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Reprise: I’m a ‘Stalker’

I got off-topic last entry so I’ll try again.

There is this guy in the grocery store that I see once in a month or so, at random. One of the times I saw him — September of last year — he caught me staring at his back. He turned around and our eyes met, because, honestly, I wasn’t staring at his back… I was staring at the back of his head. I admit it, I’m fucking weird. I’ll tell you why the back of his head shortly… first I have to tell you something else.

Tyrelle got me to do that. Stare at him. I didn’t even know he existed until Tyrelle told me he did. (Oh snap, he wants to be Joshua today. Name change!)

I go to the store and I stare at food because I’m hungry. (Aren’t you? Don’t we go shopping to eat?) In fact, I used to walk through the section of the store this guy works in and just stare longingly at everything I couldn’t eat. (Unproductive use of my time, might I add.)

I have to pause momentarily. I should tell you I’m dyslexic and sometimes I don’t catch my phrase mix-ups until I re-read a third time. Excuse me if the words change on you between viewings.

Back to this food journey I was interrupted from due to Tyrelle insisting I check out some dude. I’ve never dated in person at the beginning of any relationship I’ve ever had, nor am I really all that keen on the idea. Every person I talk to tells me to go to the bar and watch my drink in order to mix and mingle and find ‘someone.’ I don’t wanna! Screw you fucking rapists. Wait. I mean FUCK YOU!

What the fuck are you doing, poisoning women for sex? Didn’t your mama ever teach you any manners? Didn’t she teach you respect? What about your father? What kind of filthy animal are you? At what point did it become manly to drug a woman and take her back to your place and take her nylons off and have your way with her while she’s unconscious? Don’t you want a willing partner who will knock your socks off? (And you know, do some interesting things to your body in return?)

What is WRONG with you? Have you never been with anything but pillow princesses? Every single person I’ve ever dated comes back eventually and I ain’t no pillow princess. Move along, you’re missing out on some of the best parts of sex just to prove you have ‘power.’ Let me tell you about power.

Power is being able to make decisions for a group because you’re entrusted with finding the path that benefits the most creatures in that group. At the same time, you are empathetic enough to explain to the ones who barely benefit why it’s important they keep their chins up so that everyone can rise together. Power is knowing when you don’t know the answer and finding it because you’re not afraid of looking weak for not knowing everything. Power is being bold in the face of fear and grabbing it by the horns and shaking it all around, saying, FIE ON YOU! That is power. Power is speaking a sentence and the room standing still, holding its breath, to hang onto your every word. THAT IS POWER .

Doing things to a lifeless body isn’t power. It’s mental illness. Are you a necrophile? I think dead bodies are less unwilling for random copulation, to be honest. You’d hurt less people having sex with a dead person. Sure, it’s wrong because they were alive, but grandma needs a little love, too. (Too soon?)

The spirit leaves the body behind on death. They go visit their loved ones rather than sitting around staring at their corpses, so… it’s almost a victimless ‘crime.’ The victims are the living relatives who find out because you’re sloppy. (Just sayin’.)

If you aren’t making love to the mind, you’re doing it wrong, anyway. If you are having sex with only a person’s body and you aren’t trying to reach the other components that make them a person, you’re raping them. If you are fucking a dude thinking about another dude, you’re raping them, ladies. Yeah, you thought you were immune, didn’t you? You thought you weren’t joining the rape culture club, I bet. You did the time you thought of your ex while you had someone else invading your privates. Even if it’s not on purpose, even if it just flitted through your mind. You need to stop whatever is taking place when that shit happens and wait for it to go away. And if you didn’t quite get the message, guys, that means YOU, TOO. (Duh.)

