It’s for the blind. The words underneath things to describe them. (Shout out to anyone blind reading me. I love you and I’m sorry for my penchant of using words that aren’t real.)
So I’m supposed to believe some dude in a deli sits around thinking about me, whether he’s working or not. How preposterous is that? I’ll give you one thing: yes, we share eye contact. I learned recently that this is flirting for you neurotypical people. This is stupid, if you ask this autistic woman.
Oh, you didn’t. My bad.
If you threw in a smile, it might count.
(Yes, he will. Eventually. What does it all mean? I dunno, ask God. I made a deal with him for true love. The deal is that I have to write this. All of this. Thousands or millions of words to all of humankind. And, of course, spaceling kind.)
Sansara, tell us about the spacelings!!! </whine>
Okay, but if you whine my name again, I’m going to bed for a week and not making a peep to continue The Story(TM).
Well, did you think we’re really all there is to the entire universe(TM)? How arrogant do you want to be recorded as in The Book of Life(TM)? [Oops, did I make a Bible reference just there? Shoot, my cover is BLOWN!] Can you conceive of the possibility that there might be selenium-based creatures on a planet in a nearby solar system? Maybe if you ever listen hard enough, you’ll hear Jarvek yourself. He(?) might have a lot to say to you that makes you feel bad about your life choices. We’ve certainly spoken at length and he thinks it’s terrible I nearly died without anyone noticing. (Not you, Julie. Love you, babe!)
He eats rocks, by the way. Or, actually, the stuff that grows on the rocks on his planet. There is no such thing as technology there and you’re unlikely to ever detect his life force, but he’s there nonetheless, in Andromeda, chilling and eating rocks. Well, the stuff on the rocks.
He’s the only one, so you know. He might be pleased to meet you if you’re pleasant. You’re going to have to school your thoughts, first, and get rid of the poison planted there by abuse and misuse. We all do, or this whole thing is going up in flames. Literally, actually. Not all spacelings are devoid of technology and it just so happens I accidentally invited The Destroyers(TM) to come destroy humanity so that the animals and plants could inherit Gaia instead of us. Just look what we’ve done to her as her custodians.
I was dying and screaming into the void(TM) we call space. In the metaphysical realm. My death rattles shook the entire universe, actually. It woke up everything which went to meditate for centuries. (Hi, Shiva. Sorry, Shiva.) Do you know what it’s like to piss off The Gods(TM)? I do, now.
I’ve been paying for it for one year, six months, and eight days. And about ten hours. I’m nowhere near paying off my debts, either, even though it was always meant to happen and Brahma is quite pleased I put one of his(?) lines back into place. They told me that I am somehow the most delightful soul on planet Earth. Some way of showing it, I say!
Notice they name where I live. Planet Earth. That means there are souls on other planets, yo. In fact, I’ve been entertaining them ever since that fateful Kundalini attunement. That is, until I made them want to murder me. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I’m fighting against it… I owe them reparations for giving them all headaches for about two years while Dr. Death tried to murder me in the physical world. Sorry just doesn’t cut it when it comes to a two year long headache, y’know?
Don’t worry, I got this.
It’s not nearly as bad as a year ago, when they were trying to convince me to murder myself. Interestingly enough, when one has a Borderline Personality and is told to murder one’s self, one finally finds the will to live. Reverse psychology FTW!
Dr. Death is just what I prefer to call her since I don’t want her to know I’m going to take her ass to court for malpractice and attempted murder. I need a lawyer btw — drop me a line at sansara.solsinger — it’s a gmail. She prescribed me something I’m allergic to and then refused to refer me for allergy testing. Should be pretty open and shut, if you ask me.
At least, God says I’m allergic. I haven’t gotten the test done yet. I won’t mention anything else because… you know. Doctor-patient confidentiality. And I don’t need anyone stealing my life story to make a dramatization off it. I will do that myself, thanks.
Trust me, Nick’s already on that, turning my idea of The Mountain Dragon Man into some BDSM bullshit story full of RAPE. The “man of my dreams” is turning MY story into the very thing I have already experienced thousands of times now. Boy, could I be any more wrong about him? That’s after he stole my wedding plan and married another bitch. (Sorry, Candy Cane, my love ran out because you never kicked him in the balls, running off into the sunset with his car. It’s exceptionally conditional when it comes to you.)
