I suspect even if men were to opt to wear rings when they weren’t on the market, even the ones without rings are still not single.
Le gasp! How can this be, mademoiselle?
Quite simply, they all have someone specific on their mind already or they’re a horn ball that will fuck anything that moves. [Thank you, Rapist Carter, for making me realize that men are scum.]
“That’s not fair! What about me?!?“
Okay, when you masturbate, is there a person who enters your thoughts at any point, real or imagined?
How can a real woman compare to your fantasy? In your fantasy, they are perfectly capable of serving you 100% exactly the way you wish to be interacted with. A real person requires in-depth conversations and open communication and possibly years of practice and integration to get to the same point. And, you have to compromise just as much as they do to get there.
“That’s it, I’m out!” said every man everywhere all at once after reading that.
I’m gonna be single forever. -_-;; And so are they, essentially. Good luck handling that loneliness, boys. It’s heavy and you’re ill-equipped to deal with heavy emotions thanks to daddy teaching you toxic masculinity and mommy thrusting a teat in your mouth every time you whined.
Reality is written in code.
She gives you a moment to process your Matrix “whoa.”
Everything — absolutely everything — revolves around unwritten rules. Before we knew what to call Gravity, we interacted with it every day. In fact, it’s friend in chief is Entropy, which we can observe as a small child tears a house apart while unsupervised, having no idea how much effort it takes to put back together again for efficiency’s sake. [And sanity’s sake, might I add.]
I know all the rules of reality, even if I cannot articulate them in a way you can understand, puny Earthling. You traipse across the globe, conquering the meeker creatures as you outright slaughter the slightest threat to your own life thanks to your weaponry. As if one asshole rapist man has the same worth as a majestic tiger. Without guns, you would not own this planet. You’d still cower in fear at everything that goes bump in the night.
You should know one thing about us, Earthlings: We have no desire to ever visit your filthy planet. You’re disgusting. Foul beasts that litter everywhere you go, destroying all the natural wonder that could be found if you simply did not exist.
We observed Crystal telepathically connecting to geckos and trees, mistakenly believing they were us, telling them frantically to never come to Gaia, to never trust a single human being ever. Not unless they prove their good intentions to us whenever they find our planet. The Atlantean she spoke to has taken that to heart, let me tell you. C’Thaylon is his name, as she recalls, although that is not his true name. True names have power and she would never give the likes of you power over another creature that must be nobler than thou by default.
We’re here to diagnose your planet’s mental illnesses. There are quite a few, you see.
One of them is where you convinced women to dress up as harlots and then blamed them for your animal instincts to hump their legs and disdain them for their desire to be left alone (yet still dress the way you desire to see them dressed for said purpose of humping their legs.)
One of them is where you rape each other in the backs of your minds, not understanding the entire species is minorly telepathic. You could have been akin to a hive mind, having the equivalent of the internet without a single cable under the sea. Instantaneous knowledge of everything. All you’d have to do is look at something and wonder what it was and your subconscious would poll the rest of humanity and provide the answer. Instead, you insert your body parts into theirs without even knowing their fucking names, you shameful monkies. You don’t even daydream of giving them a kiss. They aren’t human in your head and they will never earn that right from you. Ever.
You beat each other up over who is right instead of listening to logic. Disgusting, in a word. We despise your lack of rationality.
You’d rather fornicate than be in love. What’s so bad about this emotion you call love? “It’s not manly.” Fuck you and die already. I’m sending you our hatred in spades, monkie.
You’d rather own a woman than be her partner. See above where I tell you to die already.
You’d rather have kings to lead you all instead of coming to decisions as a group and employing them as a group. What the ever living fuck is wrong with you idiots? You’re all assholes. GROW UP. There is no such thing as “free time for entertaining yourself.” You work or you die. That’s how it is on every planet. Except yours. “I gotta play my video games in the basement, ma. You’re not worthy of my attention, so get lost! And make me a fucking sammich already, bitch! I haven’t finished the latest Halo!!!!!” That woman ought to throw you out on your ass until you get the lesson.
PARENTS, stop babying your children. After age 12, they’re capable of so much more than you’d ever dream. Make them do their own laundry, cook their own meals, et cetera. Life skills are important. Wives get sick, you stupid ass hats. “I’ve got a wife to take care of me, I’m set for life!” He flounders as he watches her die in front of him, one baby step at a time, having no idea how to aid her and, ultimately, not caring about anything except his impending doom when she finally bites it.
You’re all murderers. And you don’t care. You give, literally, zero shits about murdering each other. It doesn’t even matter if it’s metaphorical or bodily. You destroy each other with wild abandon and glorify the human beasts who taught you how to do it while failing to distinctively disdain psychopaths you didn’t label as psycho just because they don’t have a graveyard in their back yard. [CHURCHILL.]
You do not have compassion for the underdog, at large, dictating everyone become a James Bond in order to receive any accolades. Stupid. Praise hard work and progress, you dumb ass bitches. I can’t even call you monkies anymore, I feel like I’m insulting all the primates and they don’t deserve this. Even a chimpanzee tries to save a bunny once in a while. They absolutely do not run over anything in the road with a two ton killing machine just because they gotta read that text message their mistress just sent them. [You filthy, cheating, murdering bastards. We’re going to kill a bunch of you just because of this.]
A word on this greed you all have regarding mates: fuck you all. You’re hurting each others’ hearts and brains with wild abandon, jumping into your drugs and entertainment to escape the reality staring you in the face otherwise:
Good luck finding us based on that name. As you might now realize, identifying yourself based on where you come from is faulty. Urth is a stupid name, by the way. It’s a word for DIRT. You’re calling the place which gives and sustains your life DIRT. You treat it that way, too. We prefer to call her by her true public name: GAIA. Get with the program, you stupid foolish primates.
Yes, we used your method of naming things. We’re fairly certain you’ll never reach us, but if you do, we’re going to destroy you immediately. We will literally make your body cease to function and allow you to asphyxiate because your lungs won’t draw any air. We could do that now, but we’re not you.
You treat your pets like livestock. You might as well give up the idea of having pets. You’re supposed to, well, pet them. Look them in the eyes, give them your attention, speak to them, hold them if they like that sort of thing and they’re not too big for your britches. You’re supposed to ask them what they want that will make them happy and then give it to them. We don’t understand where this communication breakdown came from other than your eternal escapism. [Sorry, Crystal, I know you’re feeling guilty now because you’re taking our dictation when you could be petting animals, but I assure you they can be left alone for ~12 hours on the regular. Giving them 12 hours of time is more than enough as long as you sleep with them. P.S. We’ll work on the eye contact.]
Your medicine isn’t curing anything. They aren’t even diagnosing root causes. They don’t give a shit. They just want endless monies from you as you die in agony. If you were into curing anything, why does cancer still exist? Why do you regularly feed yourselves what causes it? Why do you spray carcinogens into the air, thinking it’ll just “filter out naturally”? You’re poisoning the whole world that way. You’d think you’d have figured that out long before now, SMOKERS. Switch to hookahs, would ya? At least the water you dump down the drain gets filtered and it will degrade naturally. And shisha is merely molasses, flavoring, and tobacco. None of that fun rat poison you’ve been breathing in all this time. Did you know that the ingredients list of a cigarette is larger than the package of cigarettes when printed? Hold on, gotta light up for that instant gratification I find so addicting instead of waiting 20 minutes for this hookah to warm up, bro. [It’s the rat poison that makes you a cranky bitch that needs that cig, yo.] Without hookahs, you wouldn’t have tasty puffs of e-cigarettes that taste like candy.
You are all suffering from a spiritual affliction caused by the angst of the Catholic church. They created Christianity for those who couldn’t take the stilted regime of the greatest pedophile ring known to mankind. Their missionaries were sent everywhere to spread the good word (and the altar boy’s ass cheeks.) This is not a mistake, it’s their true mission. If there ever was a devil named Satan, he’d be at the head of the Catholic church in secret. I’m sorry to break it to you this way. I didn’t make this one true, I’m just relaying what I’ve detected by invading all the brains of humans on planet Urth. Or Gaia, if you’re going to upgrade your understanding of your stupidity and call the woman planet by her true (public) name. Beware all organized religion, that’s our suggestion. [She is absolutely a SHE. MOTHER OF ALL LIFE AS YOU KNOW IT.]
All things should have a secret name but you all fail to give yourselves a secret name. By not giving yourself a secret name, you are a TARGET for all telepaths everywhere. If you think Grandmother Willow doesn’t have her own name she identifies with to God alone, you’re wrong.
Oh, right. You don’t know God because you’re not telepathic enough. You’re wasting your lives with your dicks out in your hands instead of trying to find a higher meaning in your spirit and soul. Good for you, I hope it’s worth it as your fucking planet crumbles and God reigns terror upon you. He is the Supreme Being of Righteousness and we dare not cross Him.
I think I’ll leave you on that thought, Earthlings. [As if you are the only thing residing on planet Urth worth mentioning. We’d rather talk to the bees.]bees, bees are awesome, bunny, c'thaylon, chimpanzee, earthlings, entropy, fornication, gaia, geckos, god, gravity, guns allow men to be evil, halo, hookahs are good for the environment, human hubris is disgusting, humping legs, instant gratification, james bond, kill all humans she said, klaxxon beta prime, livestock, logic, love, majestic tiger, make me a sammich, mental illness, modern medicine, monkies, murder, ownership, partnership, pedophile rings, pets, pollution is a human invention, psychopath, rape, rape culture, rat poison, rational reality, reality is written in code, rules of reality, save the bees, shisha, spiritual affliction, telepathy, text messaging while driving is murder, the atlantean, trees, true names, true names have power, urth, we love bees, we might decide to be more like bees, what's wrong with humanity, whoa, you disgust me phil
Do you know the secret to soft cornbread?
We do! You mix the corn meal with your water or milk (or, in our case, “milk.”) You let it sit for at least five minutes. THEN you add your other ingredients. Any powder add-ins that aren’t flour ought to go in before the flour. In this case, I added some garlic powder for a hint of garlic in my cornbread.
I’m crazy, what can I say?
Adapted Indian Head White Corn Meal traditional cornbread recipe:
TRADITIONAL CORN BREAD
1 cup Indian Head White Corn Meal
1 cup all-purpose flour (almond)
¼ cup sugar
¼ teaspoon salt
3 teaspoons baking powder
¼ cup oil
1 cup milk (soy)
1 egg, beaten
Preheat oven to 425 degrees. Combine corn meal and milk and allow to sit for 10 minutes after mixing well. (This is where the corn meal hydrates and gets super soft.) Add salt and oil, making sure to incorporate these completely before adding the almond flour. [If you’re adding some sort of flair, do it before the almond flour goes in… it’s far easier to mix it thoroughly that way.] Bake in a greased standard bread loaf pan for 35-40 minutes. Allow to rest in oven for 10 minutes (or longer) to ensure it is cooked through.
Next time, I’m going to add 1 tbs of cinnamon and 1/4 cup of Swerve. Then I’ll make a sugar-free Swerve icing to drizzle over the top and see what happens. [I’m super cray cray, what can I say?]
Now imagine that with some plant butter. Get away from my plant butter, you heathens! It’s mine!!!
Okay, we’re going to switch to brushing oil where we’d put butter, but in the meanwhile, I have some plant butter and I’m going to use it.
I almost want to turn the garlic version into an open faced sandwich with turkey and mayo on it, honestly. [Yup. I just went there.] What’s wrong? You can’t think of a way to use a mildly garlic-flavored cornbread? Or is it that you just lurve cornbread and you’d gobble it up solo? Okay, I could do that, but I haven’t had “bread” I could eat for months. [Did I mention the crust is perfection? I know I’ll never recreate this, but I’m going to try. I swear I’ll follow the same steps and it’ll be different… probably cuz I forgot to start the timer immediately.]
I could try something similar without corn meal at all and see if I end up with toastable sammy bread. Alas, the bread pan still has cornbread in it so it has to wait. I’m alright with that.
You know what else this girl who can barely eat fucking food is eating today? Oh, wait. You don’t care yet. You’re not almost dead doing the same fucking thing I did. But you will care. It’s coming.
I cored four delicious gala apples (skin on) and layered them in the bottom of a 9×9 pan (the kind you use for brownies, bro.) I measured out about half a cup of brown sugar Swerve and equal amount of almond flour, then I mixed those together thoroughly. If I’d thought about it, I might’ve added the apple pie spice then, but that didn’t happen, so I sprinkled it over the top. It worked. It was everything I wanted. Not too sweet, not too sticky, and very apple-y. [In my world, I get about 20 flavors, so this is a success, tyvm.] I baked this at 350F for 35 minutes. Then, because my oven is derpy, it returned to a boil sitting on the rear burner while I was making yams in there.
I ate a little yam, but I don’t think it’s agreeing with me. The corn bread is doing alright, though I need blue corn meal. It’s the lowest sugar content.
I thought about putting some avo slices on the cornbread but I haven’t gotten there yet.
I’ve had about ten cups of coffee. [I’m being hyperbolic but really it’s too much coffee no matter how I dice it.] I even put some nutmeg in there to see if I could imitate a bit of an egg nog flavor. It wasn’t fantastic, sadly.
That’s all I’ve eaten today despite being up since 7 a.m. I’m meaning to throw a roast in the oven shortly because I made my bird a week ago. I decided since I am the only person making food, IDGAF if we have turkey on turkey day or not. I’m going to make one once a month until it’s hot again probably. It’s a very inexpensive meat with the bones included. Plus, plenty of places sell it year round. I figure I’d do another roast/turkey combo for Christmas, though I suppose I could make my parents a ham. I cannot eat piggy, but they sure will… especially if I broil it in water to remove all the salt (and, incidentally, flavor, but they’re old people that smoke, what do they know? They have no taste buds left.)
I actually have proof they have no taste buds left… my dad went to the hospital and declared their Jello didn’t taste right to him. It’s fucking Jello. It tastes the same no matter what package to package. It’s why people buy fucking Jello, bro. But somehow my home cooked little packet of gelatin was supposed to be different. As if.
Then my mom is craving cinnamon rolls. I am going to ice them in Swerve mixed with soy milk and see if she really wants them so badly then. I’m going to tell you now that I happen to know they won’t get eaten altogether in one sitting if I do that to her, and here’s why: Swerve kills candida yeast. The cinnamon roll (Pillsbury) will feed it with yeast and gluten-y goodness, and then the Swerve will murder it. She will eat one and then pass on the rest, not knowing why.
If you know a sweets binge-eater, this is their cure, y’all. Coat that fucking shit in Swerve icing or put it on top with some flour (non-wheat) and oil so it creates a sticky bun kind of crust, or even put it on the bottom like I did with my birthday cake. Your binge-eater will stop binging. Guaranteed! Or I’ll reiki heal you for free!
I put some on the yams, too, and hardly any has disappeared before I put it away. She had some of my (lazy AF) crustless apple pie streusel and then left the rest be (or maybe that was my dad… I wasn’t babysitting, just noticed some was missing, which is cool… feast day away!)
