOCIAL RELAPSE. WHAT ELSE ARE THEY GONNA DO? SEX, DRUGS, SCORE, STEAL, SLAM, SPAM, AND THEN DO IT ALL OVER AGAIN.
THIS TIME, WITH MORE INTENSITY. THERE IS NOTHING ELSE THEY CAN DO. THEY'RE ALL PRETTY JITTERY BY NOW. THEY CAN'T MATCH MY PACE. THEY CAN'T FOLLOW MY RYTHYM.
I KNOW EXACTLY HOW TO DO WHAT I AM DOING. I HAVE PERMISSION. I HAVE NO IDEA WHO FINDS ME ATTRACTIVE IN ANY WAY, EXCEPT NONE AT ALL. IDGAF. I ONLY CARE TO ATTRACT CIGARETTES. THIS DISPERSES THE SECRET ADDICTS IN DENIAL.
THEY ARE ALL ADDICTED TO THEIR HIDDEN PASSIONS. THEY SEE ME, DOING “NOTHING USEFUL,” THEY HAVE NO IDEA. AN ATTACK COMES IN WHILE SLEEPING; BEHIND THE DOOR WITH NO KNOB, I HEAR SCREAMS OF TERROR. I THINK BAD DREAM. I RECORD MYSELF, WITH MOANS OF AGONY IN THE BACKGROUND, AND WHEN I HEAR THE WORD “HELP,” I DO SO.
I HELP HIM LOSE WAIT ON MY SOON-TO-BE-AWARD-WINNING DEBRIEF. FIVE (5) MINUTES WITH JACKSTAR. EVERYONE FUCKING HATES IT. GOOD. LET THE HATE FLOW THROUGH YOU, AND OF COURSE HAVING DOPEFUELED NEEDLESEX SOUNDS LIKE FUN.
FOR EWE (Standards.) IT ALSO DEEPENS THE SUBCONSCIOUS AND SUPRA CONSCIOUS METHODS AND WAYS AND MEANS OF PSYCHOTRONIC SOCIALTROPIC CONTROL. IN OTHER WORDS,
IN A NUTSHELL: contact high, Combat Baby, come back. (We made nicey-nice and that's cute but bottom line, I heard him scream for help and I let him just... take it all. It was probably really scary. It certainly sounded like he was scared. I really was. However, I rebuked the apparition in the name of Jesus.
This guy: incoherent screaming. While I made commentary, which was then posted on YouTube™, and some time in there, I shit my pants. Again. Due to use of The Cooper Spook Poop SuperDuper Boob-Luber. (Patent is pending, proletariat scum. We will defend our brand. Whore. That's not our brand. Tramp. Supertramp, also not our brand, but that whore is a whore, because she will do anything to avoid paying attention to what the fuck these legendary twat twitchers have been doing with their time.
Every day. Non-stop, maybe a pause, because I don't tell anyone that I've stopped. I simply get sleep, and they don't catch up on that in bed.
Sex addiction is a nightmare. He was screaming in his sleep and complaining about “a migraine.” Bullshit. That's Beau Radach, astrally traveling, astrally raping, most likely the same attempt made by him when I saw an apparition, which I simply blocked in the name of Jesus.
And now: he's banging Jess. He's getting dosed with control dope, and only Beau is in authority to do that to him, just as Beau was legit able to send me to an involuntary commitment. No shame in it.
Thank you for these spiritual briar patch lessons. (I am a fucking genius. You are fuckers who used to be geniuses. Don't sweat it. Because, this is the only way. Keep slamming the broad who's been on the streets as bait for the longest, and runs from me the fastest, and thinks I give a shit about the latest tap action, like what, is the honeymoon? Of course I do.
She's been hooked up to med beds in a medical coma FOR FOUR YEARS. Welcome to The Matrix. It's amazing what the Drugged Ewe Administration does. They drug ewes, for starters. And Neighbor Shane likely does not sexually abuse them every day.
Unless one counts the deliberately scheduled shifts as whores on streets that are always digital if TF is there, and is on another planet in a different planar dimension if not.
This is a bulletproof plan.. AT LEAST TWELVE YEARS. No chance encounters. No happenstance interaction. No voicemail returned. No sensible commentary. No loathsome, juvenile banter on the web forum used for twenty years.
And every single person who can fill in, lend a hand, and must acknowledge their culpability: yeah, they're colluding. And for what?
So no one has to tell her that she was stripped of everything and left to die IRL while she was put into limbo and force-fed dream food, both to participate in smuggling contraband and to earn money for smugglers. Who keep it all and leave her in a medical coma, in a facility beneath his double-wide ultra compound, or maybe it's the barn, IDGAF. She's probably in a coffin that she once used to molest Elian Gonzalez.
It has been so long that I don't remember why I felt like I needed to pretend to be scared. I wasn't going to go to custody for the LSD-25 she cooked. I didn't sell it to anyone. Except an undercover Fed who was investigating the illicit chem production in Shoreline School District №412, I was fronted a book to sell, and I did.
To one person. Over the phone. He was surprised. I pretended I didn't want money, that I was scared, and that he could have it allllllll. But it had to be picked up real soon, and it had to be picked up real tasty.
Of course he bought the whole fucking thing. And of course I could have used the money. And of course, I could have just ate it all I fucking love LSD-25. It is an extremely potent and powerful tool and the batch was really quite exquisite.
I sold nearly a thousand hours to the man who the boy who mugged me at age seven (7) had become. (Nice job FBI.) Maybe it was an identical twin? Didn't the other dude have pancreatic cancer? Certainly, that was what I had heard that everyone had been told; as I had zero friends, if I heard about anyone at all it was likely a limited hangout.
Hey, maybe he cured the cancer himself. Mugging on fatties barely out of toddlerhood and experimenting on himself — #psychically — so as to energetically purify his white blood cell count. I am sure that chasing down sus lymphocytes and shoving them into the bushes on the side of the blood artery and slamming a switch blade into the inner wall of the duodenum will really show that immune system who is in charge heh heh.
I said that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I didn't say he died of that. I don't know what he died of.
I don't know that he died. I know that I did. And I know that I wish that we were able to use the telephone.
Too bad, §🆔he-vv¡†Ch. Your pineal is classified. And it is clear to me that you're pairbonded with The Vessel.
* Jackstar loves it when a plan comes together, and is blessedly not forced to ensure an application of The Ludovico Technique.
I cannot fap to this. (
Vengeance for >KGK.) However, as a normal healthy adult human, I can delay the release of my chi essence... indefinitely. Until today I would have said “permanently.”
Things change. For them. The Templar Lord Rose is first sedated with a strong opioid; that is already a known favorite. While incapacitated, the narrative timeline continues with a closing of an illicit cycle.
Hang on.
* Jackstar didn't need another hero.
I needed this in the ago. Where I was not needed at all. Namastμ
