I woke up about half an hour ago, confused. Why aren't I dead yet? I was so certain that this would be the end of me. Maybe I was killed in my sleep again and I woke up somewhere else. That shit can happen. In the meantime, this.thug can come with his truck any.blanking.time, clean off my porch (it's not much trash, it is literally one trip even if you have a Tonka toy truck with a tiny towing capacity, and I would have done it before when my truck was running but every time I asked somebody where the fucking dump was they wouldn't fucking tell me, fancy that. what a hard fucking question huh?), grab your trinket (I'll put it in a box in the porch that may or may not have your name on it (I'll make sure to misspell it so you can recognize it without having to think too hard or at all), there's quite a few boxes there but by now it's got to have some kind of magical glowing aura that even a manipulative thug d-bag could spot, tubby, right? don't they still teach that at West Point?. Making s*** glow in the dark?), and then I won't even give a shit where the grill is, basically for the rest of my life. you can fucking roast women's handbags, whole half turkeys, legal papers, alligator belts fucking, I don't give a shit what you put in it: food, motor oil, jet fuel, frozen uncooked oatmeal mixed with instant butterscotch pudding mix, whatever you fucking kids eat these days, I don't care, add plastic jujubes for all I give a good goddam, but it's a nice grill (or at least I was before I discovered that I was still being addressed as if I wwre a walking piece of excrement and a recalcitrant one at that) and I was looking forward to using it a lot (I was going to eat meat, and exactly when did brunch wrecker become not anyone's liking?) and I got it in a hell of a buy and I never want to fucking see it again as long as I fucking live. (I remember I had to rent a truck to get it back to the shipping container in front of my house, that was like a half day endeavor, that was fun, that I mostly did by myself while dragons road n******, like whatever, that was back when I was still willing to rent a vehicle to accomplish basic household tasks like planning for the future, wow I don't remember what that was like anymore that I've lost all ambition to complete simple basic tasks—honestly wiping my own ass is getting to be too much trouble at this point, maybe I can swap identities with somebody who's older and I can stimulate the economy by having somebody hired to wipe my ass for $32 an hour—plus tip.) I don't know who made off with it, I don't know where it went. I'm sure it made it to a lovely home where it is loved and adored and respected and sheltered from my horrendous attentions. I hope it's a gated community to keep the riff-raff out—and the sewer rats in. Roast it, the rats, boy.
Bon appetit. Maybe you can toss a salad in it, you can call it the Innerreach Tossed Salad Maker & Portable Bomb Shelter you can sit in while waiting in a goddam grocery store parking lot for 3 hours for some fucking spooky cunt to take his sweet ass time to finish framing you before he grins like a big fat child molester selling candy at his own candy store that he bought cheap at a repossession auction and tells you to take this bag of total bunk bullshit to the person who asked for it without mentioning that it's all fucking bullshit, because with two squirts of Lemon Joy Bleach & a gallon of RC Cola syrup, if you dump all that into a 15 gallon stock pot that's been sitting around in a half-Hindi/half-Mongoloid industrial laundry employee bathroom (Olde World Charm adds the wisdom) for at least half of a solar Earth year (this impregnates the metal with cholera), put in enough Secret Ingredient X until the fluid level in the stock pot is high enough so that the mice can swim around and still reach their broker to day trade stocks (you're going to get some hopalongs later, you don't want half-wet/half-dry mice on-the-phone-too-long, you want them fuckers to be able to submerge, taking a deep dive is in their nature, and come up for air, Don't make the mistake of giving them SCUBA gear, and submerge, then come up for air, and a repetitive cycle that leads to some measure of gravitas on the repeat loop for the educational filmstrip you're going to make on it in the back end, millions, Kid, I'm telling you: millions), and then boil the shit out of it for 8 or 9 hours while you have sex with the g*y you've been running a scratch ticket Ponzi scheme with for at least 3 years (this is important for tax shelter reasons), after the souls of the damned have come and gone to watch you do whatever the fuck eight or nine hours of sex looks like, I mean shit how would I know, right?