But I totally get it. You guys are so sick of hearing all about rape. None of us understand it… but I finally do. I finally fucking get it. That’s why I’m here to tell you that rape > necrophilia. That’s right. Rape is a bigger ethical issue than necrophilia. I’m not condoning necrophilia, because, let’s be honest… a corpse can’t consent, but once the spirit leaves the corpse, it’s just an object that begins to rot much faster than when the heart was pumping. We are morbid as a species, showing off the rotting bodies of dead people just so we can make ourselves feel better. (Do you think the dead consent to that? Oh look, we already raped grandma.)

(Too soon?)

For anyone who recently lost their grandmother: she loves you without a doubt, don’t you dare cry for her. She lived a good long life and she got to know you, undoubtedly the most precious gift in her world. While it’s true you will never get to make new memories of your grandmother, realize that the ones you have will make her immortal in your world if you carry them with you always. God bless.

The point still stands. We cannot ask the dead for permission. Not even I can do that and I can sense them from time to time. Especially when I pass roadkill, such as the poor opossum I saw today and the raccoon I met yesterday. Can we please slow down on the roads and try to stop for these poor little critters? I know it’s inconvenient because we’re fifteen minutes late to the dentist, but COME ON. YOU LEFT FIFTEEN MINUTES LATE. Is it really worth being a psycho murderer?

Time management, my friend. It’s make or break in this world. If you can’t manage your time, you are a child. That might be a little hard to hear in the back; I said: IF YOU CAN’T MANAGE YOUR TIME, YOU’RE A CHILD.

I’m a child. I’ll admit it. I suck at time management. I used to get up two hours early just to get my ass ready for work every day. Every day! Two whole hours to shower, get dressed (no hair styling and no makeup, fuck that shit,) and get a cup of coffee (okay, who didn’t see that coming?) and make breakfast. But some days… I only got through a shower and getting dressed. That’s all I had time for because I laid in bed too long due to a bum hip or I was a zombie standing under that hot water, letting it try to soothe my aches away. I didn’t know this before, but did you know normal people don’t have body aches and pains on a daily, if not hourly, basis? Did you know stretching isn’t supposed to hurt? Why didn’t anybody tell me this sooner? I’ve been hurting since 1999.

I’ve been hurting so long that I’ve got ignoring it down to a science unless I do something like stub my toe, stab my finger, or get a paper cut. Isn’t it ironic that the shallower the cut is, the more it hurts? Can we get rid of paper, PLEASE?! And cardboard. And plastic. But the cardboard is because I cut myself on that, too. Now ain’t that some shit?

Every fucking garbage night, I collapse boxes and find myself oozing with blood out of at least one finger. That shit is sharp. Just like my tongue, sometimes. Forgive me, I should be more conscientious of the people who don’t like vulgarity… but the thing is, it’s a free world, just about. Nobody can stop you from saying those words. Do you want to know a little secret? The secret is…

Indirect vulgarity.

Now what does that mean, Sansara?! I’ll tell you what it means, hold your horses! It means that you don’t use profanity at people. You don’t use that vitriol on people themselves. You use it as a fucking adjective, of course. (<– See what I did there?) Is that as offensive as hearing ‘fuck you’ directed at you? I don’t find it so. Maybe I’m just too American for y’all. I’m sorry. I was born here, it wasn’t really my choice. I’d have picked somewhere with a funnier name. Or Belgium because you know, Douglas Adams. And waffles. I love waffles. I even engineered a waffle that tastes like a doughnut.

You can make it as a pancake if you’ve got to, of course, by adding more water. I know them waffle irons aren’t really up there on the ‘I gotta have it’ scale unless you’re a serious foodie that loves breakfast. But I’ll give you my recipe because I believe in a free society. I believe everything should be free and we should work together to make it happen. (You and the cap’n make it happen! Captain Morgan, in my case.) You need a blender or a food processor to make these. And a waffle iron if you are serious about waffles like I am. I have two waffle irons, but that’s a long story.