Megabitch alert! Thanks, Nick, for turning your girl into my enemy.
See what I mean that these voices annoy the piss out of me? I would never say such a thing. Ever. What do you think I am? THE JOKER? No thanks. Harley Quinn is a far better character. She has so much more depth most of the time… not that The Joker doesn’t have depth, but he never allows himself to be vulnerable enough to share it. Harley, on the other hand, blows up the whole joint to show how much she feels. ❤ Harley.
I hate how they turned her outfit into a whore’s outfit, though. What was wrong with the crazy bodysuit with the clown ruffles anyway? Oh, right, you couldn’t imagine FUCKING HER. You assholes piss me off, putting every girl in as little as possible and calling it sexy, making the rest of us who don’t want to expose every inch of skin feel like school marms. Kiss my ass, rape culture!
That’s right. It’s rape culture. In addition to all that air brushing and CGI tit work on Angelina Jolie, who really absolutely never needed anything of the sort, might I add. If you take a woman who is basically perfect and use computers to make her more “perfect,” then you have to admit there is no such thing as perfect in nature, so just go buy yourselves blow up dolls and be done with it. (Or realize you’re fucking gay, as the G-man declared several entries ago.) (*AHEM* NICK.)
I want more cake, but it’s too late to drink coffee with it. I’d have to throw my schedule again… not that I really care that hard, but I never wake up at the same time every day and now I’ve promised Raymond I’d meet him around 5:00 PM at the water front tomorrow. I sent him off with spaghetti, a peach, a ginger water, and a piece of cake and I’ll need my fancy containers back.
I don’t know what I’ll give him tomorrow, probably not as much as I already have… I need to hit up Sam’s Club (sorry to cheat on your store, Deli Man) and get some vegetables. Although, last time I bought brussel sprouts at Sam’s, they had these little nodules inside of them that I didn’t like the looks of. So… maybe the “cheap veg” route isn’t going to work for me, after all.
I was thinking about sharing a steak with Raymond on Tuesday. I don’t know why, exactly, but I just get the feeling it’s the right thing to do. I can only eat half of one at a time, anyway, and it’s best when fresh. (Thanks, Mr. Romano, for turning me into a steak snob!) Oh, you know… my parents have had pot pies in the freezer for at least three months. That’s far too long, IMO, so maybe I’ll take him a couple of those tomorrow. And a coffee pot because somehow my mom has five of them in the house.
I’m not organized. I don’t even know if he has access to a microwave. I should have asked, but since I just remembered there was food everyone else forgot about… (Well, I’d eat them if there was no dairy in them, fools! Or potato. Or carrot. Or peas. So, if the pot pie wasn’t a pot pie, I’d eat it.)
I used to be the epitome of organized. I miss those days. And having my own apartment with gleaming white counters for miles. I’m ashamed of how I left as it is… but there is nothing one can do about nearly dying of malnutrition and starvation other than just EAT EAT EAT. Except I’m allergic to more than half of creation. Also, might I add, you can only put in about 300 calories every three hours, so it’s like… impossible to catch up without a bunch of pills to pop, too.
It’s the only way I made it out alive, y’all!
The answer is yes, you goofball. (YES, WHAT?!?!?!?!?! We’re going to die hanging on the word Yes if you don’t tell the rest of us, Sansara!)
It’s The Deli Man, y’all. He asked a question and I answered it. This is like The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. They created a massive computer to calculate the answer to Life, The Universe, and Everything… which is 42. But what’s the question?!
In this case, I know the question: Was she really looking at me?!
You have eyes. Your perception of reality is really real. You don’t have voices talking you out of things… or maybe you do. In the form of former lovers who just won’t allow you to be happy now that you’ve departed and they figured out they’re more miserable than ever, as if that’s your fault for not fulfilling their narcissistic agenda. [Throws a dart. BULLSEYE!]
What? God said I hit the target. Dead center. All people on planet Earth are suffering from this bullshit. HOW DARE YOU BE HAPPIER WITHOUT THEM?!
How dare you exist with eyes that sparkle now that they’re gone!
How dare you have hope and a smile!
How dare you, indeed.
Tell them to go to hell about nine million times while you rest your hands over your hearts, children of Earth. It might take you a few months to get them out of the backs of your minds, but I have faith in you. You can do it!