Now there’s a movie I forgot amongst the comedy gems I own. I try to own copies of things to support artists and actors, but it’s not always that easy, is it? Musicians get paid the most from their merch, I heard a long time ago, and I can only own so many t-shirts (and can only afford so many t-shirts at those prices…)
“Bunny, BALL, BALL!”
I can feel the wheels of my chakras turning faster than they were before. I made a perfect spirit-warming soup, I guess, earlier today. (Thanks, God. You are the best cook ever.)
You want to challenge him to a duel? A cooking duel? Now that sounds like Cooking Master Boy (and right up His alley, to boot.) But what is the challenge? We live on food stamps currently and do pantry diving. It’s not like it’s Iron Chef or The Great British Baking Show. (Oddly enough, that’s a show we just can’t look away from somehow even though it’s generally a disaster.)
If you want to beat God at cooking, let’s start with a baked good: VANILLA CAKE WITHOUT ANY SUGAR OR FAKE SUGAR. We’re sorta stuck on that right now, but it’s okay. We’ve got ideas… whenever I run out of failure #2.
If you want to beat God at something that does not get baked, then we’ll give you a run for your money on stir fry, tyvm. He’d let me face off with you instead of him; we’ve made stir fry 200 times now, I’m pretty confident I know what I’m doing. And when I say stir fry, I don’t mean Chinese style stir fry, though I do use a wok because I like making a lot of vegetables all at once.
Oh yeah. It’d be a vegetable stir fry. I’m sure your interest has faltered suddenly because vegetables aren’t fun.
Let me give you a challenge that is short and sweet:
Stir fry asparagus and perfect making them slightly charred on the outside while the inside is still firm and crunchy. Add a bit of salt. Enjoy in the stead of French fries. 🙂
I don’t know what to do with you if you don’t like asparagi.
The assholes in my head are really getting nasty lately. I don’t know what I ever did to warrant this kind of treatment. They continuously pretend to be a man I’ve never met, role-playing asking me to marry him the first time we stumble into each other and one of us talks. It’s like… why? What are they trying to perfect? The way to ask a stranger for her hand in marriage? Isn’t that a bit preposterous in this day in age?
(By the way, if you are that guy, and you do want to marry me, yes. Sure. But I’m putting you on probation to make sure you’re not a serial killer or a rapist or anything like that.)
But really… WHY? Why are they wasting precious energy tormenting me? Why does any man or woman waste precious energy over-thinking about men or women no longer in their arms or in sight? Why does anyone daydream of kissing a specific stranger? What is the purpose of this stupidity? And why do y’all constantly cheat on your women and men this way?
I’ll probably never get an answer I like. The only answer that is possible is as follows:
“I’m a fornicator, that’s why.”
That’s right. If you sit around wasting your time thinking about being balls deep in anyone, you’re fornicating, even if it’s your wife. She’s not there to join you and you can make her do anything you please in your head, including whatever it is she refuses to do in the bedroom. That’s psychic rape, asshole. Stop doing it.
Nick wants to know why I won’t fall for him pretending to be the deli man, asking me to marry him over and over. I told him we’re in the middle of a divorce; why on Earth would I want to reverse it? He has a serious communication issue and I’m not longer interested in knowing why. I don’t even care if he was hit by a bus and that’s why he never accepted my marriage proposal because I have two words for you, buster: STEAM FRIENDS.
I watched you play video games, dickhead, while you weren’t talking to me. SMITE. SMITE is the one you think about me the most while playing. God of War, too, jackass. That one must require more of your brain power. HINT: YOU ALWAYS FUCK WITH MY HEAD DURING SMITE MATCHES.
All of you sitting around twiddling your thumbs telling me that I’m not possibly psychic, I’ll tell you right now: I shouldn’t know when I can go over to my computer and check my Steam friends list to see my friend Nick playing SMITE because suddenly he’s thinking of me and talking to me in my head. I don’t know his schedule because he hasn’t got one. He’s self-employed (barely) and only cares about making enough money to eat food. How is it this man who sporadically sleeps all day in summer time (and, well, any time, honestly), doesn’t even shower every fucking day, always takes Saturdays offline, and his birthday offline, and Christmas offline… outside of those three constants, nothing else is ever the same from week to week. I should know, I paid attention to my side of things. How could I know while I’m cooking dinner, rooms away from the computer, that he turned on SMITE? I checked the first five times and then trusted myself that I knew when he was there, periodically re-checking the facts. Yup, he’s playing that game again. Harassing me in ethereal, psychically connected to me.
That’s how I came to the idea that we had telepathy with each other.
Maybe it’s just a cosmic joke by God. Okay, fine. So God told me when a mortal boy was playing a video game every time he turned on because…????? Why would God even bother? Doesn’t God have better things to do with the concept of time than tell me when dickhead wanted to romance me? (I assume he’s married, by the by, so I’m sorry, Mrs. Forsythe. BTW, he daydreamed me gasping that while on top of his cock, as well, in February or March of 2021. I’d divorce his ass, if I was you. Yes, yes, yes. I want to be Mrs. Forsythe… YES!)
He has one hell of an imagination, I must say. Or maybe he was just imagining it was me on top of him instead of you.