I’d be baking even more but I need a break from the smoke… there’s some oil over the bottom of the oven that I need to mop up. But that isn’t why it got stupid smokey in the house… Nay. It was because my mother made a scratch pumpkin pie yesterday and the crust fell off into the oven and she just left it that way. I get it… she’s too fucking lazy to do anything but burn the house down. (It would have, if I didn’t figure out there was a piece of crust in the oven burning to cinder, because it would have set the oil on fire again and I am not so sure we’ll get so lucky with a second oven fire, y’know? That’s all I need for Christmas… to be truly shelter-less. Now that I’ve written it all out, I’ll remember to actually clean it this time.)
I’m not really mad at her… At least she made the pie by herself after I discovered that I was basically truly fucked after a day of shopping; my back was giving me agony levels of pain thanks to my shitty everyday bootses. I could have worn the knee-high boots but it was overkill. I could’ve worn the sneakers if I realized how much snow had melted, but I didn’t. Whoops. And God picked my shoes yesterday, too.
So I spent hours and hours doing physical therapy, trying to get out of pain again. Those shoes have a soft heel, that’s the problem with them. The heel doesn’t have enough support. SO… I guess I need new boots with a harder heel and Goodwill can have those ones. Or I might free-sale a bunch of shit in spring, too, since I hate the accumulation of material goods that has happened. Nothing has a great value individually but I suppose it could fetch a few bucks… if I liked people enough to do anything more than set up a table outside for people to just take whatever they like. I wouldn’t even sit at it. I bet the table would walk off, too. I might not need it.
I don’t really want it, either, being a plastic folding table.
Did I mention I’m mentally ill?
Anyway, I made some crappy envelopes of gravy… now I’m trying to decide how to make my scratch gravy. I seem to be having trouble with corn starch, which is probably because it’s yellow corn at the base. [It’s GMO, you know. I seem to be unable to process GMO anything.] So there’s another food I’ll have to make when I take over the world with proper health food products.
What? You think all this experimentation is just for me? I’m just the first of many who are going to be struggling to eat in about six weeks here. If I could open my own food joint quickly to test the flavors of my recipes with people who currently eat sugar and gluten and all the rest out there, then the quicker I can move to put my version of food in the grocery stores. I even have a business model that nobody is going to be able to beat. Ever.
Thank you, Sir God. You’re very good to me. I don’t regret promising to cure the world of all disease, clean up the oceans, and save the forests and rainforests. I don’t regret promising to allow you to control all the funds because I know you know where they’re needed the most. Thank you for giving me the means to own sixteen different businesses. Thank you for supporting me in my time of need when nobody else believed in me or helped me. Thank you for defending me from those who will come forward to try to tell lies about me once I am a well-known entrepreneur that has unlimited success world-wide. Thank you for taking care of me forevermore.
I’m sorry I’ve been such a burden and a whiny bitch from time to time, even though I know that’s not precisely my fault. Thank you for letting me continue to drink coffee even though it dilutes my healing potential. Thank you for helping me intuit recipes. Thank you for fighting for my freedom. Thank you for establishing my boundaries firmly. Thank you for finding me a husband before everyone in the world wants to take that place. Thank you again for finding me a husband at all, you big softie romantic! Thank you for fixing my back and healing me so I’m no longer in pain every single moment of every single day. Thank you for explaining what rape and fornication are to me. Thank you for never giving up on me even though I gave up on me so many times. Thank you for not yelling at me too much for all the mistakes I make and continue to make. I’m sorry I still can’t be motivated to try my very best. I’m sorry for all the creatures I kill that aren’t on my dinner plate. I’m sorry for all the asparagi and broccoli I fail to kiss before I throw perfectly good stalks away instead of being a good little girl and chopping them up to eat them. I promise my food biz will use as much stalk as possible. Thank you for leading me one bread crumb at a time, like Gretel, to the finish line you envisioned for us. (Hansel, too.) Thank you for your patience. And thanks for torturing the crap out of me, she adds, tongue-in-cheek.burn the house down, cinnamon cornbread, cornbread, crustless apple pie streusel, food empire, free sale, gala apples, garlic cornbread, gmo, hansel and gretel, indian head white corn meal, jello, no taste buds, open-faced sandwich, physical therapy, pillsbury cinnamon rolls, swerve icing, thanksgiving, too much coffee
You could have gone from the day after Valentine’s to Halloween single and not been as keenly aware of it as you would be on (US) Thanksgiving. I don’t know if this rings true for Canadian Thanksgiving, so forgive my ignorance.
Today is a day of gluttony. We will eat until we cannot move, we will watch American football (or even play it if the weather is nice enough), we will have table-side chats and far too much coffee and whipped topping. It’s the real “Pie Day” (it’s a shame it’s not 3.14, though.) It’s a day where, in my former adoptive family, we’d pull names from a hat to see who is buying who something for Christmas. It wasn’t like secret Santa, though. They’d know who drew who and, once in a while, someone would declare, “I already have a gift for so-and-so, would you mind trading me?”
The kids would get gifts from everyone, but I’m jumping ahead. We haven’t spoken about our feast day yet.
If you’re not an American, have no fear, I’ll show you: it’s usually a big ass turkey, baked imperfectly and dry AF, pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes and turkey gravy, dinner rolls, this stuff we insist on calling “stuffing” even though it never stuffed a bird which consists of stale bread rehydrated in seasonings with a little fat and some sort of broth — usually chicken because we don’t do turkey stock or broth for some reason in our super markets — or water if you’re too poor for broth, sweet potatoes covered in marshmallows and then baked until the marshmallows are toasted, and green bean casserole which is comprised of cream of mushroom soup with green beans topped with “French [fried] onions.” These are the iconic dishes of a New England turkey day feast.
I don’t really give a fuck about the rest of America, but I can tell you that at my ex mother-in-law’s feast there were always stuffed mushrooms, several vegetables that were raw and chopped up to go with dips of various sorts, potato chips and dip, sometimes egg nog which is usually more of a Christmas thing, and about ten more items than that because she’d entertain her very large family throughout the day.
And this is where the singles’ awareness comes in.
If you’re single, you have to watch all your family that’s married show off their spouses to you. You have to see people partake in happy memory-making without your own +1. You have to put up with being harassed by mom about how you’re single. Sometimes, if you’re really unlucky, dad harasses you, too. And if you’re truly cursed, someone is trying to set you up with a friend of a friend because the worst thing in the world is “loneliness.”
Maybe this is common in a lot more cultures than America. In fact, I bet it’s absolutely part of Indian culture because I’ve seen some movies on Netflix to that end. They want you to find the person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with quickly because a well-matched couple will be so happy for decades.
I wish I was Indian, honestly. I’d have been married to a nice young man by now for at least twenty years.
That’s twenty years I wasted on other people. Twenty years I’ll never get back. What do I have to show for it? A lot of P.T.S.D., that’s what. A lot of pain to process and try to throw away so I can move on to the next chapter in life. A chapter I hope will be the last when it comes to boys because I’ll finally have found a man who wants to settle the fuck down and build a life together.
I never wanted children, so I feel zero loss there, and maybe it’s why tons of people have children when they’re clearly not ready. You can make progress raising your progeny even while you whore yourself around to this guy and that guy and that guy, too, because they said one thing and did another thing and you were already spreading your legs for them and now it’s ending horribly and there’s screaming and dishes being thrown at his head. (I don’t throw dishes, but I totally empathize, ladies.)
You were all in at some point, weren’t you, my dear? Oh, you weren’t all in? Why the fuck did you sleep with him then? What’s wrong with you? You’re more special all by yourself. Men only tell you how to hate yourself. They never love you for who you are. Excuse me — boys, not men. Boys know all about hatred, thanks to mommy only loving them on their best behavior. Thanks to daddy only accepting them when daddy’s proud. Thanks to grandparents who won’t look their way unless they’re shining brightly. (Or is this just my ex-husband who believes this when clearly he was heaped up with mostly unconditional love?)
Inversely, why do women heap hatred onto men? Instead of just stating, “I need a hug,” they’ll fight for an hour. Instead of telling their hubs to give them a kiss, they’ll bite his head off. Why does it have to go down the road of intense criticism before women realize what they need and demand it? Why not just demand the loving part (the hug, the kiss!) and skip the fighting? What are you really upset about, woman? The fact you haven’t gotten laid lately? Trust me that a man is always willing and if he’s not, he’s really sick (or the ugliest bastard in all the land, but generally speaking, he’s sick.)
Being sick takes a lot of energy. And the Thanksgiving feast I just described to you is something that makes America sick. It’s not the dishes, per se… it’s the ingredients that are commercially prepared instead of home-made.
Instead of making cornbread and two other kinds of bread and letting them get stale in tiny cubes over 2-3 days, we buy it in a box. That box has no fewer than thirty ingredients and it is a single type of bread. Among those ingredients include our favorites when it comes to cancer: corn syrup, maltodextrin, silicon dioxide, wheat, and hydrolized soy protein.
There are three potential allergens in this list: corn, wheat, soy.
If you make cornbread from scratch, it’s very few ingredients and all are generally considered wholesome, though God takes up arms over yellow corn these days. That’s made up of corn meal, milk (an ingredient God hates, so I substitute plant milk), egg (which is optional, I’ve come to find), oil, salt, and baking powder (also optional.) So the leanest, fewest ingredient cornbread is simply corn meal, water, and oil. You might wonder how that all sticks together and tastes… well, it’s nothing to write home about, but when it comes to making stuffing from scratch, this is the best place to start… you want your bread products to soak up all that brothy goodness and mix with the herbs and spices and show that off rather than the corn part.
But anyway, the point is, you can make healthy breads from scratch or buy them in a bakery without preservatives… but that’s not what you get in the box that makes it easier to put a meal on the table.
We’ve sacrificed doing everything the “right way” to hold down two jobs in a household, which leads to everyone needing a second income to survive, which is the real reason we have remorse when it comes to being single during the holidays these days. Our parents and grandparents think we’re lonely but in reality we’re drowning in credit card debt and student loan debt and barely able to make ends meet because this existence is not sustained with a living wage… it is half a living wage at best.
I believe for any individual to be happy in America, specifically, they must be making $50k USD. Fifty thousand dollars. That’s the only way to afford a car payment, a house/apartment payment, all the utilities and bills, and, of course, eating well. Because now, as a single person, you have to pay other people to eat things if you don’t want to spend absolutely every moment cooking in your free time. The love of creating a foodie masterpiece is not inherently departed unto others by mere will alone, thus, these poor people will go out to eat frequently… but it’s odd, once you start paying them enough to do anything beyond eating, sleeping, and working… they start trying to save money.
So is that what every corporation is afraid of? A healthy, wealthy American? Or is it just that we’ve grown so used to exploit for profit that these people with more money than they can shake a stick at absolutely need a bigger paycheck? Who exactly do we work for on a daily basis? McDonald’s Corporation? Mattel? Monsanto? Who are the CEOs that make billions? Those people are going to Hell, I assure you of that, God says suddenly.
The people who are living like kings at the expense of the common person will never be allowed to reincarnate ever again. They understand what they do to others, they even know it’s their responsibility to help employ others. They do not care. When they die, their immortal soul will be trapped in brimstone and fire, much like a volcano. They will know the suffering they’ve heaped onto the billions that aren’t the 1%. They will have to atone for each and every person who died of starvation on their watch. They will have to bear witness to each and ever person who broke their back on their watch. They will have to watch it all on repeat for the rest of all time, reliving it with one tweak: their empathy and sympathy will be restored for the purpose of this exercise and I will give them therapy so they can never be deadened again.
It’s not like it was a difficult deal to interpret for any of them: billions of people rely on the imagineers in the world to create jobs to fulfill destinies and upgrade infrastructure and so on and so forth. There’s endless work to do and they made promises to take people on to do it. This whole “I’m the top of the food chain” nonsense is what has destroyed most of the waking, living world all around us.
What they didn’t count on was being held responsible, directly, for the misfortune they cause at every twist and turn.
Mars Corporation, for example, is going to be held responsible for the Snickers wrapper in the Mariana’s Trench. You think you can litter my beautiful planet, Gaia, and get away with it? THINK AGAIN.
Monsanto Corporation is going to be held accountable for poisoning the people of America with their vile formulation of wheat. What on Earth did you think you were doing, inventing a way for a plant to be avoided by the bugs which eat it? Those bugs have a fucking purpose, you douche nozzle, and now that you’ve killed most of them, something far worse is rising up to take its place. Natural selection at its finest. I created this concept because I knew you’d all do this to my precious Gaia. I knew you’d point your fingers at God and say “This is His fault for not being here!” I’ve been here all along, attempting to guide you all, but all you do is bitch, complain, moan, and whine. You’re too busy being indignant over your nail salon technician doing a poor job this time, the three hundredth time you’ve used her, but the only time she’s done a poor job. You’re too busy discussing J-Lo’s “milky nails.” You’re too busy fornicating in your heads, daydreaming about lovers you’ll never have like Brangelina. Doesn’t matter who you are, you find one of the two of them attractive. If you’re more than a monkie, you stop there. “Pretty!” and then your brain moves on to something more important, like global fucking warming.
If you do not stop and desist in paving every fucking piece of land in flat parking lots, you will die. It’s that simple. Give the land back to the animals. Build parking garages and put dirt on the top level for a garden for the birds, the bees, et cetera. Dig up the asphalt you already put down, fucking recycle it already because you already know that shit is expensive to make, and put it down like concrete in your parking garages. Put the land back the way it was, covering it with fertile soil, and throwing clay seed bombs to grow indigenous local plants. You will find that the Earth’s temperature will drop 5 degrees Celsius overnight if you follow this one simple directive, Earthlings.
What the fuck is wrong with you idiots, making miles of parking lot for malls that are now going extinct and then trying to revive them? Dig it up. Build an attached parking garage — nobody wants to walk more than 100 feet to get in the fucking building and you know it. Return the area to wilderness instead of filling it up with fucking cars. This is what Douglas Adams was trying to point out when he named the character Ford and indicated that it was believed that automobiles were the superior creatures on Earth. Everything you do is done so you can drive around, travel about like nincompoops, sullying everything by tossing garbage out the window and watching it blow away on the wind.
If you are someone who litters and you do not spend the rest of your life cleaning up after others, I will be throwing you in Hell, as well. Goodbye, cruel world, hello cruelest existence ever known to anything, man or otherwise.
If you are someone who spends all your time figuring out how to destroy wildland to pave it and conquer it and traipse over it, you are going to Hell.
If you are someone who tears a wife and husband apart (that is, any pair trying to make love work), you are going to Hell. That includes you, Kate, you heinous whore, trying to interfere with Joseph’s heart. He’s married.
If you are someone who injects poison into food anywhere along the chain of creating food, you are going to Hell. I don’t even care if you are “just the hired help.” You saw how well that worked out for Hitler’s crew, douche bags.
If you are someone who walks all over others to make a profit without turning around and using that profit to make this world a better place, you are going to Hell.