Doughnut Waffles

2 cups oatmeal (any kind you like/tolerate)
0.5 cup veggie oil of your choice, I like avocado specifically
1.5 – 1.75 cups water, room temperature
0.5 cup tahini (well-incorporated)
1 tbs vanilla extract, if you like (add 2 tbs sweetener if you do this)

If you use steel cut oats, opt for the food processor. You’ll get a grainy result if you don’t, trust me here my dudes and dudettes. Put syrup on these babies and tell that waffle to get in your belly.

But Sansara!!!!! There are no eggs, no baking powder, no sugar. How does it taste like a fucking waffle?!?! I don’t know, it’s called magic, my friends. Oh and one thing… you should definitely let this batter sit for at least 15 minutes for instant oats or regular rolled oats and 30 minutes for steel cut oats. It makes them so soft and silky. I’m fixing to make an enormous batch of these this week so I can, like, freeze them and be, like, lazy, and stuff. *She twirls some hair around a finger.*

Besides, I have to break in my virgin waffle maker! It’s heart shaped. That’s right. In February, I missed my waffle iron that I thought was lost in the great divide and I bought a new one. Hearts are one of my favorite shapes, incidentally. I’m going to give my ancient ones the normal round ones and keep the hearts to myself. I plan to use both waffle irons because, I’ll be straight with you, it’s torture for me to sit there and make waffles in just one iron. And now I feed three little piggies instead of one, so I have to make more waffles. It’s serendipity, truly.

And now I wonder if they come in shamrock shapes and Christmas tree shapes. Hmm. (Niche market anyone?) How about the Easter Bunny, too? And maybe a butterfly, but that one might be tricky. I gots ideas, you gots hustles?

Ah, let me tell you something I learned about with hustling this past quarter. That’s right, the past three months, for those of you who aren’t familiar with the lingo. I was a desk jockey once for a big, big company I won’t be naming any time soon, but eventually I will, so just sit back and relax. It won’t be in this episode. Besides, I was supposed to be talking about Sir Deli Man. I just wanted to tell you… did you know you can sell art online for beaucoup bucks?

The problem is that I’m shy. I’m not shy like I can’t say hello to people who are strangers, though I do have issues with that right now. I’m not shy like I can’t go places (at least, not always). It’s more like… I can’t look into your eyes without staring into the depths of your soul, so I look away for your sake in case my intensity is too high. And something like… I can’t think of anything to say when I am faced with the man of my dreams, whether close or far. I just… absorb. My brain stops chit-chatting and I just stare and I know, I know… staring is impolite. But I’m shy like I can’t make myself say hello to that guy specifically and I’m shy like I can’t go out where Joshua (formerly Tyrelle if you weren’t updating quickly) tells me this guy goes out to eat and socialize in the bars and things. I’m shy like a wet sock. Maybe that analogy doesn’t work for you normies. I’m autistic, so it works for me… I’ll try to explain. Wet socks are annoying. They rub inside your shoe against your skin and cause problems. That’s the kind of shy I am.

The sock isn’t always wet, obviously.

I got this problem, you guys… Tyrelle. I mean, Joshua. He never leaves me the fuck alone. I named him so I could try to connect and empathize with him like my house plants (RIP Magenta and Braxis, I love you still) and sometimes it makes it easier to yell at him. And of course he uses Joshua to remind me of a Mr. Joshua Johnson that I used to know and should kinda still know but I’ve been in hiding because Joshua-Tyrelle doesn’t leave me alone. It’s nonstop chatter all day.

So anyway, this dick bag (Tyrelle) puts me in a bad mood before I go to the store so I scowl at people. I hate that, I’d rather smile. Then he tells me they all think I’m a bitch for scowling and having resting bitch face, but it’s not resting! He tells me all kinds of shit nobody wants to hear, including if I look like a teacher or a nun.

I can’t help it that I pray in the parking lot, y’all. A Britney Speares song will come on (or any celebrity, really) and I’ll get the inclination to heal them and bam! I find my palms pressed together and I’m healing. It looks exactly like prayer. I do it whenever I think of it, which isn’t as often as I ought to, I wager. I did it one day while at a stop light next to a homeless person and noted that they stood more and more upright the more I healed. That is pretty miraculous to me, but I wouldn’t call it a miracle because it doesn’t last. Not forever.

