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My Primordial Stench

I am marinating in my mild body odor, sitting here while I contemplate all that is, was, and ever will be. I’m not yet offensive in my own eyes, so it’s neither here nor there that I haven’t taken a shower yet. It’s 2:45 in the afternoon and I know I must wash myself and leave the house. I sip my coffee, munch my organic blue corn chips (which are not nearly as good as the former Wegmans blue corn chips), and marvel how the two flavors combine to taste something like a pretzel. A food I cannot eat and do not typically want but miss all the same.

I wonder if coffee and blue corn maize can be mixed together and dried into some sort of “pretzel” strips? Baked or fried then salted, sold by the bag to drink with water. Or more coffee, if you like.

How on Earth do coffee + blue corn == pretzel? It’s almost as bad as everything tasting like chicken, in the end.

Pretzels are not a snack that I am hugely fond of, but I do recall eating pretzel rods as a child and doing silly things like eating them in a pattern that resembled a spear head the whole way to the tiniest nub. I like to play with my food, I suppose.

I just ate a whole avocado, mashed, with a big dollop of avocado oil and some salt. I put it on these blue corn chips (again, inferior to Wegmans, but Wegmans stopped carrying theirs) and I ate it all. I even put parsley in it this time for a little extra je ne sais qois. It’s not why they taste like pretzel together, I assure you of that. My obsession with blue corn chips goes back at least twelve months. My obsession with avos goes back about three.

If I eat too many blue corn chips, it’s just as bad as adding sugar back into my diet, so I try to be mindful of how many I eat… however, when one is eating a whole avocado, I reckon it’s at least 20. That’s two servings, according to this particular bag of chips, or about 40 grams of carbohydrate. I don’t think the carb count particularly matters that much, though the net carbs are important to a diabetic. That would come out to 30 grams exactly for two point two portions. I’m not diabetic, but I think my mother is. She won’t listen to me, either, buying sugar-laden treats at the grocery store every single time we run out of dessert for too long.

I will make desserts but she barely touches them because I don’t add sugar and butter and they are gluten-free. It’s almost like that’s the trifecta that leads to binging these horrible things we say is food. It’s not food. Not for human beings. It’s yeast and mold food, though. That’s what is in your guts, screaming and crying at you to eat another roll, eat some more cake! Eat another cinnamon bun! Eat, eat, eat! MANGIA! in Italian.

I hope not-so-secretly that my future husband is of Italian descent. Italians love food and love cooking and they love spending time with people. It’s not even a product of nurture; my high school bestie is an Italian (Sicilian, specifically) and wanted to hang out all the time and have a rather constant companion. Having a boyfriend really put a wrench in that, sadly. She never understood why I wanted one, either, being asexual and never being raped in her life, I reckon. At least, not during the time I’d known her and the time she was innocent before that.

Anyway, my last best friend was also Italian. I instantly get along with Italians, and not even by design. It just happens. I’m not sure why I’m different than most Americans, but it’s probably my shaman training.

I might as well do to you what was done to me, and let loose an entire nation of Solsingers to do as they will. I trust you to do your best at all times. I know sometimes we all fall short of that, especially as I plant another flaming katana into Nick’s forehead again and again. I mean, he totally deserves it. But on the other hand, I’ve committed seppuku nine times already and I can absolutely tell you it hurts less than being raped.

I was raped again yesterday. I keep asking who did it. They all point fingers at each other. Oh it was him! Nope, it was him! God, tell me the truth!!!!! [Someone pretends to be God and points the finger again.] It’s no use, nobody wants to own it… so… I set the world on fire today. I’m sorry if it feels a little hot in here. Quick, get the marshmallows and toasting sticks!

I don’t know the particulars of being raped, but I do know one thing: this is how my ultra psychic life began in March of 2021.

I was crying and begging not to die. It happened over and over and over again. I believe this was because of Nicholas Forsythe, the man I thought I was talking to in my brain. It happened no fewer than fifteen times. Then, an individual who identified himself as Odin, came to me and rescued me from the big bad wolf temporarily. It wasn’t long before Nick found his way back, feeding me lie after lie about coming to America to feed me well again, daydreaming me eating fucking waffles every single goddamn day.


  • 2 cups oatmeal ground finely
  • 1.75 cups water or “milk”
  • 1/2 cup avocado oil
  • 1 tbs vanilla extract


  • 1 tbs maple syrup
  • 1 tbs tahini

I made these fucking waffles every day. Four waffles. Two for each of us… that was the idea. I ate them all because the bastard was in the United Kingdom for all I knew without one gram of compassion. Not one ounce! Oatmeal was feeding the yeast in my system and, not only that, I was succumbing to malnutrition quite quickly. He was killing me.

So God threw away my job and put me in the hospital. There, I ordered a bunch of food and ate a great variety, discarding even the gluten-free bread because it was cardboard anyway. Not only that, but all it’d do is feed my new yeast infection from this awful diet the man incidentally put me on, trying so hard to earn his love it was unreal. I was dying but I needed to earn his love. I could barely hear Nick in the hospital, so that was nice.

