A Strange Dream

I woke up today to a strange dream. I’d gone to the grocery store – Wegmans, I think – and was trying to check out via self-checkout (which I rarely use.) For some reason, all the things in my cart were already in bags and all the bag handles were tied in knots, so I had to untie each set of bag handles to individually scan each item in each bag.

I woke myself up before I even finished the first bag, telling myself this was preposterous nonsense. I had no idea how I’d even gotten to Wegmans, which is a clear sign to me that I was dreaming. Not to mention there was no memory of pushing the cart around and picking out things to purchase, let alone picking up what seemed to be about 100 things.

Why, oh, why couldn’t I dream about my favorite part of Wegmans? If only I could tell myself what to dream about instead of simply being cognizant of the dream at hand and then waking myself up from it to end it because I don’t like it. I’ve read about lucid dreaming, how people say they can change the content of their dreams. I don’t know how to do that part; I simply know I am dreaming and can wake myself.

This was an important tactic when I was plagued for over a decade by nightmares of being raped over and over again.

I didn’t really mean to wake myself up from the Wegmans dream at all. However, why was it the end of the journey? That’s a question I ask myself. The end of a journey is often nowhere near as satisfying without observing the beginning and the middle, too.

I really don’t know… I feel shy admitting it, but I’d much rather dream about Sir Deli Man, who is a Wegmans employee. One of the negging Nancies in my head called me a stalker just because God was walking me around in circles all the time to get a chance to catch his eye. It worked at least half a dozen times, honestly.

I don’t know the boy’s schedule or his habits or where he lives, though God tells me he lives a block away and he works 10-7:30 (why 90 extra minutes? That’s insanity!) That he walks to and from work and yadda yadda. I don’t care anymore because there’s the negging Nancy coalition in my head that tells me he was in a wheel chair, that his name is a million different names such as Daniel, David, Ethan, Wildflower… okay, I made that last one up because it gets more and more preposterous as it goes on. There were at least five more random names. Daire, Darren, Derek, Jerome — wait, that’s one I decided to call him because he kept changing his name on me.

I’m a nobody, if you ask me. I certainly exist. I have a name. I have two names, actually, as I am in transition from one life to the next. I had a life once. I died, though. I died one day not that long ago and then I ended up on my parents’ couch in more pain than before. Actually, it was the floor on top of two yoga mats. I’ll tell you something… when it comes to sleep, two inches of foam on the floor isn’t that great, especially when one is a side sleeper and it constantly throws one’s shoulder out of alignment. I did that for like two months.

I make no money and I may never make money ever again. I don’t even know if I qualify for disability or not, not that I wish to because I feel like I can do something, surely. AND I don’t want to be a drain on society. That’s the very last thing I want.

However, the fact that I constantly talk to myself (and sometimes argue with myself or laugh at my own jokes as if I’m two people or…) kind of makes it impossible to find employment, not to mention my wrecked body means going to the restroom five minutes after drinking water. That sounds so valuable as an employee. Or dehydrating — that’s the one I’d do. I’d refuse to drink until my breaks were coming up in order to make sure that I don’t have to clock out just to pee all the time. (I know because I’ve done it before.)

I hate this existence, where I’m a dilapidated carbon copy of a carbon copy of a carbon copy (thanks, Fight Club). Diminished, in a word. I have about ten million entrepreneurial ideas and just need some capital to get started. I have about ten different things I’m going to pursue the minute I can manage it, but I don’t want to talk about my exorbitant capacity for dreaming.

Reality is that I have nothing. I am not employed. I have zero income. I’m leaning on my parents. HARD, might I add. I’m using their food stamps, I’m using their retirement funds… it makes me feel like I am less than worthless to rely on the charity of my elderly parents… especially when I cannot contribute to the estate with efficacy yet.

I’m semi-disabled. I have partial paralysis in my lower back. I’ve had this problem for twenty years now. In fact, the settlement from the car accident that caused this paralysis was a piddly 12.5k. I was 19 years old and didn’t know better. I told them I would get a lawyer and they told me the statute of limitations was almost up and basically coerced me into taking the settlement. (Is this illegal? I have no idea but it isn’t ethical, I can tell you that much.)