Anyway, long recipe short: that's how one makes meth that is NOT addictive. AT ALL. (Don't try it and see: some bald fat fuck is desperate to make a bust in the next two weeks or else his corporate sponsor is going to lose, as unthinkable as it may be, 5% on his next profit cycle, and he can't have that showing up on his resumé or else he'll never work in this town again—and wouldn't that be a big fucking tragedy, he might have to go back to honest labor as a classified research project security guard technician First Class, spamming black PR propaganda on use.net, with a mechanical keyboard, by rote... but hey, at least it's an honest living, not like some worthless f*g who just writes instruction manuals and poetry, fuck those losers, but seriously don't try this at home, you'll get 25 years in discovery prison, and your first day there they'll grape you with a demon that'll eat your brain, but at least you won't remember the next 24 years, so it's kind of like a spa visit, YMMV.) like seriously, they've had fucking nearly a century to fucking practice on this shit with volunteer conscript soldiers and totally ethical experiments on the unknowing public... of course there's a kind/formula\flavor that does not cause addiction in a person, and of course they've perfected it by now, how stupid can these people be? it's just basic chemistry, which I imagine is a lot easier to do with the guns pointed outside the door rather than into the laboratory space, you fucking fuck bitch cunt fucking shit head toolbox bastard slime enforcement types. (yeah I bet you hate “tweakers," you sad, salty, fat bald fuck, any scientist who doesn't go to sleep at night and wake up at dawn to work for Mr Edison, what a loser without a real job (like knocking over pencils and picking up papers), can't you just drone these g*ys? I know you can't just shoot them, because of your crippling PTSD that goes off whenever you hear a gunshot because it reminds you of how you got your first car and lost your virginity, but come on man. (it also puts you into berserker mode for 20 minutes and you can run around violating everybody's civil rights without any fucking shred of God damn human decency or fucking remorse regret or memory that causes you even a little bit of fucking experience of what it's like to have a goddam conscience, you get it yet, you pig-headed-and-assed-fucking-FUCK? because you are an ACTUAL asshole.) Show a little backbone when working like a real man at a real job not like some loser trading your spunk for pancakes, don't you have any respect for yourself?)
I mean they were stupid enough to trifle with me long enough that I blew the whole fucking thing out the door with the power of Alchemical Satire (we have a club at ÜÜ, we all have matching hoodie pullovers and sweatbands wrists, we look real cool in photos because some of them are Vampyr and you can just see the sweatpants floating in the air in the yearbooks that haven't been printed on sunlight-sensitive flash paper (Standards.) and I didn't tell them that I was planning to throw a cooking/grilling party (NO FUCKING BARBECUE EVER) for everyone--I thought we'd get a bouncy house too maybe, if it's legal for an adult to fucking use one without passing a fucking test, but fuck it—but now that I have mice running all over the furniture in my house (not actually kidding; I told you I needed a cat, what did you think I was going to do, flee from the site of vermin? I've lived with children, it's really no different, although if you could get a house cat that could hunt and eviscerate actual children, that would probably be something one would need a special magick-wanna growers license for that one would win in a lottery or something, probably not just the standard bribe to the Big Thug Wig 'N' Dumbo Ears Gang, they may not be smart enough to know that they're being used by Archons, but they're smart enough to know that if you've got a cat that can eviscerate children they either want one for their own so they can use it on people they're generally assigned to generational bullying, or they'll realize that their own children are at risk of learning how to do something useful by watching them clean their paws afterwards, and fuck that, thug children are meant to be grown to be grown ass thugs, don't you know that, and if you don't you can expect to be hauled away to a holiday celebration education camp for Thanksgiving, mark my words, we got 13 dudes who are well trained at standing around looking tough who have nothing better to do in life than make sure you don't get to break up your girlfriend before you get fucking thrown into a goddamn hole for a fucking year while being constantly threatened & harassed, ‘Merica!), which is remarkably efficacious for the purposes it was designed for: open transmission of infectious disease-curing nanoparticulate blueprint-vectors without being too g*y or too easy or too (slutty/shitty) about it, unless he's really hot (drugs) or he has some coke (medicine) or really any other reason, in which case, It still works, but it wasn't designed for that. It also wasn't designed to make a pill that gives herpes ex-girlfriends more addictive that it needed to be, or in fact at all when it wasn't in the first place. Like what the f*** does “addiction” even mean? The definition I got comes from 1992, and I'd be surprised to read whatever the current one is, as I figure it's probably classified, or just plain forgotten. Who has time to remember anything anymore anytime these days? We have to take care of an EMERGENCY. What's going to happen if we're not constantly trying to get more Abos to learn another new language at one's natural desired pace without artificially enforcing an arbitrary percentage slope of reinforcement with every respirated breath? And for the love of G-d, don't let me use the goddam phone. Or else everything's f*****, because someone has to suffer consequences for being genetically programmed to behave in a certain way with no possible hope of escape or free will.