That’s the nature of reiki, though. It’s a short-term fix for (often) a long-term problem. Man, is it hot, too. I burn so many calories when I heal someone. You should give it a shot after I teach you the basics. But that’s not for right now. Right now, we’re talking about Sir Deli Man.

Did you notice I squirrel around this topic? We keep sliding into other topics nilly willy? That’s what I mean when I say I’m shy like a wet sock. I slip and slide around and now it chafes and is that a blister?! Damn it.

Alright, so this guy works in the grocery store. Pretend it’s one you go to, while we’re at it. I hear stories about people meeting in the grocery store, but I never meet people there because I’m more likely to serenade the pot stickers than a man. Tyrelle/Joshua tells me one day to stand over near the cold sandwiches… so I did. He tells me to look up and there he is. Sir Deli Man.

His back is to me, you know, which is great because I’m shy. Like epically shy. I don’t dress like I’m shy, I dress like a unicorn… well, now a Gothic unicorn. (Is that a nightmare?) I have cultivated this thing I call ‘Soul Sight’ which is a way to view an energy vortex in someone else’s noggin. It’s approximately in the middle of your head and I have no idea if it correlates to anything specific in the brain. Some people have very shiny hot spots of energy and others are very dull. My own is pretty bright, usually, but lately I want to kill a bitch named Tyrelle or Joshua or Donovan or Donald. I can’t pin down a name, but yeah. I wanna kick him in the balls. Except he’s only in my head, so that’s impossible. He doesn’t have balls to kick. If only!

Anyway, the brightness of that spot stunned me. Literally stunned me. I couldn’t take my eyes away. It happens like every time I see him. I see that energy and I’m mesmerized, if only for a moment. The first two times Tyrelle made me look at him, he didn’t see me. At least, I didn’t see him see me. The third time, though, he turned around real fast and caught me staring. Maybe my stare has one of those creepy feelings attached and I never knew it? Anyway, our eyes met for at least five seconds and it felt… electric, in a word. Romance novel begins here, so I thought.

Except I keep trying to make eye contact again and it hasn’t happened. GAH! It’s all in my fucking head! (Or Tyrelle’s head, maybe.) I know that one instance of eye contact alone is not really the empirical evidence required to say, ‘Maybe that dude is into me,’ but I’ll submit three more pieces of evidence for the jury to witness: he gave me side eye. Twice. And we made eye contact one time when I turned around and saw him from across the room while I was looking to see if I could drink anything on the fucking shelf of the drink display. Maybe it’s nothing. I bet it’s an ant hill. I mean, mole hill. I’m making a mountain out of it, whatever it is.

Mount Everest, apparently. Now to climb the mountain and see what’s at the top. I’d wager it’s snow.

I’m wondering if he might just be a gold digger. I mean, on Halloween, I went to Big Lots to see if they had an air fryer because I had a 20% off coupon. I know air fryers are ridiculously priced, y’know? Expensive gadgets. A must-have for a foodie like me who needs doughnuts. I’m a hungry girl, I already told you that. Anyway, I spent like $300.00 there because I just lost all my shit in the great divide (I moved and the moving company conveniently misplaced everything I owned) and I wanted a fucking air fryer. Who doesn’t? I mean, really. You can make pizza in that thing. Not that I can eat pizza.

I make something else called pixxa. Because if you look up the definition of pizza, you’ll find it must contain tomato of some sort. I can’t eat tomato. Or gluten. Or cheese. Or pepperoni. And, of course, my favorite pizza is pepperoni pizza. What’s a girl to do? Replace EVERYTHING and eat it and pretend it’s real pizza, that’s what.