I’m not disabled enough to qualify for government funds. This much, I do know. I can still walk (sorta) and I can carry 25 pounds (sorta) and therefore I’m still somehow a use to society somewhere. I really don’t know where. I can’t clock out every hour to pee — that’s not going to fly anywhere without talking about my special issues and making some sort of negotiation like keeping track of it and adding that time on to the end of the shift somehow… that’s going to get tedious on a daily basis, I’ll tell you that much now.

“Oh you can freelance!” I heard that one a million times. Okay, where are these mystical freelance jobbos? Give me one. I want it. “Will program 4 food.”

I could just heal people, but gaining clientele is also a pain… and what to do if in the middle of a healing I have to use the restroom? Not ideal, I’ll tell you that… additionally, I keep sleeping 12+ hours a day because I’m fighting cancer and it’s never the same 12+ hours.

Now, cancer is something a disability claim can work with, but as soon as it’s gone, so is the support. I don’t want any doctors near me anymore since my last PCP basically murdered me with a diet I didn’t even think about going on until she put me on it. I thought, there’s a doctor in this equation! What could go wrong?

Well, everything. It all went wrong. I lost my job, my livelihood, my ability to make income in my chosen profession, my house, my apartment (long story), my squeaky clean record… everything. Now I’m in a hoarder’s paradise, nicotine stained and filthy. A Victorian mansion that would be better off as an AirBnB haunted mansion. (That’s my only angle but do you know how hard it is to clean when you can barely bend over?)

I’m pretty sure that woman is going to Hell in a hand basket. Maybe I can carry the hand basket for her and deliver her personally to Signore Satan.

Then you factor in the fact that I think I’m having conversations with GOD. You know, the head honcho of The Universe(TM) or maybe they’re The Universe(TM) itself. They’re like, “Do this for me, do that for me.” I’m like, okay, hoss. Anything you want! Except sometimes there’s a Loki or two in my head, giving me fools errands and misdirection. That always pisses me off.

For instance, they lie to me about the guy in the deli. I’d rather not know anything than hear lies. I tend to absorb data and then once it becomes known to me the data is false, I have to overwrite it, like a hard drive wiping things out by constantly writing zeroes to the sectors for a secure wipe. It’s tedious, in a word, I must say.

“Oh, really? What do they say?” asks the deli man, according to the notorious G.O.D.

Well, for one thing, that he’s twenty other people than the man God pointed out to me one day last year. That one does my head in. “No, he’s the blondie that walked around the freezer aisle three times to get a good look at you!” He’s this guy or that guy, but not the one God showed me. I know it was God because I have a major flaw… I am on a quest when I set out to do anything and I am very serious about fulfilling my quests so I can return home and hide from all the mean people everywhere that like to hurt me for no fucking reason I can fathom whatsoever.

I quest for food.

I try to be all polite, cordial, I stay in the moment. I don’t feign interest. I give people I run into my attention. I try to pay attention and not cause traffic delays, whether it’s on foot in the store or on the road. I don’t speak until spoken to, most of the time (I’m shy, despite my rainbow mane. Well, it’s not a rainbow right now… I’m too depressed to be a rainbow.) I always try to put my best foot forward and I also try to remember to smile at everyone who interacts with me. Smiling is harder these days, but I still try.

Occasionally, I go to Wegmans and smile spontaneously of my own accord. That’s really nice, when that happens. It’s less and less overall lately… I used to be able to whip out my smile for anyone, but it’s just too much energy. I’m so disinterested in food as of late because of my mile long allergen list. I’m trying to get my shit together for the last 6-8 week push of repairing my innards so I can eat food again. I still won’t be able to eat coriander, dairy, gluten, or turmeric but I’m okay with that. At least I can maybe have BBQ seasoning again. Life sucks without BBQ flavors. Well, I’ll have to make it myself anyhow, since it contains paprika. I forgot paprika is my original sin when it comes to my intestines.