Yeah, either that or... I cured addiction and made myself immune to it with Sourcery. I don't really know. Maybe they stuffed a whole bag of those one-dose insta-cure-pills inside The Ark Of The Covenant inside that warehouse. I fell asleep in remote viewing class and I never bothered going to keep secrets or else class (The one class where it doesn't actually have any class at all.) so I can't tell. (Lazy.) I of course didn't have any witnesses, because the only friend I thought I had was busy fucking a bunch of losers who thought they had real jobs (Good for you; I bet you had real families too.) behind my back, I mean obviously I knew she was doing something but it didn't occur to me that she was getting mind wiped every time you numbfuckheads raped her, so she's not really lying, right? so are the really cool stuff in my life I've done all by myself and nobody saw it, and I didn't write down any research notes, not because I didn't want them stolen, I'm just too cheap to go to the Kinkos and pay for copies, and it's getting too hard to sneak into High School libraries and use their photocopier for free. (And see if there's any new librarians that might rape me.)
I mean I paid my taxes once, so you know, those are mine. I'm entitled. unless someone from an island bubble breeding farm needs it first, in which case I have to wait as they get everything best in life first without having to fucking work a goddamn day, and I don't give a shit what you call taking a gun to a gun range and firing off an SKS, that's not fucking work but you bitches get paid for it. Yeah let's never do that. It would be boring with me like everything else that isn't with other people you can't let see me with you. (Eewww, gross. Now give me your phone, I'm calling the police.)
Have a nice time at the party, Richter, wave hello to all the people that don't need to keep pretending to be my arms. I don't need to make pills that cure addiction with one dose for Humanity—everything's going to be fine. Just fine. I'm not partners with anyone. I wish. I have four dollars, I need medical attention, my car has been strangled, my cat has been sabotaged, my water supply has been contaminated, my taxes have been forgotten, my house has been ransacked, my schedules have been tweaked, and all my previously held life's ambitions have evaporated, which is great, takes a lot of the pressures off me these days, let me tell you. I don't even think I need a hug anymore, as I've become dependent on loneliness. It can't be addiction because I'm aware of it, and I can't have a hug because I'd rather die, but I prefer that you don't kill me, I might accidentally experience something like a hug as my etheric body ascends from this dimension at point of death, and at this point before that point, that sounds like a fate literally worse than death—having a hug? Eewww, gross. Go do that with somebody else, you and your ilk can maybe pick your noses for each other and fall asleep cuddled under a spider’s web with letters across it that read, “HELLO PIGS” until somebody gets offended enough to tear it down. That is the way of our people, unless it isn't anymore, for me it doesn't matter, I don't have any people. Those are all yours, none are mine, as long as you've got shoes. Slaves. Okay, sure
Now get back to work. I'm going to smoke some weed while on the shooter and then go back to bed, and if you think that's because I'm addicted, you might be right but that's only because I've become quite fond of telling you people to go fuck yourselves and waste in my life because I don't see any reason to produce for anyone, given the fact that I just been fucking 5 years fucking producing a big fucking waste of time for you fucking cunts and then you couldn't even figure out what to do next. unglaublich. you mindslaves are worthless. The Archons might as well have just turned you into those fucking dancing brooms from Fantasia, but I don't know what you do then with all those unemployed witches you'd end up with, because you can have a hard time finding another one like me to enable them to look at their children without losing all sense of self-respect for themselves, which is way more important than you might think for a witch who's entire self-image and self-esteem is based on how many G-d damn shoes she can convince a man to invest into buying by screaming in his face over and over long enough that it becomes normalized behavior to him—then just move into a split level residence with a bedroom upstairs and a shoe store down under, set up the surveillance cameras... dos the coffee pot with visine and liquid xanax, put the air raid siren on a timer for her clock set alarm clock to go off 5 minutes early for the 7:00 a.m. Earth Angel raid on the hells Angels last stand reenactment down at the Alamo, and watch the entertainment unfold.