Here’s another recipe:


1 gluten free crust
5 tbs vegetable oil (olive oil is best) to cover the base/crust
seasonings dashed over the oil (be generous!)
dairy-free mozzarella (I use Wegmans brand)
toppings just like a normal pizza (I still eat pepperoni… spicy cup pepperoni… mmm, extra fennel! I also gained ten pounds from pepperoni, so…)

Bake it like the crust tells you to then add 1 minute of broiling because, well. I like well-done pizza. Slightly browned crust and all that. And those pepperoni cups turning into cups and that cheese getting really melty… wait, I’m making myself hungry. Never mind.

I gotta say, being gluten free and dairy free just sucks. It takes all the fun out of food. That deli in the store? Everything has one or the other. It makes me so sad because I want to eat the food. It looks so fucking delicious! Plus, maybe something out there is made by that guy. Who knows! Maybe not, too. I mean, there are like a hundred people back there! (I mean, there are quite a few.)

Anyway, none of that’s relevant. I squirreled again. The deli dude might have given me side eye and all that, but it’s been six months. I’m over it. Six months is enough time for a lad to say hello to a lady. I also hold myself accountable: I could have said hello. One time. I botched it, though. Well, two times. The first time, I didn’t realize it was him. He wasn’t wearing his work uniform at Big Lots. How was I to know?! I mean, we go from white shirt and black apron and black cap to no hat and a dark brown leather jacket in the middle of Pandemerica, and I can’t tell Adam from Eve half the time even when I can see the full shebang.

I have facial recognition issues from traumas. Read older entries for more information, I’m tired of whining about it.

So Tyrelle told me this guy needs to find a new place to stay, that he is all excited that I exist, etc, so on and so forth, yadda yadda. [Add a lot more shit Tyrelle told me all about this guy that can’t be true.] He led me around the store like a ninny in a way that makes me appear to be a stalker while I’m sick and feeling naive. I was so gullible at the start of this. I want to kick him in the shins, too. The balls isn’t enough.

So I guess I’m a stalker de facto, but you know, that doesn’t sit well with me. I used to be a banker. I’m gonna tell you, after I get well again, I wouldn’t mind being a banker. But you know something about banks? They do background checks. There’s no way I’m ruining my record for a piece of pussy, as a man would say. Oh wait, I’m the kitty cat. Rawr!

I have these adorable kitty ears in my possession. You know, like fake animal ears you put on to look stupid with. I’m cool with looking stupid because they have two purposes… one is mental clarity. I just feel different wearing them. Comforted. And the second is physical therapy. I was in a car accident when I was nineteen that ruined my neck. Man, if I knew then what I know now, I would have taken those bastards to court for at least $100k. I’m nearly a fucking cripple these days in comparison to where I was. I used to lift 75 to 100 pounds with little effort, which is pretty strong for a lady, I’ll admit. Now I’m like a regular lady and can lift like… 25 pounds. The injustice.

Anyway, the physical therapy is kind of helping with that, it’s just that my hips are not cooperative with this due to being crushed by an imbecile a while back. I’m not quite ready to talk about that one, so stay tuned.

So what the hell do I do with this guy? This guy I’m de facto stalking? I have to avoid him, right? So I’m trying to. Except I walked into the store today. I got really used to failing to run into him, so I wasn’t expecting it, but bam. There he is. I was taking the long way to the cat food and stuff because I needed some extra steps. I even parked further back than usual, but that was because they were busy more than anything. It was a gorgeous day today anyway and you gotta get those steps in, you know? I ended up going back into the store, forgetting half of what I went for, like a ninny. (That’s short for nincompoop.) I was so distracted by seeing him and the resulting irritation of being called a stalker by Tyrelle that I just took off and forgot the dry cat food. I was imbalanced by being reminded someone, somewhere thinks I’m a fricking stalker. Thanks, God.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

I imagine that’s what he says back. I heard it in my head, but that could be insanity speaking. I’ve been coming to terms with being utterly insane for a little over a year now. That’s a part of why I’m too shy to approach said gentleman. But also, I believe in work ethic. I believe in being dutiful. I believe in letting people have time to get their work done. If the conversation is over, I end the call. He’s working. I’m shopping. It’s non-congruent. I have no legs to stand on to make conversation, though I did think up something crazy to say to him while role-playing it out with Tyrelle.