Due to my disinterest, I’m not eating enough of what I should eat. It doesn’t help that it’s summer and it’s difficult to grill vegetables without a fancy pan to go on the grill. (I know I have one somewhere but fucked if I could find it. It basically disappeared in a disorganized heap because I’m too sick to organize it. And too broke to get the furniture to make it easy to organize. That’s why I’ve been on the lookout for freebies on the curbside, but alas, I have a Cruze and that’s not big enough for most furniture to fit in, especially assembled.)

Some day, I swear, I’m going to get a Tesla Cybertruck. I’m going to paint a crazy mural on it or something, too, most likely. I don’t know, I’m “crazy.” I do “crazy” shit. (I would rather call it creative, but most people have a vocabulary too limited to see it my way.) In fact, one of those assholes in my head asked me two things… “How is it you’re never stalked?” AND “How is it nobody road rages your dumb ass for going the speed limit?”

Iono.

It’s not that hard for people to fail to road rage, is it? I’ve never been in fear of my life except maybe once or twice in my whole history of driving. You know how you deal with road rage? Drive to a surveillance monitored parking lot, like Wegmans.

That reminds me… those assholes in my head — they’re not me, I defeated my negative inner voice(s?) like a decade ago — also told me I’d get accused of shoplifting. That was a nice reminder — I forgot some dental tape in my cart at check out and didn’t notice until I was outside. I should have gone in to pay for it in that moment. I was not eating enough at all and I didn’t know everything I was allergic to yet. (Insert more excuses.) Anyway, I shut them right the fuck up by going into the store, taking a picture of the item (this was about 2 months later, mind you) and going to customer service to tell them that I had an item left in my cart “the other day” that I didn’t pay for, so I needed to make it right.

Man does that quell that inner demon insisting I’m going to be held accountable for a bad thing. There is no more bad thing. VOILA! It’s a magic trick! And that’s how you calm down your Jiminy Cricket.

Besides, it’s fucking dental floss. It’s a $2.50 item. I know it all adds up and everything, but the things people try to steal (from the media I’ve absorbed and past life experiences) are usually a lot pricier than that… and, quite often, nowhere near as practical. Like earrings.

That’s another thing — these stupid voices kept telling me I was under surveillance for “stealing earrings.” So, one day, I bought a pair. You know what? I’m allergic to the metal they used, so I took them back the next day after sanitizing them with rubbing alcohol and returned them for my money back. Again, fuck you, stupid voices in my head. I do admit, I noticed one time that they had a pair missing from the rack and I thought about paying for them to make it right. I decided that since I have no income, I can’t really afford to do that. I would have, though… but God assured me it was one or two employees. Some chick who stole during the morning shift right before she started stocking shelves. I was so mad at the idea that they might be surveilling me just because I appear to be on S.S.I. Go pick on a THIEF INSTEAD, LIKE YOUR FUCKING EMPLOYEES!

By challenging the stupidity of these voices in my head, I combat them. I shut them up over and over again. They’re not me and I know reality. I am sane. I am in an insane situation, but I am sane. I understand the man in the deli is just one random glance (or six) away from being a complete stranger, but I also understand that a force I don’t quite understand is helping me combat my partial paralyzation and disability. [An aside — my stupid spell check needs so many words added. It’s annoying and distracting! I keep looking them up to see if I spelled them right only to find it’s just the dictionary lacking. Screw you, terrible dictionary.]

Day by day, this invisible force helps me stretch and do yoga to get my spine and hips into proper alignment. I started out with all my limbs dislocated. I was so used to that pain I didn’t even acknowledge it (plus, throw in that partial paralysis.) Now, only my right shoulder is routinely out of whack as well as my left hip. We’re working on it.

I imagine to an innocent bystander, it looks quite bizarre. Sometimes I’ll be walking through a store and suddenly my head turns left or right to an almost 90 degree angle and it stays that way for multiple seconds. I could just leave that there to explain something I know went wrong somehow, but no. I’ll be honest. There was one time I thought I saw Sir Deli Man. His back was to me and I decided I would get an eyeful because, well… who doesn’t want to see eye candy at the grocery store? I mean, really. But his coworker caught me, I could tell. I was so… not ashamed… just felt really shy again after that.