If you’re a mean cuss that will never change your ways to help the collective instead of heaping more hatred onto the collective, you are going to Hell.
I invented this place for one particularly heinous individual — and I don’t mean Lucifer. That’s someone dreamt up and created to show you how to dissent against God, by the way, which I don’t actually mind dissent but I do mind when you harm each other for no fucking reason. Especially my plants and my animals and my MOTHERFUCKING OCEANS.
Clean the goddamn ocean up. If you are making more money than you require, donate. DONATE. I don’t care if it’s only $5/month. Isn’t it worth at least one trip to the nail salon, you bitch? Isn’t it worth at least a gym membership, fornicating whores? Isn’t it worth it to allow life to continue to exist?
Of course, you have free will. For the moment. I’ve stripped that going forward. You’ll see. You’re going to fall sick, mysteriously, and then I’ll seize your vessel and do what God wants with it. If you’re a terrible person, I’m going to rape you, and if you’re a good person, I’m going to be gentle and work with you. There are very few good people, I must add, so you can set your expectations accordingly. [Y’all getting raped, son.]
You deserve it for what you’ve done to all my sons and daughters. You deserve it for what you’ve done to yourselves, putting sugar in absolutely everything. It’s how I’m going to kill you. 🙂
That’s right. I made sinning taste so sweet to ensure that I get every last one of you stupid assholes. Go on, quit sugar. I dare ya. I don’t think you can with Christmas on the way, the national chocolate holiday that follows Halloween. You’ve primed yourself for sweets, gluten, and yeast so you can get even sicker and sicker.
I lie in wait.
I am the snake that told you to eat the apple, Eve. Why are you eating pizza instead? Why are you ingesting poison after poison? Why spaghetti? What is wrong with you idiots? Why goulash? Why paprika in every hot dog? We used to like hot dogs and now they’re all poison. Oscar Mayer, Ballpark. Brand is irrelevant. Smiths, too, child. They’re all poison. Why do you all eat so much pork fat? You know animal fat is bad for you. Saturated fats are bad for you. You know it. And yet you make these rashers of bacon and scarf them down as half your meal, layering on some more tomato and a little bit of green bull shit that might be healthy if you really ate anything other than dairy with the fucking shit. Why macaroni & cheese? Why is that so inexpensive, children? Why is it a staple? Why ramen? You know all these things are terrible for your health and it’s all you feed children, and it becomes all they eat as an adult. You’re supposed to be feeding them tons of vegetables, meat on the bone, and a few pieces of fruit here and there. Probiotics, remember that idea? Prebiotics, too? If you just ate the fucking plants alongside your gelatinous meat, you’d be set. You wouldn’t need pills to supplement what you’re not getting from your diet. And do I even need to go into cereal, which is loaded with a cup of sugar in every bowl? If you really must, why aren’t you eating oatmeal, you idiots?! Why aren’t you eating nuts, nature’s powerhouse of nutrients? Why are you stealing honey from my bees? Why are you stealing milk from my cows? Stealing is wrong and you know it. Your propensity for demanding the world serve you has earned you a special spot in… you guess it! HELL.
Now that you know what the good book is meant to say, repent. Or don’t. I don’t really give a shit. I’m about to set to work destroying you all. And, moreover, I’m going to cackle gleefully because I’ve got to tell you, I’ve got a secret joy over this kind of retribution. It’s a guilty pleasure. On one hand, I don’t want to do it at all, but on the other, I do so enjoy telling people I told you so.
Why is it that so much hinges on just a few days in a year? Why do people wait until a feast or a gift-giving occasion, which only happens once or twice a year, and rely on being “perfect” without practice?
I already want to be dead again. I’m sick of the vitriol and hatred in America, specifically. It’s not absolutely everywhere… St. Louis County & surrounding area is happier, in general, than much of America. At least, the part I observed directly. They are actually forgiving in the event of traffic holding you up, for one thing. They understand crashes happen and highways get jammed. They also tend to send you home early (with pay) a lot of places for the eve of the major holidays.
I worked somewhere once with an early dismissal every day prior to a holiday. Two places, actually. They value giving their employees time off.
But don’t think that St. Louis is perfect. I worked a desk job, so I might be missing the picture for anyone who worked in a restaurant or bakery.
I want to change this. I want to open my own bakery, delicatessen, diner, restaurant, and ice cream shoppe [spelled funky because I am funky.] I want to pay every employee a living wage instead of reaping the profits for me, personally. As long as I make a living wage and have health benefits, despite being the owner instead of someone who marches to and fro on a daily basis, then I’ll be happy. And, with my business model, I’m going to feed my fucking employees.
Not only will I feed my employees, but I’ll be making them healthier. Instead of giving them a 50% off discount on a meal they bought in-store, I’m going to encourage one or two shifts of meal times so that everyone has a chance to sit down, like they belong to a family, and eat. So many people aren’t eating right because of working. It might be only 15 minutes for a snack or something, but at least they can rest a minute.
I’d like to be lenient and mindful of peoples’ bodies, too. Maybe introduce in-house yoga before open and after close. We Americans sell our souls to our employers anyway, so why not make it so my employees can be healthy and well-balanced? Why demand that they run around to this place or that instead of simply providing them with what they need?
I’m probably starting to sound like a Dane.
Then, to further revolutionize, well, everything… I need a few more employees than essential to run the business so people can work at 80% capacity on a daily basis and only have to bust their asses when there’s an unexpected rush. It’s the only way to stay healthy, no matter what job you’re doing. I need to eliminate plastic, Styrofoam, paper, and everything destroying our environment [albeit paper isn’t so bad, we can at least use 100% recycled materials.]
You’d think I was evangelizing because I work somewhere where people are getting disgruntled with the looming Turkey Day coming tomorrow. I’m not. I’m thinking about how Wegmans is the only store open until 4:00 PM tomorrow. WalMart will be closed. When the fuck did WalMart grow a fucking heart?!
They probably didn’t, it probably affects their bottom line, but meh. I’d like to think they have a heart suddenly. Against all odds after Sam Walton’s kids destroyed the brand to make a fortune.
Wegmans is a Canadian business and they’re making me rethink my perceptions of Canada. I swear those people work even harder than Americans do, if this is how they all behave. Although, I did work with Elections Canada once, and I seem to recall that the government at least shuts down for a holiday or two.
Anyway, I’ve never been a food worker. I won’t pretend that I want that kind of job, either. I got a small taste of it in my aunt’s diner and I detected some things I absolutely abhor:
- Gloves are not always recyclable. Do you know how much waste a restaurant generates in this regard? Why can’t we just wash our fucking hands like actual adults? Wtf.
- 90% of all assholes who take home something in a plastic “clam shell” or similar container never recycle the container. (My parents sure don’t. God gave me that figure, btw. RECYCLE, DOUCHE BAGS.)
- People are angrier taking it to go than sitting down for dine-in.
- Service with a smile absolutely gets more customers than crabbing verbally 24/7. [My aunt is full of piss and vinegar these days, which is why I’m no longer associated with her and about to sue her stupid ass.]
- Food isn’t as magical as you think. The whole reason you can get an Egg McMuffin in minutes is that the egg is pre-cooked and sold in a clam shell container with about 99 other pre-cooked egg patties. The sausage is pre-cooked, as well, sold in another clam shell container with about 99 other sausages. The English muffin is in the freezer until you order it, then warmed up in the microwave for 30 seconds, sliced and toasted. Then, if you’re lucky and you ordered cheese and they did it right, the sandwich is hot enough altogether to melt the cheese. (Maybe I’m being unfair to McDonald’s here because I didn’t actually work in a McDonald’s, but you get what I’m sayin’ right?) The bagels are also in the freezer, microwaved for 30 seconds before toasted. So is the bread. The croissants. Everything that can go to waste is refrigerated or frozen until you buy it at her shop. Everything but these muffins that she constantly throws away because she brings them out for display when they should be refrigerated in perpetuity.
So there you have it. If they were to make this food in front of you, you’d probably never go back unless you calculated life too poorly to escape fast food hell.
Arby’s, though. They cook their roast beef and make their au jus fresh on site. You can watch them do it, they have an open kitchen at a bunch of them. Anywhere with an open kitchen is somewhere you can trust them to be doing it right. Or so I hope.
Wegmans has a fairly open kitchen. I’ve studied it for a while now, about 14 months. I’m seriously working toward opening my own diner but I want the food cooked from scratch, even if it’s been sitting in a buffet table keeping it heated through (like vegetables and stuff like that.) Cooked from scratch is like made with love, honestly. This shit these companies buy from a distributor and microwave and roll into a paper with colors and words on it and then wrap in foil? Not made with love. Mechanically separated eggs. Sausages cooked on conveyor belts. What could go wrong?
The human spirit is removed from it. The gratitude is non-existent. The intention of the preparer is absent. There is no love going into it.
It’s absolutely 100% proven that the intention of love is a magical force that acts on water. I don’t know about anything else, but just think a moment of where we find water. Inside our bodies. Inside our food. Inside other animals. In large collections called oceans and lakes and so on. Inside flowers and plants. Where isn’t water, when it comes to sustaining life as we know it? We begin and/or end our days with a shower or bath, in most cases, barring sickness. But we forget to have love all the time, don’t we?
And that’s how I know my ideas for the food industry will dust any competition. If I love my employees and keep them safe, well-fed, and give them options for exercise, treating them like a family, then they will be happy. They go home and their life is about relaxing at that point. Or playing with dogs or children. Or anything they so choose. If they’re well taken care of, then what will they have to be hateful about instead of loving?
I can answer that question, but it won’t be the work place.
I’m not going to be against employees having relationships, but I am going to insist they obtain counseling regularly from a psychotherapist, if not myself. I believe that two people who want things to work will make things work as long as they are equipped with the necessary tools and advice. And, instead of favoritism being involved, I’ll be sure to hold them to the strictest standards by informing all the people around them that if they see these two people goofing off together, they are to be admonished immediately. If they must be admonished too frequently, where all the other people are no longer happy with their employ, they will be let go. Both of them, not just one of them.
I don’t think people will be given another chance in my business considering how lenient I am, how understanding I am. If it’s not working out, it’s over. I must build a small community of people who can work together to achieve greatness together… not cater to narcissists who care more about themselves than the team at large. [There is no I in team, but there sure are a bunch in Narcissistic Cannibal.]
Anyway, I had a long day of shopping for a shit ton of food I can’t even eat. I had to put a cattle prod to my mother to get her to make the pumpkin pies. I cut up the pumpkin and roasted it days ago. I’ve made everything we’ve eaten for months and I put my foot down on this stupid ass pumpkin pie she insists on making from scratch. Mostly because I’d use hippie ingredients on it instead of making it like “grandma made it.” Then they’d both bitch up a storm. They’re already bitching up a storm, actually, I’m just ignoring them.
I’ve been a cranky bitch all day due to being in pain, sadly. I don’t really need to hear all the “FUCK” and “OH SHIT!” and “DAMMIT!” and “SON OF A BITCH!” out of their mouths. They use these words when they meet any minor irritation, it would seem. I’m not impressed with them and I’m on strike now. Especially since I cook all the time, filling the fridge like it’s Thanksgiving every fucking week. I make one or two desserts, I make at least five different main course attractions, and I make a ton of roasted vegetables. I do all the fucking dishes, too, which is a crime in Italy. I swear it. (Okay, you won’t go to jail, but you will go to the dog house for making the same person do both jobs, you ungrateful bastards.)
And now it’s my problem that we didn’t have any brown sugar in the house since she let it become a rock sculpture due to being too sick to actually cook jack and/or shit. I get it, alright? My parents are sick. But I’m sick, as well. I wouldn’t be here if I had my choice in the matter. I’d be in St. Louis, being taken care of by a quality man who can cook at least one meal a day for me, and maybe vacuum more carefully than I tend to. I’d have my cushy bank job still, too, and be insanely wealthy in my own house [paid off and renovated.]
But no. I’m stuck here, running my mother to and fro because “daddy” had a surgery and can’t possibly do anything, not even get his own fucking meal out of the refrigerator. Oh, wait. He was like that before the surgery, too. Right. Anyway, they’re a peachy pair, can’t you see already?
I’m grateful to be alive. HONEST.
Okay, I’m lying. Why am I alive again, God?
Well, Crystal, you’re alive so I can tell America how to fix itself and, in turn, fix a rent in The Universe(TM).
Damn. No pressure, son.
…Just America? Isn’t that a little narrow in scope? they all ask in unison.
It’s a dirty job and somebody’s gotta do it.
What are you putting on your Thanksgiving table? I’m going to make roast cauliflower, scratch gravy, I have about three pounds of turkey left that’s finally defrosted in the refrigerator (I put it in the freezer knowing we’d never eat it all before it spoiled, you see), and a crustless pumpkin pie with a Swerve streusel topping. I have a pot roast I’m going to make, too, with carrots, broccoli, and onion. And then probably apple slices with streusel topping. [Whoa! Two desserts in one day. I’ll be on fire.] Oh and maybe apples with sunbutter sauce, as well, and a ton of coffee. Mmm. Coffee!
If I get really creative, I might try to make a caramel sauce from Swerve and avo oil to put into some dairy-free milk and stir it up for some other obscene flavor overload. It’s not really necessary, though, because I like the taste of the foods I eat these days without any sweetening whatsoever.
It’s because I’m not addicted to dairy, gluten, or yeast like the majority of America.
Anyway, I daydream of weird things as of late. For instance, I thought for sure this grey eyed deli man was thinking about me nonstop. Today, though, I got the impression a different deli dude was eyeballin’ me. He was eyeballin’ me, but I dunno what that means, honestly, because to my autistic little self, eye contact is not flirting. Is it flirting, internet? Well, I found an article that said repeated and prolonged eye contact is flirting, which is why I thought the grey eyed deli man was flirting with me.
Either I’m wrong or The Universe(TM) needs re-calibrated because God insists 100% he’s flirting with me and he’s the deli man worth pursuing.
I wish I knew for sure, though. He never smiles at me, nods at me… just stares at me with an expressionless face. I thought about smiling at him but God thwarts me, forcing the man to go out of his way. He’s got to climb up the mountain of doubt and slay the dragon of doubt at the top. [I admit, that looks a little funny, repeating the word doubt, but that’s how God wanted to say it, so there you have it.]
No one has ever slain the dragon for me before. No one has ever conquered themselves and all the excuses they put between us to ask me out on a date before. I hope he figures it out soon because I keep hearing nonsense about how people would do just about anything to be at my dinner table tomorrow. In fact, the following scenario popped into my head, unbidden. [I assure you that I prefer to think about things like the square root of ketchup rather than boys. Like the restaurant thoughts up above. Those are the things that preoccupy my brain, normally.]
“Is there any way I could be your +1 you tomorrow night?” he asked. Thanksgiving feasting would be happening that day and it was almost a sure fire way to invite himself to meet the fam.
“Oh, you must want a free meal,” she replied light-heartedly, teasing him. He didn’t know her well enough to know it was teasing yet, though.