It goes something like this, ‘OI! YOU!‘ No… wait. That’s Tyrelle being rude.

It goes something like this… ‘Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya…’ Wait! Not that one, either.

‘Hello! WHAT… is the air speed velocity of an unladen swallow?’ Nope… it’s in here somewhere. The answer is 24 MPH, by the way.

Oh right.

All jokes aside, I thought of saying to him, ‘I have three questions for you: 1) Will you marry me? You can take your time answering that one, I don’t expect you to be able to figure that out in five seconds. 2) Is anything in this deli both dairy free and gluten free? 3) May I give you my contact information?’

And then I thought about it and I’m like, what if he says no to all three? I’ll be really bummed that I can’t eat anything in that deli. Not even seasoned broccoli.

I made business cards. One reason was daydreaming of giving him one, but I needed them. It’s stupid to spend $20 on a bunch of something to use just one, you know. I’m starting my own business. Well, I already started it, but I have to gather clients together. I don’t want to divulge all the details just yet because I’m still figuring it all out, but I am a reiki master and I have started to figure out my own style of reiki to share with the world. Eventually, this will be on Udemy.

Now, I just ended a friendship with someone the other day because they don’t believe in reiki at all. I’m pretty mad, too, because he owes me over $2,000.00 from a personal loan and I think he’s going to stop repayment. I need restitution! I need my monies, you dick bag! I told him he could stop repaying me if he let me stay on his Spotify account for eternity, but I bet you that won’t happen either… I got mad at him for being a dick to me and I started being a badger instead of a honey.

You see, I offered to heal him. He’s got a ton of issues, not the least of which the financial ones I bailed him out of one time now. I healed him once in the past when I was still learning Usui reiki and it didn’t work, but that’s because his spirit declined the healing even though he agreed to it. I could cuss that sailor out for that. He wasted my energy and time! If he didn’t really want to be healed, he could have said so. But no, dickhead wanted to be duplicitous and agree verbally when his heart wasn’t in it. So, this time, I told him I will heal him against his will. I ghosted him for the time-being because he’s expecting it and I hope he’s been psyched out at least a dozen times now wondering if I tried to heal him or not. Revenge is a dish best served cold, you know.

Just to inform you about the consent factor: he gave me consent again, but he told me I would use the outcome to inform my opinion that reiki works even if it doesn’t. First of all, reiki being a source of healing is not a fucking opinion. It’s a fact of life. There are thousands of reiki healers all over the world. Thousands. He’s invalidating an entire trade in the art of healing and it pisses me right the fuck off. Do you go to a healer and ask for healing and tell them they’re shysters? Charlatans?! I mean, I offered it both times, but still.

This time, I am not taking no for an answer from his spirit since his brain said yes. He’s agreed to this rape and now I’m holding him accountable for his internal conflict. He’s been torturing me with his shit show for over two decades and I have had enough. Nothing I ever say to him makes him realize this issue is his to resolve, he simply screams, ‘I’m broken!’ and waits for a pity party. I’m going to heal him and his little trauma bond to his ex, Nicole. He’s still friends with this on-again-off-again wench, who is married, and is still obviously in love with her. I bet she loves every moment of it. You know, popcorn style love. As in that’s entertaining as fuck. Because, let’s face it, the human race loves having people left pining over them from the vestiges of the emotional wrecks they make while ‘trying to figure out love.’

I figured out love. Are you ready?

Stop hating. Stop controlling. Stop demanding. Take what you are given and be happy with it. If you are unhappy, express it in a tangible way, and ask your partner for change. If they fail to change and it’s hurting you, then leave. It’s not love. And remember: nobody is happy 100% of the time, otherwise your life would be B-O-R-I-N-G.