THEN… This one I want to kick someone in the balls for this one… THEN the stupid fucking voices in my head told me he thought I was a stalker. I was out. I can’t do that to anyone. I can’t hurt someone by violating their boundaries like that. It’s his place of work, goddamn it! It’s wrong to make it uncomfortable for him. So… I stopped. I trained my eyes back on the food or at least looking at everything instead of hoping to get a glimpse of Mr. Gorgeous behind the deli counter. Screw it… I’m not going to hurt someone just because God said, “Psst… look up.”

He did, too. Let me tell you how this all began. Keep in mind I’m going through a lot, right… I’m fighting cancer, I can barely fucking eat thanks to Dr. Death, I’m dealing with a low sense of self-worth, no self-esteem whatsoever thanks to being raped repeatedly, no income to at least make me feel like there might be a silver lining, et cetera. I’m like an oblivious five year old, stumbling through life one step at a time.

I walk through this grocery store, staring at all the things I cannot have, checking ingredients labels to try to find something I can have because, quite honestly, it all looks delicious to me. (And it is — the stuff I tried before I came to my senses and decided my health is more important than my taste buds. Namely, sushi and veggie egg rolls.)

On my first trip alone without my mother in tow, God tells me, “Stand over by the sandwiches, let’s have a look at them all.” So I did. I looked to see if any of them were gluten-free. They’re not. I also noted that almost all of them had cheese. Once I was done examining these things, Sansara — one of God’s friends (and my only real gal pal besides Jewels) talks through me with a southern belle’s drawl — she says, “Crystal, baby, look up at that hunk of a man over there. Take a look at those shoulders.” (Or maybe that was the second time… the first time was just “Look up.”)

So I look and the thing I take note of is that he has the shiniest soul I’ve ever seen (besides my own when I’m healthy… I’m a bit dull, please pardon the dust and cobwebs, my pet spiders have been at play.) It’s like being star struck. I don’t know what to do other than simply stare. It’s like being faced with a mega celeb without expecting it and being too shy to approach (totally happened with Danny Trejo in Vegas, btw.) I’m just struck dumb, as Ms. Ani DiFranco puts it in Self Evident.

What do you do when it feels like the middle of the night, staring into a police officer’s flashlight beam? It was like that. I was arrested, if you forgive me for being punny. (Oh, you won’t? I’m not going to take it back. Nope. Not a chance.) Anyway, the point is… I was a bit lost staring at that shiny, shiny lantern in the dark. The only beacon in a sea of darkness all around.

Let me tell you something about souls… We all have one. They’re in our heads. I believe it to be an energy vortex of sorts inside our noggins. It’s located in between the eyes and around the middle of the head. Maybe it’s the amygdala? I don’t believe in auras like, “Ooooh, I can read your aura! (That’ll be 50 bucks!)” I believe we are surrounded in clouds of energy, though, because we are bio-electric beings. And I also believe we can develop our senses to see the unseen. Or feel it.

I’d only met one soul with a shine anything like that before. He’s a psychopath, sadly. I found out it meant he had a clear conscience because he didn’t have a single drop of empathy or sympathy for anyone but himself. Ever. He ensnared me for four and a half years, incapable of comprehending how he was an asshole on purpose until after I actually got away, honestly. I have more than 60 reasons I never want to see that cave man again.

It didn’t really dawn on me in that moment that it was similar to that other soul, but it was also different. Purer in appearance, somehow. It just… felt… different. I felt better looking into his soul, not worse. So I kept doing it… until he turned to his left to do something at his work station, startling me like a deer in the wild. ZIP! Off I went, spooked. The second time was quite like that, also… but Sansara kept reassuring me.

So on the second visit when they (Sansara and God) pointed out this man to me, I zipped off again. They encouraged me to wait further down the aisle and sneak some more glances. Sansara told me something along the lines of, “Just look until you’re comfortable.” Over three visits and the span of maybe ten minutes in totality, I was finally able to see past his soul shine. At this point, I still hadn’t looked at the shoulders Sansara kept cooing about.