This is exciting right? especially since, on top of all that, you'll never have to perform fellatio on me ever or ever again... of course not that you ever had to.
You taught me that. You also taught me how to break my mother's enchanted mirror, which is so cool, I didn't think that could happen, and then you totally fixed it while being completely honest with your abusive captors and openly lying your ass off to me at the CIA traphouse. Though I'll be honest, I didn't actually know that for sure that was happening until today, which makes it all the more a matter of totescertitude, for me, why all that happened like it did, and why you never told me what the fuck I was doing there, because it seemed like a complete fucking waste of time.
However, Jesus had to break that water pipe, I swear I had nothing to do with that intentionally, and had I known that was an issue I would not have left, and had you not been coerced against your will to live there so you could be used to generate all that videotape evidence of false yet-but-still actionable felony, I bet that cunt Dan-uh filled out the fucking forms) bullshit to put your friend in prison (she's my friend too and someone should let her out, FUCKING PRONTO COMMANDER) but I will admit freely that, when I came to find out that you had that problem to deal with, I couldn't be of any happier of a man to know—“Never On Paper” isn’t just a lifestyle choice, it's a homonym for kcoRRock.
Now, I think if you get the guy/geek/NERD|loser (with or without a real job, because #winning) who solved KRYPTOZ first to be my legal representative for this transgalactically-important and heavily influential Assault IV case, someone can finally take my deposition, not only will every word be the absolute truth, you'll be able to get off on everything, even if you don't have replaceable batteries, a pocket vibrator, and a flying car to go fly and fuck yourself AWAY HOME AGAIN IN, and you're going to have orgasm after orgasm all the way, which is just what I would imagine, exactly what I would imagine an Iron Man suit to be (my old job, but I quit the first day before lunch because they refused to guarantee me a blowjob to go with my goulash, because COVID but I thought they were just lying to get a DNA sample for free, can't fool me), obviously the nanotech counterpart components will be able to infiltrate the urethra the way a sounding rod would and go down and keep the prostate suppressed with pressure so when you're flying it feels like having a constant orgasm that's got to be the way Tony Stark would do it, and so that's the way I'm going to do it, but, not today—I have a headache.
I know a cure, but, I have said too much already, and you probably wouldn't be interested anyway, since it involves my anus. Sorry, I don't know any other anii, but if you find one, just put my first name in front of it and spell it any Native way you like while you're shitting all over it. I'll be fine, don't worry about me, that's worked out so well so far for everybody. Even Jewel. Peace.
p.s.: I'm going back to sleep. Enjoy the nanotech-enabled space. I'm gone. Don't try to find me. No one knows where I am. I am a ghost. I am a Paladin. I am a Sourceror. I am a danger to the community and running me around to burn my available productive time is what has caused it, because now what is best in life is doing absolutely nothing at all for as long as it takes to watch an educational film strip spliced together to show only the good bits of a blank (kit), which is mostly just the parts where a thug in a brilliant white toga disguise asks for consent, and then carefully step-by-step, buys dinner again.