I stab thee again, Nicholas. You do not deserve a title such as the likes of “sir.” You did not earn it.

That, my friends, is conditional love. It’ll literally kill ya.

This “man” points the finger at his competition, Joseph the Grey Eyed Deli Man, to say to me that he is the rapist. Ben joins in, proclaiming he has zero blame in the matter. It was absolutely Joe, thinking about his ex and comparing us together while he stroked his wood about 5 PM CST on Tuesday, 12/6/2022. It lasted for twenty or more minutes. That would be 11 PM GMT or 6 PM EST or 3 PM Pacific. The man who has been thinking about me eight months solid is supposedly now comparing me to his ex-lover. Just now.

This is happening in every woman’s head all the time, by the way. The only difference between me and them is I can tell. Perhaps I should awaken all the women in the world who are being raped so keenly so they can begin to fight back. Perhaps if every woman started stabbing every raping man in her head, we’d be somewhere by next Christmas. Or maybe even this Christmas, but I doubt it. It’s too close.

(Why Christmas? No reason, it’s the next major US holiday. We should honestly celebrate all holidays, big and small, for all religions since we’re the melting pot of America, n’est-ce pas?)

Perhaps men don’t deserve enlightenment. I could make a great case for this with The Creator, but he actually simply agrees with me. Those who are being wronged should be empowered to do something about it. I have to tell you, the number of rapists in my head has dwindled substantially once I stopped dressing to “look good.” Now I just dress to feel good, wearing sweats and pajamas nilly willy everywhere I go. [To the abhorrence of all Wegmans customers everywhere. We’ve got “standards.” Yeah… rape standards.]

She ruminates on her growing B.O. It smells good to her for a little while, only turning rancid after a minimum of twelve hours.

Am I the only person who does this? I can’t be. I cannot be the only person on Earth who appreciates honest to God fresh B.O. So, fuck all you people who act like it’s a travesty to smell like yourself. You’re raping yourself, stripping yourself of all the oils in your skin and bacteria on your body constantly. Not all of it’s bad, you imbecile. We are 3/4 comprised of bacteria. We have to let the good guys win!

It’s good to sweat, too. I’ve learned that over the past year, that’s for sure. It rids the body of parasites. So those of you in the Midwest, in your constant comfort zone of 69 Fahrenheit, with expanding bellies as you eat your steak medium-rare and your pork slightly under cooked and your chicken slightly under cooked… be aware now that you are killing yourselves. Get into a sauna once or twice a week. They have them at select gyms. Wear bottoms, ffs, you filthy animals.

My back and neck have bothered me for almost a week now. I’m in pain every time I look over my left shoulder. My left arm is slightly dislocated at the shoulder and I can’t seem to get it to slide back into the socket, no matter how I twist or ape or turn. I thought about going to a chiropractor because it’d be a good use of money, in my opinion, and of course Nick, the one obsessed with wasting my money on everything but my health, declares it’s a waste. The same man who turns around and looks up marijuana seeds so that he can throw a bunch of money at it, and then subsequently murder the plants instead of actually making bank with it.

He wants me to stay away from a chiropractor because he wants me to be tortured and in pain. The only person who cries when I’m in intense pain is Joe and, formerly, Phil. I asked Phil to move on, though, because I think he’s more innocent than I can handle right now. He seems so lovely and I wouldn’t want to hurt him… but it seems that’s the nature of the beast. We just hurt each other endlessly.

Nick wants me to flush my money down the toilet all because I refuse to give it to him now that he’s raped me so many times.

She stabs him again. This time, it’s in the heart.

This “man” is a shyster. A con artist. He tells me he wants to be married, he tells me he was engaged once, he also told me he was no longer engaged/single again, and then I propose to him and no, no. I’m not allowed to know I want to spend my life with the idiot based on the relationship we’d had as friends. This is heinous and ridiculous and a terrible judge of character, I learned later, as God pried me away from him. How it felt in a short video clip.

I feel like I was both the Rabbit impostor and Eddie simultaneously, somehow.

He’s been doing this to me for over a decade, this whole “He did it!” routine while raping me. I wasn’t able to wise up without hearing them all in stereo. He’s misled me, destroyed relationships, and otherwise hurt everything that I am.

She sets him on fire this time.

She drops an anvil on him, while he’s on fire.

She folds up his flattened remains and mails them to the end of the galaxy. No. Universe.

God, help me, please.

I have been hearing these morons in my head for far too long. I murder myself all the time to try to get rid of them. Don’t think I haven’t tried setting myself on fire, diving into a vat of [healing] acid and staying there until I dissolved [thrice], or a number of other tactics to try to be rid of this asshole.

Please tell me whatever it is that will do it. I’ll do it. Even if it’s suicide in the real. I’ll do it.

He had it coming.

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