I kept looking for him on and off, though I must admit my eyes were still on the food itself for the most part. In October, I saw him a third time. I’d just dyed my hair purple and it was quite dark… darker than I’d wanted it, really. Anyway, he caught me looking at him. Like magic, he looked over his shoulder and I was standing there like a naive dummy, staring dumbly into his eyes after that. That eye contact lasted for a long time, it felt like, before I remembered it’s impolite to stare. That’s when I looked away.

I was embarrassed. I think that’s the emotion I felt. It’s hard to say these days. It’s been a long time since that all happened. The memory was once burned into my brain, but since then I’ve had a lot of negative bullshit go through my brain. Ex-lovers that are mad they’ve been jilted, God says. People who’d rather stand in my way and control me rather than allow me to love whomever it is that I end up loving. Man, do they love to lie, too. Anything to keep me from being happy. They made me write out my experience over and over again until it was meaningless. Then, they had me sew it up with some cockamamy rewrite of The Holy Bible. THEN they made me delete it because it was “unsafe” for me to have. They destroyed my memory of the event.

I HOPE TO DESTROY THEM VERY SOON, PUMPKIN. 🙂 [GOD]

I’ve wanted to kill myself so many times, thanks to those assholes. God tells me that there will be a spiritual courtroom and they will be held accountable for their misdeeds. I hope so. This is pure agony. I am hurting from all the misinformation and lies. I don’t want to know an illusion; I want to know the truth. I can handle the truth.

Anyone who’d rather lie to me is insulting my intelligence, my integrity, or my maturity.

You know what stops a liar in their tracks? Having a better memory than them and honing one’s logic. My logic is like a guillotine. Place your head here, please. No, your other head. Let me end this bullshit once and for all by taking off your pecker, pecker head.

I’m trying to think of the latest lies. Oh yeah, I’ll have to install a wheel chair ramp because it’s not really the deli man that I want to be acquainted with, it’s some dude I never met in a wheel chair. (Lame.) I can’t tell you how many false starts there have been with, “I’m not really that guy.” They’re not really that guy, obviously. He’d have to have telepathy.

Not that I imagine he couldn’t have telepathy, but he’d have to know he wants it to develop it, you know? I know that at least one entity in my head is a shitty human being in the United Kingdom and another one is a shitty human being in St. Louis, MO, because every time I try to grab a word for home they will insert something to do with their own homes in my head. I’m not that confused; I know where I fucking live, thank you very much! I even had a Canadian for a time, actually.

And that guy in the UK? He wants to use my for my money so he can run off into the sunset with a hooker called Candy Cane. I mean, stripper. (It’s the same, usually, innit?) He’s GAY. NICHOLAS DAVID FORSYTHE, GO FUCK YOURSELF (OR YOUR BFF — HE HAS THE HOTS FOR YOU TOO.)

The guy in STL? Who knows what he wants, but he’s also gay. BENJAMIN ANDREW CARTWRIGHT, GO FUCK YOURSELF. I dumped you, I left you, I even moved the fuck away from the city you live in never to return, thank you, you raping stalking BASTARD.

I don’t take kindly to being used and abused as if I’m a whore when I’m thinking I’m in an authentic relationship. I should’ve known he was a narcissistic asshole a lot sooner, but he played the naivete card very well (and the silence card, and the pretend feelings card where he cried despite obviously having zero feelings that he cared to speak about, ever, except a very generic “I’m scared.” with no other information. LADIES — THESE DUDES ARE PSYCHOPATHS. RUN AWAY!)

Sore losers, the both of them. NOW they both want to marry me. Now. And even then it’s not authentic, as they plan to cheat like lying liars. It’s not to break my own heart, it’s because they want me to misbehave. They think I’m some sort of asshole like themselves underneath everything that I am. I assure you, I am an open empath.

