Panel #1: This statement is categorically false and factually untrue.
Panel #2: My house is not “bugged.” His name is Benjamin Bugs Zee Neé>§HAV>K🆑∆N §z∞🅿️<3®™ and he is literally THE NICEST MAN I HAVE EVER MET. (Facts.) He does what he must, because he can.
Panel #3. I am a devotee of a pacifist philosophy for the last 32 years. I am n∞ne’s enemy. I am A Fren to ∆_l_l_!
Panel #4: Döppelgångzu phenomenæ are in fact rare and unusual. There is no practical way to turn “everyone” into such a thingμ
Azzeræ, your caricature of me is completely inaccurate and to represent that there is any connection to my actual personage and your stick figure–·¡sh pushing of this repugnant narrative is loathsome and vile. I love it!
What's actually happening here is, I believe, super-D00🅿️r₹🔝Çēē>KRīT. (Standards.) They don't tell me anything; they don't explain anything; they don't behave in any sensible fashion; they don't include me in their business; I DON'T BELONG IN THEIR BUSINESS; THEIR BUSINESS IS SHIT; YOU ARE SHIT; QUIT THE DISCOUNT DOODLING, DIPSHIT AND —
I don't really want to know. It may be that if I nosed around, I would “figure this shit out” and/or “make it make sense” but there is not one chance in gods forsaken Hell that I'm going to do either. NOT ONE CHANCE. Secrets are just that: secrets. “Secret” and “occult” are distinct levels of Being; I am not a Master of Secrets. (If I were, such an outright denial would be antithetical to Who I Really Am: too lazy to deliberately use false facts in order to deceive.) I do not wish to be anything other than that which I AM.
Right now I am fucking hungry. I have had 100s of thousands of dollars stolen from me. STOLEN, ASSHOLE. What would you think is prudent to do at this juncture, huh? File a complaint? Exercise a right of personal privilege? Dial 911? dDüdë: >FUKkevve.
This whole shitshow is already under investigation from nine different directions. (Don't ask me to count. You wouldn't like what the numbers add up to.) I didn't ask for this. I didn't call for this. (I just called for judgement on judgement. Looks good on yew though.) I wanted a simple life in the woods.
Instead I am The Caretaker for a gang of spookmongers on the lamb from The Shop. (Very real.) They're all generally very nice people; especially to me. Insofar as they can keep their shit together. These days that seems to be a matter of degree.
All of them are greedy bastitches and none of them are planning to kick down. There's a huge pile of dirty laundry at my southern egress. ACTUAL DIRTY LAUNDRY. What the actual fuck? There's no laundry facility here beyond a cast-iron bathtub fed by a beaver-built dam and heated by troglodyte-hewn campfire wood reserves. It's not capable of processing mega-heaps of soiled linens.
Nevertheless: this Shop-affiliated facility was once capable of this. That it is no longer is no slight upon most of ye. There's just so many other things I want to do with my life than walk my ass into Federal prison. Also, you're all a bunch of big meanies. Even the blue. (When virtue signalling goes awry.) I don't expect anything else. I don't expect anything at all.
The destruction of Project Looking Glass was inevitable.
My death by starvation and thirst is not. Won't you please do what can be done ($paladinjackstar) to keep me alive and smoking? (Whatever.) If I'm going to buy bread, I'm going to buy cigarettes. That's just good common sense.
Some of you might not see the need to keep lil’ Michael Clifford Kuczi on the “Hi, I'm #O№`Gr₹`∆vμ” train. (It's my actual goddam job, ©⟩K? O>K? PEOPLE>KNOW.) The solution there is to only give me monies, through the modern miracle of Cashapp™ and/or PayPal™, that amount to less than a deck of Natural American Spirit cigarettes do.
These days, that's about $20. PER PACK. (Standards.) Why so expensive?
Well, why are you asking, Internet Scum? Just send me some goddam money, whitebōīZ. You actually stole it from me in the first place.
Ⓜ️E+Ⓜ️μ🅿️œpLμ. (Fats.) Meanwhile I have more content to publish and I'll get around to it when I feel like I am no longer STARVING TO DEATH.
Gosh!
Adieu.