Anyway. This douche bag is hung up over this woman he dated like twenty two years ago, keeping her as a close friend while yearning for her, and I’m just like, ‘Yo. Move on.’ I love the word Yo. I blame Santa Claus the Movie from 1985. This is the best Christmas movie ever. I know, I know, what about Die Hard? So what. Watch this and tell me Santa Claus isn’t amazing. I wished he was my father.

This Nicole chick… I assume she’s a rape survivor, like most of us who are messed up in the head. (Holler in the back!) There’s hope for you, my friends. I know it’s a long, arduous road. It requires some therapy, but reiki can also heal you. I suspect my ex-friend is a rapist and he raped Nicole. Maybe Nicole raped him, too. I suspect 99% of humanity is rapist. The other 1% are babies. Some babies are raped, as sick as that shit is.

The thing about rape is that the same feelings of terrible-ness overcome a person whenever any boundary is broken, it’s just that during sexually intimate rape, your body can be fooled into believing you’re having fun. The human body will become excited with the correct type of touch. Period, the end. In fact, you can do it to yourself if you’re exploratory. I just have one thing to tell you… don’t fantasize about people when you touch yourself. It’s rude. If you aren’t currently with them with their clothes off and everything about them is indicating ‘I want more’ then you should not think about them intimately at all. You do not have consent. This is your first step to becoming a rapist apologist.

Sir Deli Man: I am so sorry. I was misled to believing we had some sort of connection where I was speaking to you without traditional means due to a spirit quest I began in November of 2020. I have ceased stepping over this boundary and have been clean of conscience for many moons now. I like being a good girl, you see, and I realized that the maniac in my head is not you. I hope you will understand my confusion. I’ve literally gone crazy and all that, but that’s not an excuse. I think most people in the world are crazy in some way, they just don’t want to face the music. (In fact, I thought we watched that movie together and I made you laugh. That’s the saddest part, thinking I made you laugh and it’s not true.) Please accept some healing energy as recompense, if you are so inclined. Merely decide to receive it and it is yours. P.S. Sansara says hi.

Boy in Maine: I’m so sorry I’ve done this to you. I raped you. I crossed your boundary and it hurt you. I know it wasn’t physical contact or sexual in nature. I also know that doesn’t make it hurt less. I really do hope you’ve overcome that by now. I will send your soul some healing energy that you can pick up any time you wish to, should you ever read this. You just have to decide to, that’s it.

Paul Foote: You raped me, you bastard. I dislike you immensely, no matter what you say or do, but I will send you a white ball of healing light. That’s right, your pain is a white ball of healing light.

Tom Burr: You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you motherfucker. You raped me not once, not twice, but three times. FUCK YOU, YOU DEAD BASTARD. [Have healz anyway.]

Yeah, I’m angry. I’m real angry. Not a single man I’ve been with has failed to rape me. Fuck you all, boys.

I’m looking for a real man. A man who commands power. A man who knows the only thing he can control is himself. A man who will never try to control me. Controlling me is raping me. So fuck you all. Every single person who tried to control me, which is nearly every single person I’ve ever known. Fuck you. I’d start begging for forgiveness now in the back of your mind. I’m pretty sure we’re all psychically connected to each other. So get to it already. Just like gamers say ‘Be Jesus: save early and save often’ you should be Jesus… pray early, pray often.

And that’s why I cut ties with everyone, too. I dangle from a single thread in the cosmos, barely connected to reality. I can’t really complain, other than Tyrelle keeps telling me a psycho murderer is out to get me. Man, that guy is an epic liar. I err on the side of caution, though.

So, Sir Deli Man, the ball is in your court.

P.S. This message is brought to you by an atheist. I’d declare myself to be a radical atheist, but I don’t want to invalidate God if he does exist, y’know? That seems impolite.

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