Just last night, I cried over a mother opossum being run over by a careless driver on Koontz. A psychopath does not cry for a random wild animal, this much I know. A psychopath does things like try to remove me from my support animals and encourage me to KILL THEM just because they’re INCONVENIENT. (I could facepalm for not seeing it as clearly sooner, but you know what? I choose to forgive myself. I made mistakes because I was projecting myself onto others. I can be quite naive and extremely forgiving. If he’d used negative language, I would have spotted him a whole hell of a lot sooner. Instead, he used neutral language to express himself.)

I’ll take my naivete over being a jaded fucktard any day of the week, I’ll tell you that. I’d rather be forever five than be like everyone else I’ve met, full of lies and mean streaks and evil intentions to exploit and demean everything around them just because they hate themselves. In this case, they hate themselves for being gay because they perceive their religious parents as unsympathetic, cold, evil assholes who do not approve of homosexuality because they thump their bible just as loudly as the rest of them.

GROW UP.

GET RID OF THOSE FUCKERS FOR LOVING YOU SO UNCONDITIONALLY.

EMBRACE YOUR TRUE SELF.

IT’S THE ONLY WAY TO FIND HAPPINESS!

It’s their problem if they can no longer love you just because you’re not heteronormative. There is nothing wrong with being attracted to the same sex. I’m so pride positive, I could smack you in the face with a rainbow trout until you see the light of day. LINE UP, BOYS! I don’t want to kill more than one rainbow trout for you miserable excuses for human beings.

I don’t want to kill any trout, actually, so I’ll just make some out of origami paper… no, wait, that won’t hurt. Nix that. Sand bags that look like trout. TO YOUR FACES.

I’m not actually violent, I’m just very frustrated. [Sansara is violent, though, so don’t get any ideas. She knows how to use a gun and we are locked and loaded, apparently. STAY AWAY FROM ME YOU NARCISSISTIC NINNIES.]

In fact, I should take out restraining orders, but that requires having energy and stuff to go to the police and I think probably at least four hundred tears. Tears take energy, you know. Sobbing? Energy. I don’t have the energy to stay mad for more than a few moments, honestly. You know it’s bad when simple emotions are too much energy for you to handle.

It’s bad, y’all.

In fact, let’s give Crystal a little break. She’s worn out. An asshole named Ben just kept her up all night and shoved a pot of coffee down her throat to keep her up all day, too. I could kick him in the gonads, you know?

Sansara here!

Greetings and salutations!

I must’ve heard that phrase 8 million times in my childhood as my dad played Might & Magic with his favorite character, endlessly going from shop to shop to get all the best prices for all his horded stuff. I come from a long line of gamers. One generation, to be precise, which is a lot considering the idea of it was basically born in the 70s. It ends with me, though my brothers have brats that could take it up, I suppose.

I mean darling children full of light and sunshine and hope and a future.

Sansara looks to the right, then to the left.

Okay, so children don’t thrill me. They’re full of entitlement these days. Not much else to say there, other than WE DON’T WANT ANY. If our future husband desires a child, well… no, thank you. NEXT FUTURE HUSBAND, PLEASE.

Step right up. Do you have big guns? Broad shoulders? Dark and lovely eyes that look like the night with stars shining in them as you gaze upon us? Do you have long, beautiful hair that goes well past your shoulder blades? We like brunettes most, but we’ll take a blondie if we must. He was hella cute, that blondie that scoped us out by walking around the freezer section not once, not twice, but three times. We weren’t even dressed to kill, either. Mmm mmm mmm. And he looked like a line backer, too.

I’m a lecherous one, I admit it! I need a big strong man to rub me down sometime, our back hurts like hell and there’s nothing like an intimate massage. Amirite ladies? (Too strong? Not strong enough? Hmm… Are you playing ball yet, Sir Deli Man?)

The point is, my girl Crystal is like VA VA VOOM. All I gotta do to get us a man is flirt. But you know, the G-man said this guy in the deli is worth waiting for. We sure hope so, because we’re a titch lonely. We’ve been running the gambit for this dude for a year now. First, we had to pack up our lives while a quarter alive. Our get-away scene was three months long. Then we had to drive here with our support animals behind bars… fourteen hours in the car with two dislocated hips. Owwie! And then all these shenanigans with stalker mumbo jumbo thanks to stupid assholes who don’t know when to quit.