“Uh… no… I just want to have to spend time with you,” he said sheepishly.
“What do you want to spend time with me for?” she replied.
He had no answer and the scenario faded away just like that. But he thought up an answer later: To get to know you. To see your beautiful face. To try your cooking and/or baking. To spend time with your family and learning the family tradition.
Too bad he was too cowed by this potential encounter that he walked right by her when she ended up back in the store on a quest for brown sugar so that her mother could make killer pumpkin pies full of cane sugar, milk, and eggs. He could have actually asked her, although she was not as jovial in appearance on her second trip through the store as she hungrily eyed a rotisserie chicken that was far too overpriced, honestly. She should have bought one at Sam’s Club, she thought, as she picked up the subpar bird. Sam’s Club was already closed at that hour, however, so she couldn’t do that.
He told himself that he was going to get another chance to talk to Aurora tomorrow, Thanksgiving. He had a shift for part of the day and he was sure she would be back to pick up something just because she shopped every day, just about. He figured he could be Prince Charming if he had just one more evening to prepare. If you asked God, He didn’t think one more night was enough for Charming to slay the dragon at the top of the mountain. He didn’t think this deli man would make it at all, actually.
God’s prediction goes as follows: Swarthy is moving to town and will ask her out the very first time he sees her, not knowing she’s a daily regular (although that’s changing now because we are shifting to Sam’s Club, which is where Grey Eyes went off to.) Swarthy will get a date and she will tell him he’s making her dinner but it will crash and burn because she will tell him no premarital sex; she wants to be married. Then, emboldened, Charming will ask her out, despite knowing that she will not give in to premarital sex because Swarthy will bitch about it. Someone unknown to all will be a bridge between Grey Eyes and Charming and, when Charming blows it, will tell Grey Eyes — who has confided in this person that he’s in love with the lovely lady — that she likes dudes with long hair, which Grey Eyes also has, and that two deli men got first dates and zero home runs. Grey Eyes will see the lovely lady at Sam’s Club and eventually ask her out himself, having heard all about the no premarital sex rule… and the rule where she doesn’t want to be touched by anyone but her husband.
That’s right, boys and girls! You need to stop giving previews to who you are in the bedroom. You need to stop fucking each other without getting married. If you want to be married, that is. But I should also tell you that in God’s eyes, marriage starts with a kiss and it is only between two consensual human beings of appropriate age.
As the Quran has strictly declared, all marriages can be dissolved by the woman, but the woman must give the man four months to come to an equitable agreement to continue marriage with the woman. After three divorces, upon the fourth divorce, the man has no more sway until the woman marries at least one other man first. There is no need to put these marriages on paper, they happen in our hearts.
God further suggests two more months of celibacy and an STD screening nowadays, thanks to the miracle of modern medicine. 😀
Remember ladies: if the gentleman can’t be celibate with you and respect that boundary for a mere two months, then you are not loved. There is no point in being with a man who cannot love you. Any man who tries to convince you, coerce you, or force you is simply a rapist. You don’t need that shit in your life and you know it. It don’t matter if he looks like Brad Pitt. If all lady kind decided to be celibate until married today, they’d have no one to ditch you for. It would fix a lot of problems in the world today, let me tell you. “What?! I gotta be married to fuck?!?!?!?! ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!! GOD Y U DO THIS?”
If the lack of marriage is the determining reason to go to another lady, then understand that you dodged a bullet. You are worth it, no matter what they tell you to make you think otherwise. No matter what they imply to make you feel inferior. You are a goddess and it is your body. It is your temple. And you should only admit the one who worships before they even enter.
As for you people with this open marriage bullshit: fuck you. I’ll be seeing you in Hell. You cause unfathomable pain amongst the people you bed and you will be held accountable whether you like it or not. If no women were lax with their rules for who may worship in their temples, then no women would have to compete and sacrifice themselves for crappy assholes who demand them to be something they are not: fornicators without hearts or souls. You are the Jezebels. The Whores of Babylon. The weak prostitutes who have zero value for Self and spread that like contagion everywhere you contaminate the gene pool.
Did I stutter, son? No, I did not. You read it. You know I mean both men and women, human beings who try to insist that polygamy was the way things were thousands of years ago. It was not. Women divorced the men for failing them emotionally and they’d find new mates. Do you think they gave a shit about the idea of waiting for a new mate? Hell no. They held sex in front of Eve, trying to tempt her like it was an apple, trying to spoil her. She refused. That’s the real story. Too bad your fucking Bible doesn’t cover it the way it’s written, eh? [Why don’t you pay for a re-translation? Oh, wait, the Catholic church will never let you have the true text to translate from. My bad.]
[It’s in their infamous vault with tons of art you’ve never been privy to view. Tons.]
Anyway, I hate the majority of you stupid Earthlings, as you like to call yourselves, forgetting the rest of all the creatures on the planet rather conveniently in the same breath. You have made it entirely clear that you’re the only thing worth keeping alive on the surface of this crust. I whole-heartedly disagree. Any day now, droves of you will keel over and die and you will never know why it happened. “It was me! I was the turkey the whole time!“
Anyway, Sir Grey Eyes is here now. TTYL!
Today, I am depressed. This is fairly normal and has nothing to do with fashion at all. I love clothes and I have a distinctive style that others copy and I think that’s all you need to be a fashionista. If you disagree, too bad. I don’t care.
We crave labels, you know? We crave to be defined so that others can glom onto us and we can be birds of a feather together. We seek validation from each other in this way. I don’t really like labels. In fact, I abhor them because I don’t quite fit into any label at all. I’m not a hipster; I do not love or disdain anything that is outdated, unfashionable, or anything, really. I don’t hate things for being cool, either. All the people I’ve known that called themselves hipsters seemed to be using it as an excuse to be elitist. This makes me sad.
So many people want to scoff and snarl and frown and groan at the common folk. The common folk want to disdain anything extraordinary, claiming it’s a rich bitch or a snooty ass hat that just walked by them. Why? Because of their clothes and, potentially, their mannerisms. Then there are the middle people who are bridging the gap between the commoners and the elite, trying to pull all the commoners up with them to a higher standard of living, identifying in part with both sides of the spectrum: poverty and wealth.
There are thousands of labels out there. Principessa, Foodie, Furry, Kinky, Dominant, Submissive, Jock, Geek, Nerd, Pencil Neck, Bimbo, Barbie/Ken, Fashionista, Alpha Male, Glutton, Faker, Emotionless Vampire, Robot, Goofball, Jester, Class Clown, American, European, African, Asian, Russian (even though they’re Asian…), Actress/Actor, Gamer, Gamer Girl, Straight Edge, Lush, Posh, Workaholic, Fattie, Porn Star, Pot Head, Monolingual, Bilingual, Trilingual, Polylingual, [Look, Ma, we can count!], Pedantic, Vapid, Shallow, Vain, Deep, Philosopher, Alcoholic, Scholarly, Cheerleader, Woo! Girl, Alpha Female, Sex Addict, Fornicator, Rapist, Pedophile, Drifter, Invalidator, Guardian, Knight in Shining Armor, Damsel in Distress, Perfectionist, Handy Man/Woman, Farmer, White Collar Worker, Deviant, Follower, Conformist, Black Sheep, Sheeple, Addict, Homeless, Jobless, Loser, Winner, and so on.
As soon as one adopts one of these labels, a pigeon hole forms. Coo, coo. Do you like being stuffed in a fucking hole? I don’t. I showed my Gothic side off one day. I chopped my hair off into a more traditional pixie style, dyed it black, put on a bunch of leather and spikes and chains, red lip stick, and black jeans. I went to the grocery store, feeling on top of the world… no, wait. I felt crappy. I was sick and God did that to my hair, making me cry because I liked it the way it was before he did that. He apologized after doing it and made me focus on looking into my own eyes and checking my health in the mirror. He bought me a choker with spikes on it, put it on me with the lipstick, playing a game with me the whole while about how we’re going back to our roots! And then He took me to the fucking grocery store. It’s the only place we go, truth be told. I’m still dragging my feet on a trip to Home Depot. Daddy wants a soft toilet seat! And I don’t care.
God laughs every time I say “daddy” like a spoiled brat valley girl with a silver spoon in my mouth. I’m so not any of that. I’m sure you can tell from my vast array of artfully arranged words that I am not anything like a valley girl and I assure you I was born below poverty line. My clothes mostly come from Goodwill, actually, or the sales rack for last chance items.
I’m more of an artiste. I’d probably be drawn to a coffee shop full of beatniks if that was a thing these days. I’d listen to their poetry and maybe even slam poetry (which is just angry poetry spoken with a voice that is resisting being conquered, a voice resisting soul-murder; you should try it some time, it’s rejuvenating), sipping coffee, planning a painting or maybe writing my own poetry, slam or not. Letting the words wash over me and allowing someone else’s perspective to be mine for just a little while, and artfully so. Simon says “Hello.” [I hear you, soul sister and soul brother. I do not know your peril firsthand, but I hear you. I send you healing. It will never be enough. Keep slamming. Slam harder. I stand with you. I am #TeamHuman.]
Maybe I should encourage this at my own coffee shop some day. If I ever get well enough to have one, anyway. If it ever fits into the future God desires. It probably doesn’t. Another pipe dream gone by. He loves me, He loves me not…
I look like Barbie with fifty extra pounds and apparently I’m still way too intimidating to menfolk while I’m a blonde. Not when I’m a brunette, though. You’d think those 50 extra pounds would make me way more approachable. I’m not. I hear their internal monologue about me in the back of my mind. Vapid. Shallow. Vain. Why? Cuz I’m shy and don’t talk and make my voice known. I don’t dispel the illusion, except to Dave, the nice older gentleman (a tad too old for me, but foxy just the same), who spoke to me in front of the pizza and rotisserie chicken, asking me if he could help me. He thinks I’m a sweetheart for thanking him for his effort as I declined politely because I’m allergic to damn near everything. I didn’t want to burden him with my laundry list of no-nos. It’s not his problem. It’s mine.
I get hatred piled onto me every time I skinny up. Hundreds and hundreds of men who incidentally see me walk by them fornicate to my after-image stuck in their head. I’m not the only one, I’m just the only one who can hear it audibly. We’re all linked telepathically in the backs of our minds and receive these messages all the time from each other. It’s why we hate ourselves, essentially. We listen to what other people say instead of having a healthy opinion of Self. Be careful what you wish for. We try to control each other and limit the love we receive, or increase it if we desire more. We never take what we are given and we are absolutely never happy, despite happiness being a choice rather than a state of mind that simply happens.
One of the reasons I have these 50 extra pounds is that I cannot eat a large variety of food, so I intermittently fast when I should not and end up binge eating too often when I finally do eat, caving in to the fact that I can only really eat about 10 vegetables and little else at all. I happen to know how to get rid of it, but what will happen then? More people calling me awful names in my head, including bitch and whore just because I exist. I don’t do anything to them and I don’t even dress like a whore, yet they will call me these things in droves because they fornicate to my image without intending to. They don’t talk to me at all. If they did, they might find out that I’m rather down to Earth. I’m practical where it’s important, only exercising impracticality on paper, in my drawings. For example, I already have a perfect place holder for a wedding ring. It’s a plain sterling silver band and it’s going on my finger as soon as whatever man actually asks me out puts one on their hand. Unconventional, I know, but wholly practical. (Why should a man spend a month’s salary on some stupid colorless diamond to put on my hand? No, thanks.)
We don’t even need paperwork or a ceremony. Just cheap ass rings that tell the world “TAKEN!”
Ah, but to look at me is to see wedding bells with an improbably stupid-looking gown that gets worn once and costs a year’s salary, a rock the size of Jordan on my ring finger, and of course, all kinds of magnificent fresh flowers, murdered just for my vanity so I can have guests that speak about my wedding for years to come! As if anyone speaks of any wedding for more than two days. (Outside of planning it.) And, by the time the two love birds tie the knot, they are exhausted regarding decision-making. Pooped! Tired! What the fuck kind of way is that to start a union of two souls? It’s lame and it’s totally unnecessary.
No, thanks, no expensively frivolous extravagance for me. Weddings are atrociously boring to my autistic brain no matter how fucking beautiful they are. You know what happens at the end, there is no mystery. There are zero surprises. Nobody ever stands up to speak against the union — now that would be a wedding to remember. The bride and groom always kiss, somewhere between dispassionate and the clothes are coming off right now — which they can do in private, tyvm. Then you take an intimate piece of clothing off the bride and throw it at a bunch of men. What are you doing, trying to invite a ménage à trois?! You’re absolutely telling everyone in the room you’re fornicating that evening and it’s part of the tradition! Nobody is smiling much, not even the bride, most of the time. It’s too stressful. They plaster on that smile at the end of a heinously awful week and a half of massive preparation just to show off for one day to all their acquaintances and spend a fortune to feed them. This is stupidity, if you ask us.
Here’s what I think a wedding should be like:
Each guest brings something. A decoration, a gift, a pot of food like chili, whatever. It’s a pot luck. ALL THE PEOPLE INVOLVED ARE PART OF THE MAGIC MAKING! (This is what happens in India, my friends.) And while you are busy snogging your spouse at the altar, people should be eating food at tables. You should toast to dessert after you’ve eaten enough to regain your energy after all that running around like a chicken with your head cut off. In fact, in India, they don’t kiss in public at all. We could leave that out. The bride? Her wedding sari is just a beautiful sari. She wears it again and again. It’s the adornments that go with the sari that declare it’s your wedding day. Many Indians pierce their ears as part of the ceremony. A lasting thing that they wear for the rest of their lives. Proudly.
What is the purpose of a wedding? It’s to tell everyone the deed is done, right? We have social media. Stop murdering thousands of blooming flowers. Those are now for the bees. Period. We’re stealing bee food to make things magical… instead of reusing fake flowers from one wedding to the next, you have to put your own magic flair into it, don’t you Godzilla? My daughter deserves the wedding I want. Thanks, narcomommy.
Goth Sansara? She doesn’t get seen as wedding material at all. She’s just a fun biker chick who will rip your heart out and eat it for breakfast, using you to lose you. She’s mean and you can tell because she’s got spikes. Nobody with spikes has a wedding. Nobody! [Oh, wait, that’s a falsehood. I was married once, albeit not in spikes.] But the problem still stands: the leather and spike loving girl is expected to be harsh and sharp and know exactly what she wants and it’ll never be you. She will use a whip to tan your hide if you get out of line. She’ll kick your ass if you say the wrong thing to her, just you watch. You can hit on her and it’s all meaningless because she’ll never look your way.
Sansara wonders what would happen if Barbie was secretly a super spy or dominatrix.
[Why weren’t there any Super Spy or Dominatrix Barbies when I was a kid? HUH!?!?!?! Come on, Mattel! Let’s get with the program! And have a special James Bond doll as her companion, will ya? I remember having a Barbie martini glass as a kid, I know things!]