No, I’m not playing nice anymore. I’m done with this stupid game of Simon Says STFU and submit to the man who wants to have unlimited women. He’s just like the man who raped me the most times in person. I’m sorry. I’ve misspoken. They’re both boys.
I’m irritated because he continues to try to pretend he’s this grey-eyed man from the Wegmans deli named Joe. Today, he gave me the phone number “814-225-2265.” I looked it up and found out it belongs to a place about a half day travel away from where I live. So I asked him to name a business there. He told me Holiday Inn, which was in the bottom left of the Google Maps screen. There is no hotel in the town that owns the 814-225 area code and exchange. And then he called me a bitch for fact-checking his bull shit and reprimanding him with the Hand of God.
My tea is cold again. Do I get to live in the Hell of zero hot beverages for life? Lame.
Nick could have been with me instead of daydreaming it was me while he had sex with another woman. He could have done that any time, just about, in an entire decade. However, according to the Supreme Being of Righteousness, he has raped every woman he’s been with since 2010. He continuously superimposes me over her while in coitus. This is rape. You have been raped. God tells me he raped over 100 women in this time frame. That’s only 144 months. That’s like a new woman every month. I’d be shocked if he doesn’t have an STD, but God tells me he does and he knows it. And he never discloses it prior to unprotected sex. That is also rape, ladies. That one you can prove with a lifelong illness… or so the medical industry says.
First, take him to court. Then try becoming a reiki master and seeing if you can heal it away while increasing your vitamin intake substantially and decreasing the foods your body is intolerant of. It just might allow for your body to fight it off for good. I have no proof to show you, but it wouldn’t hurt you to try.
We’re talking 6 cups of vegetables every day, 2 cups of fat (avocados are great for this), and about 1/2 pound of meat (or more, if you want to be a strong lady like me.) That’s the minimum you should eat. Oh yeah, and two apples. And if you really want to give your immune system the best shot, you take a B complex to boot and a multi-vitamin to counteract all those fucking years you starved yourself for no fucking reason. Men aren’t worth it, honey.
A real man doesn’t give a shit if you’re a bikini model or a stripper [Candy Cane.] A real man loves you for what’s on the inside. He might also really love your face, but scars happen. Broken noses and things like that can happen. Wrinkles and sagging skin happens. It’s supposed to happen. We should celebrate growing old and wise and rap the heads of young whippersnappers to get it through their thick skulls that we are an authority. This whole looking 12 for your entire life bullshit is just that: bullshit. It’s a mirage we’re sold to buy into rape culture.
You bought a front seat ticket, didn’t you?
Let me give you an exchange:
Stop. wearing. underwear. in. public. <– Guess who came up with that idea?
Stop wearing makeup all the time. <– Guess who?
Stop wearing bras, especially if they pinch (and you know they do!) <– Got a guess?
Stop wearing skirts men can put their hands up to rape you. <– Again, who?
Stop wearing halter tops and tube tops so men can’t envision popping out a teat to suck on.
Stop wearing bodycon dresses you can barely fit into because that’s what men drool over.
Stop painting your nails and toe nails and showing them off.
Stop wearing shorts that are just panties. You know the ones.
Maybe even stop wearing skin-tight anything. I know, it’s mostly comfy, isn’t it? It never snags on anything, especially if there are no belt loops. I know.
Demand pockets.
Demand MORE POCKETS.
DEMAND POCKETS THAT CAN HOLD SHIT.
Oh, but it doesn’t emphasize my ass to the rapists, girl, I can’t do that!
If you are dressing up to show off your body to yourself, stay home and stare into your body-length mirror. Get your confidence boosted, take it off, and put on something that leaves everything to the imagination.
Guess what happens when you do that?
Nothing. Nobody fucking bothers you while you’re trying to buy your groceries. Nobody tells you that you’ve got a bangin’ body. Nobody tells you cheesy pickup lines. [I haven’t tested this in a bar but I guarantee you that nobody wants to take me home for failure to wear the dress code. There is no other reason. Hehhehehehee…. God, they think I’m ugly!!!]
- Fuck you.
- Fuck you again.
- You deserve to be raped if you dress up for rapists!
I said it. Burn me at the stake already!!!!1!!!
We done, Crystal said suddenly. She was quite tired of trying to deliver the message. Tomorrow, we will dress up. It’s Sunday tomorrow. We will wear makeup and earrings and prove to the world it matters. We won’t even dress like a whore at all. We’ll just wear her makeup and some earrings. A cape-like coat and fitted jeans with cute ass boots. Not a shred of flesh showing except hands and face. I bet someone asks her for her phone number.
She has gone all year with two people giving her compliments: 1) I like your hair. 2) Nice choker.
We’re not even going to wear a choker. You can’t see it underneath a winter coat. Just makeup. That’s it. We are on a quest for… damn. I forgot… oh, right. A mortar and pestle. They range from $13.00 to $100.00. Certainly most department stores should have one on their shelf.
Okay, I’m cutting off Ben before we go too far down the rabbit hole. The poor man is such a sore loser. You know what “God” told me today? He gave a little girl herpes. It was Ben, by the way, who told a woman who was raped as a child, that he raped a child and gave her herpes.
Right, so the real Crystal is in here somewhere.
<<<<< End Transmission. >>>>>
Angel-Sansara 