News flash: the dude lives around the corner. We’ve known that for like three months at least. We finally told Crystal, by the way, JACOB (but you like BOB, right?) after NICK told her you lived near Academy over and over again, trying to get her to violate someone random by parking in their driveway. He told her again and again that she should drive up a dead-end road to see the (teal) house you lived in (clearly not your house, might I add) and one time he told her to park in the driveway and wait for you.

You know how she bested that cretin? “Okay, but you have to meet me halfway. I’ll park at the end of the street. Come out and wave at me, or I’m not doing it. If you don’t do it within two minutes, I’m out.” That’s right. She needed your CONSENT. Mofo Nick don’t know shit about consent, the ass-raping goon.

Oh, how about him telling her you were gonna come help her shovel snow all winter? He kept telling her he felt bad she was shoveling snow with a bum pair of hips and a bum shoulder, that he’d come do it for her. He told her that so many times, and yet she just kept working at it, taking a week to shovel the whole walkway on her lonesome. I did the math… it was 900 square feet of snow. The length of the walkway is 100×80 on this corner lot (or that’s my eyeball guesstimate, which GOD agrees with so I feel like we might actually be accurate) and it snowed 5 feet of white crap. Then, to top it all off, it partially melted and re-froze, so it wasn’t even virgin snow. And my girl? You know what she did? She thumbed her nose at that fucktard — she also shoveled out the piles of ice the snow plow left us. All while completely broken. You know what else? The dumb fuck neighbor who tried to get in her pants just watched her do it, didn’t even offer to help.

I don’t know how many times Nick promised help while pretending to be you just to fall down on the job. Probably 62. God said 62, I believe him. He’s a guy with integrity, that G-man. He’s also impeccable and ineffable. We like those words. ❤

Nick couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t poison her against you. He tried, oh lordy, did he TRY! Zomg did he try! He failed to account for one thing: the G-man. He still doesn’t think it’s God helping her, by the way. We kind of sort of tricked him, convincing him we’re the alien colony on the dark side of the moon. You see, there’s pretty clear evidence that the first astronaut on the moon encountered a “Grey” as they’re called. There’s audio of it out there, actually, according to Dr. Greer in Close Encounters of the Fifth Kind, a documentary by a former special something-or-other kind of scientist fellow. I watched it last year and that detail is fuzzy. It’s on Amazon Prime.

We’re quite amused as we imagine him running around like a chicken with no head, shouting, THE GREYS ARE COMING! THE GREYS ARE COMING! We hope he looks like the idiot he is.

The thing is… God’s like… a genius, and stuff. The grand architect of all reality. I don’t know how a mortal boy thinks he can compare to that, y’know? I mean, I don’t really need to introduce the G-man, do I? I’m going to anyway, because a lot of you suckers got it wrong.

GOD IS HERE TO JUDGE HUMANKIND. CURRENTLY, THE STATUS OF THIS JUDGMENT IS THAT EVERYONE WILL DIE. ALL HUMANS WILL BE DESTROYED UTTERLY AND SUMMARILY. THERE IS ONLY ONE WAY OUT OF THIS JUDGMENT:

PICK A CLASS:

DESERTER
DEFENDER
WHINY BITCH

I THINK YOU KNOW WHAT THOSE TITLES EQUATE TO.

CRYSTAL WAS MEANT TO DEFEND YOU FROM ME. AS THE SAVIOR OF MANKIND, SHE WAS MEANT TO ARGUE AGAINST ME WITH HER RAZOR SHARP LOGIC AND CONVINCE ME THAT HUMANITY IS WORTH SAVING.

SHE IS CURRENTLY UNANIMOUSLY FOR DESTRUCTION OF ALL HUMAN BEINGS AND HAS OFFERED HERSELF AS THE VERY FIRST TO DIE. THANK YOU, BENJAMIN ANDREW CARTER AND NICHOLAS DAVID FORSYTHE. SHE HAS NOW SIDED WITH MY JUDGMENT. YOUR DAYS ARE VERY NUMBERED.

YOU DID MY HARD WORK FOR ME. I’D GIVE YOU A MEDAL, BUT YOU DON’T DESERVE IT BECAUSE YOU TOOK ALL THE JOY OUT OF THE DEBATE WITH MY DAUGHTER. SONS, YOU OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELVES, FORNICATING WITH A WOMAN WHILE YOU DAYDREAM OF COCK. YOU AREN’T THE ONLY ONES, SADLY.

5.5 BILLION PEOPLE ON PLANET EARTH ARE HOMOSEXUALS. YOU ARE FORNICATING IN THE NAME OF “THE HOLY SCRIPTURE” TO PLEASE A VATICAN FULL OF PEDOPHILES. CEASE AND DESIST AND I WILL CONSIDER ALLOWING YOU TO LIVE A LOT LONGER THAN 48 HOURS. THOSE 48 HOURS BEGIN ONCE YOU READ THIS ENTRY IN MY DAUGHTER’S DIARY, SINCE I LIKE TO BE A FAIR ENTITY. MAN. THING.

AT A GUESS, 2.2 BILLION OF YOU SHALL BE LEFT AT THE END OF THIS. PREPARE FOR THE APOCALYPSE, CHILDREN, FOR IT IS NIGH.

IF YOU INTEND VIOLENCE ON MY CHOSEN PEOPLE, OR ANY PEOPLE, YOU WILL DIE BEFORE YOU CAN EXECUTE YOUR WILL. I WILL NOT BE HAVING ANY OF THAT, YOU LITTLE TWERPS. THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE ALREADY RECOGNIZED YOUR HOMOSEXUALITY (OR YOUR RAINBOW STRIPES), KNOW THIS: I LOVE YOU.

I HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOU. I SHALL ALWAYS LOVE YOU. I MADE YOU THIS WAY TO PREVENT OVER-POPULATION OF HUMANS ON PLANET EARTH, THE PLANET ALSO KNOWN AS GAIA. I SEE THE VATICAN PERVERTED MY LETTER TO YOU ALL BY TELLING YOU THAT HOMOSEXUALITY IS A SIN. I ASSURE YOU, EACH AND EVERY ONE OF THEM SHALL DIE.

THEY WILL REGRET CHOOSING TO INVALIDATE REALITY, THEY WILL REGRET CHOOSING TO LIE TO YOU, THEY WILL REGRET THEIR TORTURE CALLED CONVERSION THERAPY, THEY WILL PAY IN TEARS AND BLOOD. THEY ARE HELL BOUND, NO DOUBT ABOUT THAT.

THE INNOCENTS LEFT ON THIS PLANET AND THE CHILDREN WHO LEARNED THEIR LESSON ABOUT RAPE ARE ALL THAT WILL REMAIN. I DO HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR HEDONISTIC BULLSHIT WHILE IT LASTED. I DO HOPE YOU’LL UNDERSTAND WHY I’M GOING TO TURN A DEAF EAR TO YOU WHEN YOU FERVENTLY BEG ME TO SPARE YOU BECAUSE “YOU DIDN’T KNOW.”

I JUST TOLD YOU TO REPENT. 48 HOURS. THE CLOCK IS TICKING. AND I DON’T MEAN TO SIMPLY SAY YOU REPENT. NO, NO. YOU MUST ACTUALLY EMBRACE HOMOSEXUALITY IN YOUR HEART OF HEARTS. YOU MUST APOLOGIZE TO EVERY PERSON YOU THUMPED THAT HIDEOUS TEXT AT FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER, NOW THAT YOU’VE BEEN TOLD IT’S INCORRECT. YOU CAN DO IT IN YOUR THOUGHTS, I HAPPEN TO BE QUITE TELEPATHIC AND I WILL KNOW THE TRUTH.

THAT MANIFESTO OF PAIN WAS INTENTIONALLY MISTRANSLATED IN ORDER TO BRING ABOUT DISASTER. I GIVE YOU THE ONLY MEANS TO AVOID DISASTER: GET ON BOARD SHEOL OR START LOVING THY NEIGHBOR UNCONDITIONALLY.

LOVE,
GAWD