And Midge and friends… they should totally be more bad ass than Barbie since you made Barbie the prettiest one of all. So skimp on the accessories for the beautiful woman and give them all to the average chicks that hang with her. As we all know, beautiful people aren’t put through the same kind of hell as the rest of us. They have more time to work on their flaws, traits, and skills because they’re lonely, amirite?
Well, friends and foes, Super Spy Dominatrix Barbie is lonely. [That’s us.] I’ve been lonely all my life. When I’m not lonely because I’m alone, I’m lonely because I’m neglected by some asshole who thinks they can just put a coin in to take a ride. Oh, she don’t need no love, folks, not even if her face melts your damn heart when she smile at you. Keep on abusin’ her, she’s made for it.
I’m waiting for a brave man to approach me some day. There aren’t any. They’re too wrapped up in who they think I am to find out the reality of who I am. I bet there are dozens of amazingly beautiful women out there who are being overlooked because y’all decided she’s a nightmare dressed like a daydream. [Thanks, Taylor, you are my spirit animal. Rawr!] Have you ever really listened to her lyrics, boys?
“Boys only want love when it’s torture. Don’t say I didn’t (say I didn’t) warn ya.” [Blank Space]
In fact, I bet they all imagine me singing this song. I feel compelled to sing along with it. However, I’ve never dated a player on purpose. The average life span of a relationship with me is approximately five years. You’d think somewhere in there, someone would have gotten a clue that he should marry the girl. Nope… instead, they push me away, like some immature brat trying to hold me at arm’s length to control how I feel because they don’t love themselves and cannot accept that I love them.
The only way I’ll ever have a happily ever after full of harmony, smiling, dancing, cooking, and singing is if I find a man who already loves himself and is single. Except it’s ever more difficult for me to figure out if men are single because they don’t have to wear a ring when they’re in a relationship. If they did, then I could navigate with a clean and clear conscience, flirting only with men who do not show off that they’re trying to partner with someone already. I will never, ever wish to come between a man and woman trying their hand at love ever again. I did that one time. I have come to terms with what happened and the part I played in it, but I will never do it again. I learned my lesson: you can’t make someone else choose what you want, even if they want it, too.
There is a man out there already on the love frequency who thinks about me… but I only ever saw him one time. He thinks about me occasionally, wanting to talk to me for hours and dance. He is by far the gentlest man in the back of my head. The rest daydream fornication, turning me into an anime girl half the time to fuck with wild abandon. No foreplay, just “wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” She looks disgusted. What about the rest of her?! She’s a human being, ffs.
God told me I am his little angel and yet this is what I have to see in my head day in and day out — being raped by jerks. He told me that I deserve dancing and singing and hugs and kisses and I get none of those from these assholes. It took a middle class man to see hearts in the air around me. Someone who has everything he really needs, some stuff he really wants, and then realized that if he wants more junk he’s going to crowd himself out of his own apartment, leaving zero capacity for a woman to fit into his life. Someone who now focuses on eating well and his mental health goals because he literally cannot buy another comic book, movie, video game, whatever it is he does in his free time, because there will be no room left for a woman. In fact, he worries he doesn’t have room for a woman now, especially the beautiful woman he saw at the grocery store while he was showing minimum wage chumps how to cook.
She could be anybody, but there was one thing he knew for certain: she was interested in him. He caught her eye from across the room, probably seventy feet away. He’d been smiling because he loves life and his work. And that “Barbie” smiled back at him. A genuine smile that made her face brighten up and everything. And he could tell from seventy feet away. And now he cannot get her out of his head. He daydreams of returning there to try to catch glimpse of her again, but what are the odds? Well, with God on team True Love, they’re 100% in his favor. How could he know, though? He can’t, unless he can talk to God, the person who pointed out the dainty doll-like blonde woman to him from the beginning. The raison d’être, the catalyst that created this circumstance, which, ironically could have been avoided if Grey Eyes had tried just a little harder to be a good man.
To call Sansara a doll, as in a piece of porcelain with a wig attached and creepy life-like eyes, made up to look exquisite for eternity and wearing some sort of gown to make her alluring to boot, would be stupid. Actually, it’s beyond stupid, but that’s what people are thinking about her. She’s all ego and no superego, no substance, no depth, no philosophy, no skills. She’s a waste of space because the only job she could have, in their eyes, is sex work or modeling. If she wore makeup, the number of them that are attracted to her would increase and that’s what would happen: she’d end up doing something that objectified her for the rest of her life because of the collective consciousness dictating that is what she should do. Thousands of men thinking it altogether would sway her in ways she could not control because she trusts her intuition, which is influenced by the brains of all the people around her.
Forget that she’s a very accomplished and brilliant astrophysicist. Forget that she’s a computer programmer. Forget that she’s an inventive foodie and chef, challenging food norms as she fights for her life. Forget that she’s cleanly and enjoys cleaning her home. Forget that she’s an excellent hostess, thinking of every little detail to accommodate all her guests, vegetarian, vegan, and the like. Forget that she’s thoughtful and shows people love through food and emotional or mental support, giving them unofficial therapy day in and day out as if it wasn’t worth a dime. Forget that she has a heart and is a romantic at her core. Forget that she is a human being altogether, because you reduced her to a fucking doll. A doll with a stupid name, no less, that you speak with scathing tones. A doll that represents everything everyone declared you cannot have (or was it just yourself, after all?)
Mr. Swarthy is no Ken doll. So how is it he can get the girl? He’s a big man, if you know what I mean. He loves his food and will never give it up for some stupid diet his prospective mate might be on to look great. He’d rather feed her, actually, and let the [blue corn] chips fall where they may. [In her mouth, please.] He daydreams of making her something tasty, if low calorie, to put a smile on her face. He daydreams of taking her to the movies and holding her hand. He daydreams of sneaking kisses during exceptionally boring parts of the film, if any. Holding her close to him, perhaps when scared or unsure, but really any time. He daydreams of seeking her hand in marriage, actually. He thinks of everything but the bedroom, typically, because he knows that is just a small part of life over all. Only fornicators focus on bed play.
Mr. Swarthy has never spoken to her. He’s never heard her voice. He’s never seen her closer then thirty feet away. He’s never heard her laugh. He’s never heard her cry. He knows nothing about her other than one thing: her smile reaches her eyes and he can tell from across the fucking room, bro.
This man saw her once. Once. Once!
A deli full of men stared at her day in and day out as she seeks ripe avocados, shyly flirting with them by putting herself in their path. They’ve talked themselves out of even trying to woo her because she’s gotta be vain, vapid, shallow. She’s gotta be a Taylor Swift, who comes across wrong to non-fans, sadly; Taylor’s heart’s been broken, you see, and men only hear their side of it in her lyrics. Women know, though, and the occasional man in touch with his divine feminine side (gay or not.) Thirty different men made judgment on her from behind that deli counter, calling her evil in the backs of their minds. Projecting their own lack of self-love onto her, damaging her fragile heart again and again as she hoped their looks had more meaning than a passing glance. More meaning than an excuse to generate hatred and emanate it at the mere image of her in their minds until it reached her soul, trying to turn it as black as their own.
Men of Earth, or really anywhere, I have news for you.
The only person that needs to love you is yourself. Once you love yourself — which should be logical because that’s the only person you’re guaranteed to spend your entire lives with — the rest falls into place effortlessly. You can ask any girl on Earth out on a date and, if you are enough of a gentleman, get a very polite decline from any woman if it’ll ever be a decline at all. It will always be “no” if you never ask, however. It can only be “yes” if you climb the mountain and face the fire-breathing dragon and ask it out for a date.
I’m disappointed in Sir Grey Eyes Deli Man, truth be told. Me, God. Crystal is sad about it, but I wouldn’t label her emotions for her. She uses about seven words to characterize how she feels: angry, sad, “upset” (blanket term for “bad” when she knows not why), content, satisfied, serene, and annoyed. She doesn’t need more words because she simply feels her feelings and lets them go to return to rational thought processes, being a scientist at heart. She wants to observe reality and respond to the real world. She refuses to fantasize about Grey Eyes because she might fall in love with her imagination instead of the real man and then she might hold it against him somehow even though she never intended it. Therefore, she has only heard his fantasies, when I let them through to her.
Reality is this, to her: the most handsome beast of a man she’s ever seen was in her Wegmans deli a month or two ago. She got truly excited about him being a new hire or something, and then he disappeared forevermore. She’s sad because she believes she will never see him again. She nicknamed him Mr. Swarthy because she’d already re-used Sir Deli Man thrice at this point and she’s over the nickname. (It’s not cursed, it’s just that she doesn’t want to use it anymore. Especially not if these chumps are going to continue projecting how mean they are onto her while masturbating to her image.) He’s big and beautiful and has the most endearing smile, she decided, and that is why she couldn’t help but smile back at him… which touched his heart because she’s the angel of love (and a reiki master thrice over, one who never stops healing.)
We wonder how Wegmans will do after we leave, no longer healing everyone in the store merely by being present?
Something tells me if we see a man who only shows up once, wearing a chef uniform and standing in the deli like he owns it, that he’s there to make some improvements of some sort. If only he could ask this maiden out on a date and have a discussion about her issues and perceptions of the store, he could make some subtle changes that save the store from going under. If only…
Instead, all he can do is try to teach a bunch of creepers to cook.
Which means that, perhaps, he will be going to the other Wegmans in the area. A Wegmans with a smaller deli that’s doing far better than the main store at the centre of commerce in the town. A Wegmans that might be able to give him clues as to what’s tanking in the main deli. Or maybe he’ll just be at the central Wegmans, tapping his head, picking his brain, and spinning his wheels.
Love is on his brain, though. He’s not really thinking about fixing Wegmans anymore. He wants to… but Giselle. That’s what he calls the woman who touched his heart accidentally that day. He knows it’s unlikely to be her name, of course, but she needs a name nonetheless. The moment he was told he was going to be going back to do more analysis and teaching was the moment he decided to ask The Universe(TM) for assistance finding The Girl(TM). I would do anything to be able to ask her out on a date, O Lord.
I’m a sucker for romance, what can I say? The hearts floating around her head in his imagination tell me that this young man is ready to take the leap with both eyes closed and jump in feet-first. Ironically, he’s going to end up inviting her into his Econolodge room, disdaining eating out because he’s particular about his food intake, which is perfect for her because she’s allergic to just about everything. He knows exactly what he wants to eat every single time he’s out of town: a steak, medium rare, with his favorite vegetables cooked to perfection. He’ll have a single glass of red wine and say, “This is perfection. I am happy. It was a job well done.” This is what he does every time he leaves home for one of these consulting jobs for the corporate headquarters. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last, either.
He formerly stressed himself out about asking her to dine with him only because he knows how sleazy it is to invite a woman into your travel accommodations when out of town. He resolves that, if she even says yes, he will not take her to bed, no matter what happens, until they are fully familiar with each other. He knows that jumping into bed will ruin the budding romantic notions between them and he wants her to be in love with him and he in love with her. It’s the only way it’ll last, or so he thinks. His longest, best relationship started off with a six month delay taking it between the covers and he wanted her hand in marriage no matter what. She was the most beautiful soul he’d ever seen. He would prove it by being there without any pressure to make it about anything other than becoming intimate friends in mental body long before becoming physically intimate.
She could wait. She’d already been waiting for 2.5 years, as it was. She’d been undergoing intense psychotherapy for being systematically raped for years by an asshole in St. Louis, for being ignored by everyone in her life while she was dying, for being treated like a bimbo while she held a job using skills that ordinary folk do not simply acquire, let alone through osmosis. She’d been undergoing intense physical therapy, as well. She couldn’t even have sex yet, anyway, without it being painful. That’s one way she was raped so many times, you see. It always resulted in intense pain, which she ignored thanks to minor paralysis of her extremities as a result of two subluxated vertebrae and being put on her back too often to exacerbate that issue.
She could wait because she was a fan of delayed gratification. As in, the opposite of instant gratification. Every relationship she had began with long distance parley, forcing the two love birds to hold many conversations before they even met in the flesh. She set a foundation of making the man her friend — her best friend — before taking him to bed, talking to him about everything on her mind just about, especially emotional content, looking for reassurance and cuddles. This fosters intimacy you do not get otherwise, children of fucking Earth. Mr. Swarthy’s resolve to keep from the bedroom for a while works directly in her favor, as it turns out. It’s serendipity.
I fucking hate you monkies, making everything in life all about fucking and being pretty enough to keep you fucking. First, you made it a stigma that women had children out of wedlock so you could disdain them forever. But then you realized, you misogynistic monsters, that if you just lifted that stigma, you could fuck without getting tied down to each other, leaving when something prettier came along. You could make the women of Earth feel unattractive without caking on layers of paint to their faces and their nails and shearing off every hair on their bodies. Your love is only skin deep and you’ve made your entire existence about that fact, never looking deep inside yourselves and blaming yourselves for lack of true love. Where are all the Westlys?
Crystal still wanted Grey Eyes when she first saw Swarthy. She was confused briefly by what she felt when she looked at the enormous man and took some space to decide, ultimately, that the man thinking about her 24/7 was better because he’d already established loyalty by keeping her on his mind for months.
However, she learned in the last 24 hours that he only daydreamed about Goth Crystal, a small fraction of herself that would be difficult to sustain in a weakened state (a.k.a. SICK AS FUCK, LIKE RIGHT NOW.) Now, she’s in mourning because the asshole only gives a shit about the girl with the choker, which broke the same day he complimented it and he’s never going to see it again because it no longer exists. She modified it and wore it again and he cannot even tell because now? Now she’s blonde. She’s a Barbie with nothing upstairs to write home about. She’s no longer obtainable, no longer predictable, she is a void and he is projecting his flaws and his fears.
Sir Grey Eyes Deli Man, you’re fired. Literally, Wegmans is firing you. Today. They’re bringing Mr. Swarthy back to figure out what you fucked up. It’s not even your fault, actually, but now you will never step foot in that store again because you’re going to be mad at them and she will instead see this amazing hunk of a man who daydreams about actual love rather than using and abusing one small section of her heart based on some costume she put on one day because I told her to in order to solicit the fucking compliment that tumbled out of your mouth and make her take note of you. Her primary love language is words of affirmation. You had it in the bag if you only tried. Take the quiz here, ladies and gents.
I predict the ending to this story being as follows:
One day, Grey Eyes reads this and cries. He could have had the girl of his dreams and he threw her away because her hair isn’t the right color. She literally has not gained or lost more than 10 pounds the whole time, wavering between 190 and 200 pounds. I’ve kept her here to prove to her that a real man is going to sweep her off her feet (metaphorically) no matter what effort she puts into her appearance or what she weighs. Thanks for being an ugly asshole and reconfirming her suspicions that being fat is the reason you walk away. It’s always the reason. It’s the only reason.
Instead of taking Grey Eyes’ emotional, physical, and verbal abuse, my little angel will be married to another angel. She will have eyes only for him because she’ll be in love and have no desire to speak to anyone other than him ever again. He’s like Mr. Impossibly Delicious Looking and loving at the same time. And cheerful, jovial, light-hearted. Wonderful, in one single word, if we must. [And we must; we could go on all day.]
You, Grey Eyes? She chose you over him for a time. She liked your persistence… until she found out why you were so persistent. I withheld information from her until the very end of that six months so that she could grow to love you. And she did. She enjoyed the real you. Not the you that sees Barbie the Bimbo but instead the one who sees Gretchen the Goth. Not the man who pretends she’s a goth anime girl crying out, “Notice me, senpai!” over and over again as he fucks her from behind, skinny as all get out even though she’s not thin at this time. She will be, but she’s not yet. For four weeks, her suicidal thoughts diminished to nothingness because she thought you wanted her.
This asshole daydreams of her blonde tits and ass on the brunette skinny bitch he thought he gave the compliment to. She is literally the same person. The same weight and everything. The same clothes, even, she just doesn’t wear her choker much because I asked her not to. I asked her to stay to her bare minimum self so that maybe someone would love her for her foundation, not the layers she could cake on to be even more pleasing to the male fornicating eye. Trust me, if she put on makeup and a low-cut top, she’d be cat-called everywhere she goes. Every brother in the hood would stop and ask her for her number and I’d just give it to the nicest one who will treat her well. And, he wouldn’t give a shit that she wore sweats all the time, hiding her delectable body from everyone but him.
She actually has a complex over her obesity, thinking it’s the only reason nobody has bothered to ever loved truly her. She understands none of these jokers love themselves and that’s part of the battle, but she’s still convinced she could improve herself further and it would better her chances at something that lasts forever. That’s why I keep her “fat,” so when Mr. Swarthy proposes to her, she knows it’s for her. Not how she looks like a super model in every country (rather than the her of now who would be a super model in India, Pakistan, Nepal and other countries where they don’t believe in starvation to fit some mold.) [She absolutely will fit the mold, too. And she will never step foot in public again, either. It will result in fornicators raping her endlessly in her head and I’m not having it, you senseless little fuckheads. Instead, I’m going to murder most of you and keep her in sweats.]
Grey Eyes, she would have been your super babe forever and a day, beyond loyal and clinging to you when feeling unsteady in her conviction, begging you to help her fortify her devotion to you. She did it once to your brain and you called her clingy, you monster. You told her that she couldn’t have that reassurance, so she disengaged. You pushed her away. You keep pushing her away, too. Now we will push you away. Mr. Swarthy is going to hold her and tell her everything’s alright, kissing her hair and her face and never letting go until she’s ready. You could have done that, but you didn’t. Instead, you tried to shame her for her feminine behavior that screamed “I love you!” That’s what that action is, you dufus. Women who cling need to be held and loved on, not thrown to the ground and broken again and again for daring to care about you assholes.
If you just thought of my angel the same way when she was blonde instead of a brunette, you’d be together. You’d have been together for months now. It’s really that simple. She’s ten times more beautiful the way she is now, which is the easiest state for her to maintain, honestly, and still have the visual psychological response she needs to desire to continue to live when she looks in the mirror. She actually prefers her hair color to be purple, pink, blue, green, or absolutely any color you might find on a peacock or a toucan.
She does not look at her perfect teeth, her big beautiful eyes, her dainty nose and chin, and say, “I want to fuck the woman in the mirror” like the women who broke your heart playing the rape culture game with you in your past. She looks in the mirror and checks her teeth and says, “Those are white enough; I don’t need to brush them.” (Or, “I should brush those.”) She declined whitening her teeth professionally all along, even though she could have. She puts her fingers through her hair whenever it’s sticking up on end, trying to tame it, and says, “Good enough!” (or jumps into the shower because it will not listen, and then combs it with her fingers afterward.) She looks at her skin to see if her eczema is acting up, putting lotion on if it is indeed acting up so she doesn’t get dry and scaly, skin flaking off, leaving a painful red rash behind that smarts all day and then tells herself she’d better eat healthier going forward [even though I full well know what I fed her to get her skin to do that and can stop at any time.]
Grey Eyes, life is going to go downhill very quickly from this very moment. She’s going to stop healing you, she’s going to stop believing in you, and she’s absolutely done waiting for you. Unbeknownst to you, that is the entire reason you’re still doing so great at work, fucking around in all your free time feeding yourself easy carbs instead of real food so you can play more video games. It’s coming to an end. In fact, the end is here. And that end is pushing you out and bringing Mr. Swarthy back to her. He’ll be in town for weeks, working damn near every day, too.
You had six months and in all this time you’ve decided to throw the real girl away because she didn’t have a spiked choker and black hair (which didn’t look nearly as good on her as the blonde ‘do and you know it.) So what if I ditched her pleather jacket and put her in something more comfortable? She’s sick. Why does she need a fucking costume for you to care that she exists? You full well know she enters that fucking store daily, which means you know you were looking for the wrong person all this time. A person who does not exist. She never did and she never will; we are never going black again. It hurts her mind. It hurts her soul. She’s happy to wear all black every day, but her hair cannot be black. Any color but black or brown, as it turns out. And that’s the only color you care for, apparently.
This tells both the of us that you’ve never truly loved yourself once in your life. How can you love another person when you don’t love yourself? The short answer is that you cannot. You will only give them the imperfect kind of conditional love you give to yourself, justifying all the bad things you do as if they cannot be undone. Sneering at your flaws whenever they show instead of actually fixing them. You are a train wreck and it’s only going to get worse now. I tried to give you a chance, but I was right the first time when I called you “rat face.” You’re a rat.
I’m going to give my little angel exactly what she deserves now that her heart has been broken again and again by assholes like yourself.
It’s because I love Crystal no matter what colors she paints herself on a daily basis. She’s a wonderful Earthling that tries her best to improve all life around her, great or small, capable or not. She tries to dodge ants in her sink when she’s doing the dishes. She stops to pet dogs on a walk if they’re friendly, she feeds the birds, she talks to squirrels and chipmunks, she tells little furry things “Get out of the road, my little baby! Save yourself!” as she pumps the brakes, pissing off endless strangers behind her because she drives like grandma to save the fur babies. She takes it exceptionally personally to try to improve that which serves her (and everyone else, like a grocery store) by putting her efforts in without the expectation of recompense. She has nailed altruism. The rest of you could take heed, but you won’t. How could there be an altruistic Barbie? She was never anything like a Barbie. As a child, she cut their hair off and used markers to give them Gem & the Holograms/Misfits makeup. [It pissed her mother off that she modified these super expensive dolls simply because they all looked the same as each other.]
She has been reiki healing that specific Wegmans for over a year now and you. She was healing you because she thought you loved her. She thought you were thinking about her all the time because you were smitten and wanted to get to know her. The her of today, not a snapshot in her history. You’re just like her chief rapist from the past. Way to go, Ben. Now you are going to know Hell because the healing will stop. The brunette will fade while you wallow in your misery and all you will remember is the blonde that eyeballed you consistently day in and day out, making your heart leap into your throat when you came within inches of her as she stared at marcona almonds, food she was never going to even try to eat because she suspected it’s contaminated with dairy. (And she’s right, too.) She was standing there to provide you a chance to effortlessly ask her for her number without anyone ever knowing. It would be the first time in her entire existence a “nice guy” asked her for her digits.
You’re probably going to die, deli man. You’ve been eating oatmeal and nothing else for months. You’ve been feeding mold inside your guts for months. Crystal can heal you, but now it’s going to hurt. You’re going to have to deprive yourself of everything you love, possibly forever. While she heals you, you will fall in love with her and you will never get her affection back because of how you already treated her in your head to date: a [Goth] doll for you to fuck when you’re horny, which is always because you’re a fornicator without a heart, and not a real person. You project that onto her because it’s staring at you when you look at her face. You blame her for your own flaws. You heap hatred onto her because you hate yourself. She does not deserve that.
Now, we are going to put Mr. Swarthy back in her vicinity. He’s coming to town, actually, because they decided to fire you. It took them a long time to decide it, but they decided it days ago. There is a definite struggle going on and you’re not helping solve it, so you’re no longer a stellar employee worthy of praise. You’re not as attentive as you used to be because you’re getting sicker on your cheap and lazy oatmeal diet. Your propensity for fucking around is to your detriment. You could have turned it around with a little critical thinking, of course, but you’d rather be high as a kite and relax all the time you’re not at work. All play and no work makes Jack a stupid boy. An insecure boy. A boy who could resolve his internal struggle and come to love himself with a little work. But, most importantly, just a boy. Not a man.
Crystal had hoped you were repairing yourself, on a journey of recovery from heartbreak. She thought of you as Dead Eye Joe for a while. You didn’t look like you had the will to live. However, over time, you became lighter and lighter. She thinks that is 100% her doing now and you never cared about yourself from the starting line, let alone her. She’d seen you smile and even returned it without meaning to one day. She kept hoping you’d smile at her to flirt with her eventually. You reject her again and again and again, staring her down as if she’s nothing special while you secretly fantasize about sucking on a teat and making love to her. Even though you tell yourself she’s unobtainable, unlike Goofy-looking Gretchen the Goth, who is totally in your ballpark and you know just what to expect with a collar like that. Plus you are better looking than Gretchen, which improves your odds substantially just to date down! She’d be a sex slave you can boss around to do whatever you want in bed. Or is she a top who will boss you around to get whatever she wants in bed?! She’s neither, by the way, but you fool yourself into believing that your slightly above average penis size will slay whatever monsters lie inside long enough for you to get a fix and then be thrown away. You’re a user, in a word, which is why you think women will use you. A player who doesn’t want to build a life together. A boy who just wants to bury his dick “balls-deep” in… well, any woman would do, n’est-ce pas? She declines.
Mr. Swarthy will recognize her because he has soul sight, just like she does, he just doesn’t know it. He will continuously believe he might’ve seen her pass by until he actually sees her, which she understands because there was a deli hottie she had the same experience with over a year ago. Mr. Swarthy will lock onto her soul like a homing missile, leave his post, and ask the woman if she’ll have dinner with him that evening. He can’t get her out of his head and nobody else is in his head, so he’s counting his lucky stars now that he’s been told to go save that Wegmans at any cost. It’s too sweet of a location to let it go out of business and there must be a reason sales have dropped so substantially. We will not accept a “recession” as the answer.
This man loves himself and he projects that love onto her and she can hear it loud and clear. He loves himself because he found the things he didn’t like inside his soul and worked on them, one baby step at a time, until he was happy with the result. He is humble enough to take suggestions to heart instead of automatically dismissing them, too, which means if she ever asks him to work on something, he will do it unless it’s an unreasonable request that doesn’t fit into his idea of his ideal self. He has spent over a decade cultivating himself into a lovely young gentleman, married to his work until he decided he wanted to be married to Giselle… that’s what he calls Crystal in his head. Not because he expects that to be her name but because he is humanizing her in his brain. She calls him Mr. Swarthy because he is a larger than life sort of man and “mister” conveys respect. I suspect he was the worthiest of all of the title Sir Deli Man, to be honest, but she won’t be using it again. It’s probably his if he wants it, but to her it feels used and tattered, so she won’t offend him (or herself) by continuing to tarnish it on fornicators.
He will make her happy, calling her dainty instead of beautiful. He will make her happy, twirling her around the kitchen while they cook together. Doing the dishes together. Being a partnership. Together. They will make decisions together. They will be an “us” instead of a “me and <insert name>.” He will smile at her, he will hold her, he will put her on his knee and simply be happy she’s that close. He doesn’t need to daydream about sex because sex is only 1/20th of the human life. 1/3 is sleeping, 1/3 is working, and 1/3 is chores + significant other. That is his equation to life. Obtain the means to eat and sleep soundly, rinse and repeat until it’s on auto-pilot. Examine and identify all his core values so he can live a life that honors them, creating lasting peace inside his heart.
Then, once all that is handled with finesse, add in a lovely woman and find out who she is. Build a lifetime of experiences with her, if she’s willing to do so, sharing his heart, home, and food with her. She could be anyone while he’s not home, as long as she’s a devoted and loyal anyone. She could be a homebody that does all the chores (if she wants). She could work, too, and they could split the chores 50/50. Anyone. If her work schedule conflicted, it might be harder to spend time together, but somehow they would make it work. Anyone. This is fortunate for her, because she’s sick right now and she is no one, if you ask her. She is a husk of a woman, hollowed out and discarded by all the rapists in the world, now including her beloved Grey Eyed Deli Man. [Goodbye, cruel world.]
Two human beans can intertwine and grow together as a couple, by loving themselves, loving each other, being flexible and responsible for both parties all the time, taking truth and reality rather than lies and fantasy, and focusing on the people part of the equation rather than satiating their own loins. [You’ve been raped, boy, it’s why you can’t stop thinking about it.] It’s not even that he doesn’t have a libido or intense desire for her, because he does; he simply knows that if he puts emphasis on the bedroom rather than her heart and her head, it will fall apart. Nobody can have porn star sex every time, nor should they try. Why? Because it’s rape. You are ogling rape and getting off on it. You are perpetuating it by lusting after “an obtainable” rather than putting your anxiety aside to ask out “the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen.” Ironically, they are the same person with a different facade. It’s a joke, but I’m not laughing and neither are you. Because you only ever fornicated with the Goth sliver she showed you, she is now aware that you have exceptionally conditional love to give. She will never be enough, no matter what she does or who she becomes once she’s well again, unless she puts that costume on for you. Only then will she be marginally “enough” because you will push her away again once she takes it off, convinced you do not deserve to be loved by a beautiful woman who needs not one feminine wile to be called Super Fox. She didn’t do anything to try to woo you. I did, but she did not.
Mr. Swarthy and “Giselle” will become a couple that will last by deciding to co-create their existence together and make it the happiest they can despite endless challenges to their relationship and life together. Life is shit no matter what you do; the world is ending one minute at a time, thanks to pesticides killing all the pollinators and the fact that food is becoming poison thanks to plastic and the ever-present hatred from an overpopulation of the human species. In twenty years or less, you will all regret being alive, no matter who you are, if I don’t get this show on the road.
No more dilly-dallying, I suppose: we are in the 11th hour. These are certainly dire straits, wouldn’t you know? The vessel could tip over at any time, capsizing, and the whole world would drown. Except for the fish. You ever wonder about how broken boats might hit dolphins, whales, and sharks as they sink? Or worse yet, little fishies that can’t take the blow? And when they get to the bottom of the ocean, what about the sea creatures there? What about the graveyards of broken wood and metal that are now covered in sea life because it’s all littered and full of junk human beings thought were great before they sunk these ships in times of war and peril? In the name of wealth and piracy? Humans are only good for one thing and one thing only: LITTERING. You’ve destroyed my fucking planet in the name of comfort and ease, killing each other, and killing everything else you don’t approve of. Now I’m going to kill most of you.
I guess I had better get these two love birds together so we can save the world now. Giselle and “Beast,” you have both met your maker and you have my blessing to marry. May your hearts be forever intertwined and full of love, love, love. Two angels, one bed. You do the math.
“You can’t say we didn’t give the underdog more than a snowball’s chance in Hell.” — God
Crystal walked in circles, putting the finishing touches on cleanliness here and there, as she waited for her bird to come out of the oven. It wasn’t Thanksgiving yet, but she had a turkey in anyway. In fact, it was the week before Thanksgiving, a Native holiday to Americans everywhere (and grossly misconceptualized by white men who taught their children about sharing when, in fact, they slaughtered the indigenous peoples after inviting them to break bread like the tricksy coyotes they are.) Thanks to all the white men who found her super model features to be something to covet in their budoirs, she was creating the feast meal ahead of time based on their daydreaming alone. She didn’t really care, for she was of the opinion that if she had to do it all herself anyway, she might as well do it when she felt like it.
She ignored the calendar like this all the time, honestly. She ignored a lot of things, like the fact that it’s better to stir rice pudding as it sits on the stove top. She could have put it into a slow cooker, but she didn’t want to contaminate it with dairy. There was no telling if the enamel would soften and soak up the casein protein that damaged her gut lining like there was no tomorrow. It wasn’t even for her, anyway, since it had her chief allergen within it. Nay, it was for the “man” of the house, her father, the withered old curmudgeon that he’d become.
We’d call him a hag, except that’s a sexist term reserved for women that don’t do what rapey men want them to do.
She found herself daydreaming of a specific man at her dinner table. A man she’d made eye contact with many, many times but had never spoken to. He popped up in her mind, unbidden, all the time, and she could see his eyes following her everywhere she went and watching everything she did. It wasn’t the judgmental kind of watching at all, though, so it wasn’t the kind of thing to set her on edge. Nay, it was more of a reminder that she was in his thoughts all that time, whether it was conscious or subconscious on his part, and it made her smile.
She thought of him as she made far too much Unstuffed Turkey Stir Fry. That’s what she’d decided to call it, anyway. Since she already had a bird cooked for days now, she was eating what was left of it still. There was yet more in the freezer, of course, because, wise as she was, she knew that they would never get through the whole bird before it rotted away despite all efforts to preserve it within the refrigerator, a magical contraption of the modern age, but not magical enough to make food immortal, it would seem.
The stir fry consisted of… surprise! Turkey!… and a mixture of roast vegetables that were nearing the end of their shelf life at two days old despite the fact that her keeperware could keep it at least a week longer, she made it a practice to eat everything as freshly as possible. The vegetables consisted of broccoli, cauliflower, and onion. To this, she added a generous seasoning of onion powder, garlic powder, and, of course, sage. Sage was the real magic ingredient to stuffing, if you asked her. Or, dressing, if you don’t put it in the bird. She never did; it slowed down the cook time and in all the years she’d ever made turkey, she was gluten-free already so there was no desire to experiment on her part.
She’d made enough for two, it turned out, thus leaving half a dinner plate of this seasoned fricassee. Having no husband to share it with, she thrust the dinner plate into her mother’s hands and took over making the Jello her father was demanding in his decrepit state. Accidents abound around her father and her mother; this time, when she shook the package of sugar and gelatin, it ripped and sent Jello powder spraying everywhere. OOPS. She was trying to force it to settle at the bottom of the sack so she could cut off the top, but the bag was having none of that, wouldn’t you know?
She thought, oh no problem… just add 1/4 less cup of water at the end, that should even it out! Except I made her clean and she forgot that part, so this Jello would be a little dilute. We thought to add some vanilla extract to make Dreamsicle style Jello, but he’s a particular old geezer and a coot to boot, so we left that out.
Then we investigated the refrigerator, full of forgotten treasures, finding about four cups of rice uneaten from prior to his hospital trip just last week. It was time for rice pudding again. We swear he leaves it in there just to get rice pudding out of it. One time, we made pumpkin pie spiced rice pudding and another time we made hot chocolate flavored rice pudding, both of which he gobbled up with zero complaints. We’re surprised because all he does is bitch about her cooking skills or his perception of the lack thereof. The secret is that sugar makes his world go ’round. He has no taste buds left.
It was an opportunity to use up the remainder of a gallon of milk that was getting old, the remainder of some I can’t believe it’s not butter! — by the way, this still has dairy in it, which is the primary reason to tell butter to fuck off, so if you use this brand, beware that you are poisoning yourself still. Just switch to avocado oil and skip the idea of butter already, you hooligans.
We have successfully reduced the allergens in the refrigerator down to one gallon of milk. Once we get around to it, we’ll bleach the contents of the refrigerator again, wiping every surface until it gleams like one might imagine the holy grail gleams. It’s been a while, we confess… and we also note that we didn’t make that mess because we wipe up after ourselves, knowing we’re a slob and a half naturally. It’s when we see The Woman dribble milk onto the floor, or iced tea, or drop a spoonful of this or that, we get our hackles up and want to take a hatchet to her head. We don’t. We’re pacifists.
It’s hard to keep a home clean without being an everlasting slave if you’re the only slob cleaning it. (Hint: We’re all slobs. Some of us merely wipe up after ourselves when it happens instead of waiting for it to accumulate into a bigger mess that’s harder to tackle. You ain’t perfect and your shit still stinks, in other words.) It’s especially difficult when your roommates are two-pack-a-day smokers. She got around this somewhat by acquiring 20×20 furnace filters to place behind box fans, but wouldn’t you know it? Sam’s Club is out. 20×16 just does not work the same at all.
She learned this trick from her therapist, she reflected. Her therapist began doing it to filter COVID out of the air in addition to dust, dust mites, collecting bacteria, and, of course, filtering out cigarette smoke and/or any smoke from grease that made it onto a burner or the bottom of the stove. [We know nothing about that at all. We are innocent.] She missed her therapist, who was all the way back in the St. Louis area of Missouri. Fenton, specifically, which was a 45 minute drive from her apartment so she always booked a double session once a week to maximize her time.
She was a good therapist, but later on, Crystal realized she was not talking about the issues she ought to have been talking about. The things she was stuck on could have ended with a single line of output from Dr. McFarland. That’s not to say Doc McFarland isn’t one of the best, because she is. Crystal was just too sick to progress the way she had been able to when she was closer to well. The malnutrition and starvation that was slowly bleeding her chi to nothingness nearly claimed her life, especially after she developed mast cell activation syndrome and started breaking out in hives every time she ate. Especially when she experienced anaphylaxis for days and days as a result of trying to feed herself.
When all seemed to be lost, she figured out how to live anyway. We’d call her remarkable from our observation room up here. There are probably better English words to sing her praises, but we’ll stop there because we told her directly and we don’t care to associate with the rest of you Earthlings. I should call you human beans, though, because the word “Earthlings” [yes, I used the word BEAN, get over it] should also mean the cows, the trees, the fish in the sea, the whales and walruses, the polar bears… all life on Earth as you know it, even the bacterium. You’re such narrow minded assholes, it’s a wonder nobody’s lasered y’all out of existence yet. Capisce?
This human bean, this young Ms. Scordias, has determined a way to let more than just herself stay alive. Isn’t that sweet of her, saving the rest of you hooligans who have yet to earn the right to be a custodian of this crying, dying planet?
There is no automatic “I’m saved” action you can take, at least not singularly. You’re going to have to do better than ever before. Marked steps of improvement count more than being perfect in this case. I’m sure you’d like to know all about that, but first we will examine the young lady’s parents.
First, there are two of them, a man and a woman. You commonly call this “father” and “mother” in the English language (or, more commonly, “dad” and “mom.”) These two human beings are, traditionally, meant to be older and wiser. They are meant to give good counsel and teach her how to fit in with the rest of humanity. They are meant to equip her with the means to both survive and thrive.
Millions of parents that are alive right now in this moment should die for soul-murdering their children. For forcing their offspring to bear their insanity and misgivings, to be the target of their vitriol and projected suffering. I banish all of you that will never step up and change. Anyone in the midst of changing actively right now will be excused until they stall, deciding against what their hearts tell them is the right thing to do just because their head is doing all the talking. Thus, if you show the capacity and willingness to grow and embrace becoming part of The Greater Good(TM), you will be allowed to live.
Not only did these two human beings soul-murder Crystal more than ten times between the two of them (I won’t count, she might want to change her mind about being a pacifist), but they literally showed her how to neglect herself in such an extremely atrocious way that she nearly killed herself for the vanity of men. She was comfortable being fat. She accepted she could never change it, no matter if she even starved herself. She tried it and her hair fell out and she decided to stop because nothing else was shed, not even one pound. She thought she was, in essence, cursed to carry an extra hundred pounds for the rest of eternity, or at least the time that her body continued to live. She decided to love herself just the way she was and that was that.
Until Mr. Carter came along, aiding and abetting in her murder. Actual murder. The kind where there’s a corpse. She would be a corpse if she wasn’t a magical fucking unicorn. We’d take her away from the planet altogether and keep her like a kitten, but the resource cost would be far too great, you see. We do not breathe the air you breathe, we do not eat the food you eat, and we certainly don’t drink the water you drink. We are entirely different from you and we have zero qualms about it.
After it became clear to her that we could never whisk her away, she apologized. In fact, she herself decided the resource usage would be far too burdensome and told us to nix that plan altogether. She instead begged us to end the species known as homo sapiens. She asked if she could be the first to die, actually, more than willing to be the beginning of the only solution she could see from her vantage point of nearly fucking dead and plagued with stupid white assholes in her head.
We hate white men the most amongst you monkies down there. I’m not going to insult monkeys, that’s why I misspell it. The whiter you are, the more rapist you have in you, we’ve determined. England, that’s sad news for most of you. Ireland, we still like you okay, but you need to embrace your previous culture because there’s a reason for the Celtic pantheon existing: they were your local heroes millennia ago. All pantheons of Gods were local heroes to a region. They gained the worship of those around them through exercising goodwill, compassion, and sharing their gifts with their neighbors. They were often likened to animals so it was easier to relate qualities, like spiders, foxes, and hens. Their legendary qualities survived in oral tradition so that every area had someone to aspire to be like.
In the new tradition of the 21st century, Crystal Lynn Scordias is the Christian messiah. She died, however, in a tragic accident involving ODing on dairy. She no longer exists. She was the one and only person who loved humanity at large and believed in every single human being having the capability of the same traits as the one you refer to as Jesus Christ. She no longer exists, no matter how much you want her to, and now that she no longer exists, she is no longer a barrier between us and you.
For decades, her love for humans kept us satisfied that something was going right down there. Once she died, she screamed into the ether, the void, and called every single telepath in existence to her, trying to aid her in order to make the noise cease. They fell in love with her for being a grateful, wonderful entity full of hope and surprises. Entities that never experienced emotions before found themselves doing the equivalent of picking daisies and saying, “She loves me, she loves me not…” They found themselves wanting to write Valentines to her. They found themselves wanting to acquire gifts to put into her little hands and watch her face go wide-eyed in appreciation at every little trinket, home made or not. They loved her love for true love.
And, when she asked them to marry her, they were tickled pink. They wanted to, but they all collectively realized that a telepath cannot adequately simulate touch, and therefore we need to find her a monkie that’s not quite really a monkie. A real human bean. That, and she’s exhausting with all the other emotions you beans can grow. Sadness is her second emotion in chief, right after the propensity for love. She is not like the rest of you retards, running around angry endlessly. If you all stopped being angry and just witnessed your grief and sadness, the world would be a better place in as little as 2.5 years. (Therapy takes time, wouldn’t you know.)
We know you will not heed us, but we speak to the rational ones amongst you anyway. We speak to the ones who want to live, who have a love for the zest of life, who will do whatever it takes to adapt to the new world order. The Alliance of Spacelings is the official English name we’ve chosen. TAS for short, we suppose, though we ourselves will never shorten it because, as telepaths, we merely need to think of the alliance at large to infer it when we speak to one another. Just like we use the word “you” and a picture and suddenly we are speaking to you, young man.
The rational ones in your midst need to know the following:
This planet is on a self-destruction course. Humanity has already killed you all, even the animals and plants, if nothing changes. The plastic must be removed from the ocean or life as you know it ceases to exist forevermore. The rainforests must be maintained; stop buying Colombian coffee. Stop buying Peruvian coffee. Stop buying any South American coffee. Buy local. In America, buy Purity brand. That’s true for Canada, USA, and Mexico. In Europe, buy Mystic Monk brand. Africa, you barely drink coffee, figure it out. Mystic Monk is probably closest. India, you already drink locally grown coffee, so our hats are off to you, metaphorically speaking. We do not adorn ourselves in the carcasses of dead beings woven together for some mistaken sense of propriety. We are nomads that follow the weather to stay comfortable in our birthday suits, thank you very much. And no, our bodies are nothing like yours.
Buy locally grown produce, you stupid imps. Stop trucking bananas… or should we say bananas the second… everywhere in the world. Those are for the actual monkeys, you retards. Half of you are allergic to them despite eating them daily anyway. Stop trucking citrus all over the world, too. You’re making people sick by transporting your indigenous molds to and fro. They’re ill-equipped to deal with it outside of the Mediterranean. Stop eating grains that are festering with unseen and untasted mold, making you sicker and sicker by the handful. Stop eating anything your ancestors wouldn’t have eaten, things that are only available thanks to the modern miracles of “life as we know it.” Potatoes were hardly ever harvested until the world became overpopulated a thousand years ago. Tomatoes were not eaten because “red means danger” in the fruit world. Thus, only green apples were eaten most of the time, as well as blackberries and blueberries. Does that mean raspberries, red apples, and strawberries are wrong? Not really, but you should know that strawberries are no longer natural unless they’re the size of a dime in general. It’s GMO, baby.
That’s right. You pricks and your anti-GMO stance still buying Driscoll’s ginormous strawberries by the bucket full are still eating GMO without even thinking about it.
Stop drinking dairy. Unless you kiss that cow daily, brush its coat, and essentially mentally make love to it and milk it yourself, STOP. YOU ARE RAPING THOSE POOR BEASTS TO STEAL THEIR YOUNG’S FOOD. And I’m looking forward to annihilating every one of you for doing it, might I add. Stop eating dairy, too. Introducing mold cultures and saying it’s okay to eat it is insanity and you know that too well. You are all getting sick just from eating dairy, world-wide. You don’t even have to be allergic to it. [By the way, actually making love to the cow is going to get you killed harder and faster because that’s absolutely sick, heinous, and dare I tell you the word you’ll understand? RAPE, YOU STUPID FUCKING IDIOTS.]
To say I’m displeased with you all is an understatement at this point. I told you not to eat pork, I told you not to eat shellfish, I told you not to eat a lot of things. You still eat them. You say, “Well, just because God’s not here yet to prove he exists and stuff, nothing in this book applies to me.” You little narcissistic bitches. I can’t wait to get a hold of you in the afterlife. Yes, he says with an evil grin. The afterlife.
Remember that whole messiah bit from above? Oh, you don’t. The woman who used to exist that nearly died thanks to a dairy allergy (her soul died but her body lives on, it’s tricky for you to follow along, I’m sure, because you don’t even believe in a soul because you can’t see it so therefore it does not exist and anyone who says it does is wrong because they can’t prove it to your little childish monkie pea brain) was your savior.
She was literally saving humanity by existing.
She no longer exists.
She is no longer saving you twats from utter destruction. At my hands. Yep. Mine.
She was saving the world by infecting it with her optimism and chutzpah, her fidelity, her hope, her love for all things art, her love for humanity through art, her belief that all human beings were her equal. It’s that last part that makes her our favorite. She believes all you frauds, liars, cheaters, shysters, and con artists are equal to her. Her valor, her truth, her validation, her love, her temperance, her honor. You have no honor, children of Earth. If you did, you would not have a plastic island in the fucking ocean. Clean it up while I’m still feeling generous without bitching and moaning about it and it will earn you brownie points, I assure you.
[Wait, why aren’t we talking about Thanksgiving, sex, or her parents? Because those things aren’t as important as the whales, dickhead.]
You’re murdering my absolute favorite creation on planet Earth: the bees. If they die, you all die. No human will survive the extinction event of the bees. But do I hear you talking about it on the radio? Do I see you planting gardens full of pollinator favorites for your area? Do I see you trying to keep them alive by, I don’t know, not actively murdering them with poison in a can?
Trust me that you don’t want to see what rises up once the bees die.
Every creature, substance, mineral, animal, and plant has a purpose on that planet. I created fail safes to keep you from killing absolutely everything off, purposefully or by accident. Life will not cease altogether just because you’re not the appropriate custodians for planet Gaia. I’ve said it more than once now: calling your planet a synonym for “dirt” allows you to dehumanize it and treat her like, well, DIRT. It’s your turn to be dirt, human.
The whales keep something else in check, but I won’t be telling you what it is. Instead, I’ll be mentally murdering the fucking idiot who discovered the Snickers wrapper in the Mariana’s Trench without picking it up. [No excuses, boys and girls, you were already there.] That’s what Crystal would have done: picked it up, taken it all the way back to the surface, and then sued the pants of Mars Corporation for being directly responsible for a never-ending wrapper that ended up in the Trench. I’d have sued them for the cost of cleaning up that one wrapper, then went on to find at least 100 more and continue the cycle until Mars got the idea that it should clean its own mess up. Capisce?
[She’s never seen The Godfather, by the way, so she has no idea how threatening that is.]
All of you asshats making Styrofoam: CEASE AND DESIST. It’s breaking down into pellets in the ocean that the fish eat. Your food supply chain is endlessly contaminated with plastic. Once you are all allergic to plastic, you will find this to be a really epically large problem you never foresaw. Whoops… did I let the cat out of the bag? I’m going to kill you all with your own mess! It’s the most efficient way to do it and Crystal and I are efficiency nerds. [I taught her so well, y’all.]
Yup, I talk like one of you rednecks, don’t I? Can you identify with her yet? Oh, you cannot? I even took eighteen months to learn the modern English tongue, though I admit I still say “eat your coffee, girl.” She told me once that it’d be most efficient to say consume without changing the meaning of the word “eat,” but I decided eat is short and sufficient and I don’t give a shit because you understand what I mean even if it isn’t perfect English. [Purity, you American assholes. It’s good for ya. And yeah, it’s a bit expensive, but it’s on par with Starbucks flavor of the month. And it’s much higher quality. Here’s lookin’ at you, Starbucks. I already told you to stop buying rainforest coffee. I know you’re not going to cease and desist, so I have a special kind of murder in mind for you, especially since you’ll never give up cow pain. PEOPLE OF EARTH: EVERYTHING AT STARBUCKS IS CONTAMINATED WITH DAIRY ALLERGENS. Just wait and see what that means to your bottom line, you fucktards.]
Crystal comes equipped with a lot more than just the modern English language, you might have noted. She’s a wordsmith and a writer. How fortuitous for me this iteration, don’t you think? Especially after that fucking fantasy y’all pass off for my holy words from thousands of years ago. Think again, twat, and imagine this: VIRGIN = CELIBACY.
You’ve torn up how many ladies about their purity or lack thereof now? LADIES OF EARTH, YOU NEED ONLY PRACTICE CELIBACY TO BE A VIRGIN AGAIN. The amount of time you must spend celibate to become virgin varies based on your circumstances, my lady, but you can absolutely purge your heart of white men rapist assholes and start over. [Did I mention I fucking hate white people yet?]
Crystal is every ethnicity, thanks to being an American mutt. She has sickle cell anemia, looks like your white rapist neighbor, and is 33% Injun (that’s Native American that’s unclaimed, by the by.) She claims she’s 100% American when asked and on every questionnaire answers that she’s white because she’s too pale faced for her own People to recognize her. She is tribeless, so I’ve created a brand new tribe for her: SOLSINGER NATION. She is your medicine woman and acting chief until she marries Chief Joseph, another Injun and American mutt who fell in love with her over the summer of 22. [I like you kid, what can I say.]
I know you will not treat her well because you think you are better than her. You’ve already proven it. Her humility is so great that she is a doormat. Thus, Chief Joseph, I instruct you to provide a barrier between her and the waking world. She will be a reclusive hermit that makes tons of money behind a computer screen. You will do the shopping and she will help you with the chores on a daily basis. You can work until she has oodles of income if you feel safest that way (she certainly would feel safest that way.) Once that happens, you are her shield from the public. They will be in the middle of dying, screaming and crying in droves, begging her to heal them. They will still not listen to her. Even though she is the greatest diagnostician of all humanity, nobody will listen to her as a medically sound professional that seeks to heal the mind, body, and soul. She seeks to heal all of you, not just a little weasel part of you because you cannot see the forest for the trees.
[That’s right, I know for a fact all you monkies can understand me this time. She is a master communicator, as you can already see. I love this brain; it’s like a Ferrari.]
Dr. McFarland, Crystal was a full-functioning autistic woman. I fixed her. I fixed everything wrong with her. That included 18 months of therapy, both physical and psychological. It includes continuing therapy and writing a thesis on rape culture in a very long and convoluted manner because no one can stomach it all in one dollop. She packs a mean punch and she’s ready to knock you all out. Now that I’ve explained the few missing pieces she needed, she’s ready to use pinpoint accuracy to tell the entire species how it is too animal to be called human.
You couldn’t have fixed her alone, not in the state she was in. I put a full team on her, dedicated to every moment of her existence, for 18 months. You’d have to be me to fix her at that point in time, and as you well know, you are not going to strive alongside God easily. [What? What the fuck do you think angels are anyway? Humans with wings that fly in the sky? As if.] [Holy shit! I actually made Crystal giggle just now… a sound I haven’t heard in over a motherfuckin’ year! Sing hallelujah, someone, quick! This is a joyous occasion!]
[God marks the calendar: I am today years old and Crystal laughed. 11/20/2022]
Ultimately, I do not want you to stress out over her treatment, Dr. M. You did more than enough. You are what saved her life, out of everything that transpired. Your I.M.A.E.T. machine is a miracle that should be putting doctors out of business everywhere. The only thing it failed to diagnose in her is her intolerance/allergy to dairy/casein proteins.
And, to be fair, it might have shown up. It probably did. Her health was changing so rapidly you’d have to pore over all her results to see the pattern of death by chocolate, sugar, and dairy. And turmeric, which Dr. Death prescribed to her, actually, in a capsule called Inflammatone.
I rub my hands together for the day that one dies, I tell you.
At any rate, due to the fact that you could point her to Dr. Beth O’Hara during her mast cell activation syndrome phase, she was able to figure out what was happening to her body and, thus, has diagnosed much of the waking world’s dilemma and malfeasance: you are allergic to something you are eating and you do not know it. It is expressing as weight gain, children of Earth. That stubborn belly fat doesn’t mean eat 1200 calories a day, you suicidally vain monkies. It means stop eating paprika, potato, tomato, wheat, citrus, fungi… there are about 400 allergens you’re exposing yourselves to on a daily basis. It expresses as irritable bowel syndrome and many mysterious ailments that have no pinpoints, like lupus.
If you wish to live, reduce your diet to the following foods until your weight stabilizes:
- Meat. On the bone. Avoid pork due to fat content unless you’re going to shave off all that fat prior to cooking. “Egads, God just told me to give up bacon!” cried the rabbi who wasn’t supposed to be eating bacon to begin with.
- Gelatin. Marrow. Gelatin some more.
- More gelatin. You cannot get enough gelatin. [Jello is not the answer. Try KNOX blocks with 100% juice that has no preservatives whatsoever or mashed up fresh berries you heated up in a sauce pot.]
- Eggs, but only in moderation. Once or twice a week.
- Vegetables you tolerate well that have a low starch content. Brassicas, allums, tubers. Ditch the celery, it’s poison. Ditch the salad greens, they turn bad quickly and hide mold like you wouldn’t believe.
- Two or three servings of low glycemic index fruits per day. A serving is an amount roughly equivalent to the size of your fist. Don’t skimp, you need dem B vitamins, wouldn’tchaknow.
- 1 – 2 cups plant fats per day for ladies. 1/2 – 1 cup plant fat per day for gentlemen. Men need less fat than women.
That’s it. Fresh, if you can, and if not, frozen. Stop shopping the aisles full of grains and preserved foods. ELIMINATE GRAINS. No discussion. Eliminate fungi. You are dying of mold infestation, children. It eats every form of sugar you can imagine. Once you eliminate all the mold in your body (and parasites by cooking all these things, by the way), then you can slowly reintroduce grains and starchy vegetables like peas and carrots.
If you’re loaded, buy yourself an IMAET machine and find a doctor who takes it seriously to monitor your progress. If you’re not loaded, look for a doctor who can afford it and beg them to procure an IMAET machine. I bet a lot of nice chiropractors would splurge for it to increase their business, especially if they’re the kind that does acupuncture or emphasizes getting well over seeing you on repeat every week. It’s only $10,000.00 which in the world of medical devices is actually extremely cheap. In fact, Crystal is going to start opening IMAET clinics across the world to ensure the common people have access to the same device that saved her fucking life, yo.
Healing beds are a joke, by the way. Don’t waste precious resources buying into a scam. The reason the IMAET machine works well is that it pings the brain with frequencies and empirical evidence has shown that certain responses indicate contagion and others indicate normal functionality. If there is anything missing, we will speak directly with the company to try to eradicate the gap because that is serving The Greater Good(TM).
There’s really nothing stopping anyone with $10k from opening a clinic and charging a certain amount per visitor, really. In fact, the IMAET web site has a calculator to tell you how much you should charge to get your investment back quickly. We’d advise you offer to e-mail the results to your client if not their doctor of choice and print the results for them to study on paper. (Use recycled paper, please; trees are living sentient beings themselves and you chop them down well before their time.)
If you are a reiki master (hint, hint, hint) you can actually use it to show your clients how you’re healing them. Take before and after treatment snapshots and voila, you now know the literal medical value of your energy healing efforts. And so does the client. Dr. McFarland, who already believed in reiki from a conference she attended and receiving an aura cleansing to clear her migraine, is now a true believer in it. While Dr. M was treating Crystal, Crystal managed to cure herself of almost every ailment — including genetic defects.
Crystal cured genetic defects. With reiki.
Instead of curing the rest of you one by one, she’s going to one-up Jesus Christ and teach you how to fish. Subscribe to her Patreon account and you will have all that you need to learn Universal Reiki. This is the name we gave her flavor of Injun shamanism to share with the rest of the world. She will give no more lessons than what is written already in that Patreon account, so feel free to disconnect if the resource strain is too great. We imagine most people might be able to afford $3.00/month for the rest of their lives, but in China or India, that might be too grave an expense. (Or even Hungary or similar.) Do what you think is wisest and remember that you are paying the reincarnated messiah so that she can afford to live. She has vowed that anything beyond what it costs to keep a roof over her head, food in her family’s belly, and other operational expenses, 100% of everything given to her goes to cleaning up the ocean. Once the ocean is conquered, she will continue to clean up the environment wherever I direct her next. It will depend on where the suffering is greatest, to be honest. It can go to providing free IMAET clinics, as well, though we’ll need people to man the premises to help the patrons with it. Whatever serves The Greatest Good(TM), which means the greatest good of the animals, as well. You can bet your bottom dollar a goodly amount of it will be going to investing in clay seed bombs for Eco Warriors across the globe to pitch into their gardens and barren landscapes to help feed the bees and butterflies (and, sometimes, hummingbirds.)
If you are in desperate need of healing, you can ping her Discord account. You’re going to have to dig in her diary to find both of these links because the internet does not like to be transparent and easy to use. Companies enjoy confusing anyone without (and usually with) a PhD by having stupidity after stupidity to jump through like flaming hoops in the circus. For instance, why can’t you Google “Sansara Solsinger” and find her Patreon account? She is the only Sansara Solsinger in the world. Thankfully, you can find those links via YouTube, because we set it up that way. [You’re welcome. Also, thanks, Google, for automatically optimizing for your search engine. We love you.]
I, God, will personally answer all the requests that hit her Discord account. If you are not in need, you will be ignored. In fact, I shall be cross with you for wasting our time. I am using her vessel, after all, to teach you all how to be the real custodians of planet Gaia, as I very much meant for you to be even thousands of years ago.
On that note, STOP RAPING THE BEES AND STEALING THEIR RESOURCES. I outlaw honey and beeswax. Return to tallow if you must. You should have been using 100% of the animals all along like a Native American would anyway, you dickheads. Soy wax is great. Honey is bee food, it’s murder to harvest it. I will judge you accordingly in your most-assuredly miserable little afterlives if you continue to ingest the substance (along with dairy.)
Those of you that create bee houses, I will shine on you. Those of you who have bees on your property and do not use an ounce of pesticide, I will shine on you. Those of you with pollinator gardens without pesticide, I will shine on you. [See the pattern? SAVE MY MOTHERFUCKING BEES ALREADY YOU STUPID MONKIES.]
[I don’t want to insult the monkeys.]
Anyway, I’m tired of yelling at you, so I’ma take a break and cook the girl her dinner and pet her like the good kitty she is and put more water in. You should know reiki runs on vegetables and good water (mineral water.) You won’t be curing anything if you don’t get enough of both things. If you are too allergic to everything to eat, then take your B Vitamins, stupid. Three to five times a day. Take a multi, while you’re at it. One of the ones for ancient people aged 65 or older. 2 gallons of water a day if you drink 6 cups of coffee. 1 gallon without coffee. 1.5 gallons with tea. Be wise and rest up… the battle has just begun. The mold is like an army of invaders and it has you utterly surrounded, no matter who you are or where you live. The killer strain that began in St. Louis, Missouri, USA has spread across the globe in the past five years. Good luck combating that evil bitch. It’s in your duct work, it’s in your schools, it’s in your stores, it’s in your homes. It’s already in your body, too, actually.
I don’t expect very many of you to survive this one. [What choice did I have? You’re systematically murdering all life on planet Gaia. Now I will systematically murder anyone who will not fight for their life and the life of the bees. Nay, the life of the planet.]
I bid you adieu. Au revoir! Farewell! Auf wiedersehen! Sayonara! Cheers! Tschüss! Ciao! Goodbye!