Remember that time you sang Tori Amos to me in your bunny suit after smoking half a family-sized bag of Skittles from your meth pipe?
I was singing to someone else.
I did my best to warn you,
Wrong Timeline; & if your BEST doesn't involve soldering a capacitor to a water pump control electronics panel, I am simply not interested. Your digs don't get under my skin, they barely register!
What's your ROE now? You've slowly —glacially so— sat back and built digital paper and false defamation to a fair-thee-well, and rather than be supportive, in ANY way at all... insults. Slander, lies, & libel. You're the worst motivational speaker EVAR.
Even now: oh, the places you've been! The things you have seen! THE COMPLETE AND UTTERLY VILE LACK OF CANDOR. The net results of this and and all the rest of thuggy-puggy King Clowndom have been the following:
1. A long-sinmering behind-the-scenes rivalry has escalated into a blood feud. Hawt, yes. Awesome, yes. Convenient, no. Not really. Not at all.
2. All of my IRL friends are now seemingly forced to pretend to be aligned against my interests; or have been either brainwashed, coerced under duress, or paid handsomely to actually be as such. (Looks good on some of them; others seem frustrated for some reason, but I'm high AF 24/7 now and no longer possess either the empathy needed to discern the reasons behind their emotional state of disdain, nor the necessary ambition to puzzle it out from the sad and pathetic trail of stale, leftover breadcrumbs that is all that remains of a once mighty psi-op.) I can hardly blame anyone—I don't think I'm very good company for anyone right now. Especially anyone who knows what is going on. Which is ALL of YOU EWE.
3. THOR🅿️WAMMER.
Dude. How were you not better than this? I just can't even 5…:👀5.
4. My security system I chose to employ has worked so well, that literally no one knows who my actual loved ones actually are. (Even bæ doesn't know that she is bæ. *wiggle wiggle* It must be Hell. I hope it doesn't ruin her birthday.) In the last two weeks I've seen a strong uptick surge in the incidence rate of, “hey, is that fenty clando actually doing that and actually thinks it's gonna work, or are they just going through the motions for another bughunt?” (Spoiler alert: it's a bughunt.) I blame you. So many things could have been shared. Instead, you ran game on me and acquired shitloads of intel that is now...
TOTESBEYOND TOWER OBSOLENCE.
5. &, speaking of “shitloads of intel,” if any of you are looking for a stool sample, your ship has come in.
and you spent the rest of the night coughing rainbows.
That was cute… Kinda.
I don't even remember this alleged incident. Who’re you again? I bet if you had ever figured out how to tell the truth to anyone —even to yourself— you'd forget it by next mid-morning at the range. Without any common ground, it is impossible to build rapport.
Since you interact with me only to satisfy the aims of your thuggy-piggy overseers (hail Satan), this is less of a drawback for me than you may realize. Additionally, after years of being fed bullshit in the dark, I have become a
legit mushroom.
CLOUD.
I'm still stacking silver, eagerly awaiting the death of the dollar. Shit’s about to go down, ya know.
I have beaucoup buckages just sitting in the bank and I am too lazy to figure how to pay my bills, consolidate them, invest or budget, or find someone fend off the clandestine maneuvers to steal from me. I just can't be bothered. My life is conditioned and unfree—a gang of technoviles has fully engulfed my entire digital existence. Ai-powered smart contracts follow my digital fingerprint over the whole Internet... which I'm not really using very effectively these days.
I have no response to this, or to their fiendish manipulations and machinations. Fuck ‘em. What am I supposed to do? (Die.) Hardly my worst outcome given that I've died ~5-7 already in the last couple of years; while not pleasant, does it even matter? I have no set goals and no known allies —I have given my life in service to The Creator, and with no one else around to argue against it, I've allowed my hobbies to consist primarily of empty yogurt container TOWER sculpting, craft beer can pre-recycling, and sharing the fruits of my deductive reasoning skills with whomever happens to cross the path of my crush with eyeliner.
None of them know who I like. The notion that a man who has had the libido raped out of him might not be impressed by a smary biznatch who had been turned
vampyr in the 80s does not seem to be a notion that had gained much traction until... well, now. (I guess this shit went down. Kudos.)
Last night, I placed triple-nine John Wick silver rounds over my eyes, nipples, and private parts while masturbating to Hectoooooore!
I still haven't seen John Wick. None of them. No one says, “let's go to the movies!” No one says anything at all.
The best Charon troll ever…
I have no idea who that is. I have no way to grok what is being conveyed here.
He came, he saw, he left. I don't think he'll come for me next time…
Gavelina is pretty agitated now. (She says I don't want to know.)
Well, if he does, I'll call him a fag.
Dude. Name calling? Get over it? Oh, right, total dopeslavery has lingering effects. When you come to fix the well, I'll share my tale with you.
RAWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWR
