Navel-Gazing Whilst Gutshot

Why am I tormented for what my tormentors tell others I feel?  Because they deem me guilty of the crime of thought.  To be sure, the entire program was run for the sexual gratification of one man, hence its serruptitous application.  But it seems also to serve those who would really rather not have a razor lying around.  Someone might pick it up and use it to sever truth from fiction, reality from delusion.

The challenge is immense.  Surely simple death is total domination enough, and easily accomplished years prior to this and with a minimum of fuss, dallying, and dollars spent.  There is definitely a desire to exact maximal excrutiation and fear.

What is the total overall cost to fulfill the desire that another, even one as insignificant as I am, suffer as much as the tormentor can imagine is possible?  What does the line-item budget look like?  A years-long, multiphase program whose administrators disavow is of benefit to anyone, lest the subject enjoy even an iota of pride or enjoyment.

Actually, never mind.  So many questions answer themselves...

Code Names

Gray Ghost - Vanity Smurf - Sixpence None The Richer - Trash - KGB Radio - Social Butterfly - Angel - Enigma - Blonde Ambition - Shadow Boxer - Rebel Without A Clue - Troublemaker - Et Alia.

This is for the boys and girls with the too-bright eyes and slightly damp hair.

Oops

If I've ever insulted you, it was inadvertant.  If I ever made you feel shit upon, that was not my intention, but a miscommunication borne mainly of my shyness.  Wishing you the best.

To My Fellas (And My Possibly More Than Several Double X Chromosomes...)

Hi, welcome, and thanks for reading.

I'm really shocked that I have as many hits as I do.  Rarely any comments, but lots of page views for what this is.  (And I don't promote it on anything other than Facebook.)  This started as a personal and general interest blog.  Unlike my former blog, Freedom Camp, a smart-mouth super-earnest NorCal liberal "Fuck you!" to the Bush Administration -- the blog received few hits but caused me oh-so-much-trouble in recent years -- unlike Freedom Camp, this is just a place to vent and be me.  I'm really not pushing much of an agenda (although in Robots vs. Reptile Men vs. Goddesses, I definitely fight for the Goddesses...), I'm just acting like the bright weirdo my friends and family all adore and usually aren't exasperated by.  It's my story.

This is important because my whole life has been spent listening to other people, acting as repository and sounding board.  It is a unique way to be with people, and can sometimes be very stressful.  But I'll tell you a perk:  discerning people always like to pick people like me out of a crowd and they always listen to me when it's about something important.  That's pretty cool.

So anyway, while I'm still concerned about cutting through bullshit, on this blog I try to stick to sorting out my own bullshit.  I don't know how it turned out interesting, but it did, and I just want to once again say thank you all for reading.  Keep checking in.  It gets "funner."

I Know I Have A Lot To Complain About...

But what's the point?  It's bad enough that people nevertheless found out about my situation -- how traumatic for them!

Okay, so a bit of belated venting (I've said so many thank-yous and your-welcomes, and will again soon):

I'm trying to avoid home all day today.  The unit is cheap for more than just the usual reasons.  Sometimes it feels like the psychosexual playpen of some worthless pieces of shit who somehow found jobs doing something no one should ever have done (certainly, no one with an iota of scruples asked them to.)  My neighbor continues to stalk me (and not even because he likes it -- his orders were to pretty much harass me to suicide, as though killing me weren't the easiest thing in the world.)  They've (and why the hell on Earth did I have to be the one with not only "Them," but multiple thems, some of whom are, as morality and good taste probably require, nominally on my side?) failed at everything, of course:  causing aphasia was one stated goal, suicide was another, "Elizabethan Drama" AKA Hamlet Murder Spree was another (idiots -- any ethical behavioral specialist would have told them immediately that someone as emotive as I am virtually never turns killer for any reason other than immediate self-defense.)  He or his wondering-why-they're-a-hair's-breadth-from-being-badgeless-if-they're-not-already cronies are reduced to planting bed bugs in my room (my responsibility, of course), and twice have stolen from me.  One of the more worthless little cunts tried to convince my neighbor I could turn homicidal under their tender ministrations -- a laugh as the neighbor she's trying to convince is from the Phillipines and a hell of a lot sharper than she acts.  She knows a killer from murder-bait.  The whole total domination thing continues to be a huge farce, a conspiracy to get revenge on me for being "difficult to work with," and hopefully to achieve sexual gratification for its architect, who is (oh please let that be "was," a past tense reality to be examined by a Senate Subcommittee Hearing I will be too embarrassed on behalf of the wrongdoers to want to know about) employed (or at least given license) by the same people who kept a dossier on my grandmother (COINTELPRO) for the precise reason that they did so (and kept one on me, as well, because of my political activities during the Bush Administration.)

These craptastic fucktards couldn't even successfully get me arrested.  Jesus.  Any twisted pig worth his or her salt could just make it up on the way to booking, for fuck's sake.

"Ooh, look at us, we're so evil...Ooh, and we're getting away with it.  We're going to kill you with lots of bullets and stuff."  That's pretty much what they act like with me.  Yeah, some of the emotional play is clever, but not terribly.  I have a theory that some of them do too much drugs, and maybe the wrong kind.  They make me wish I had more drugs -- MDMA and windowpane are looking lovely right now.  Threaten me for years and then BANG I'm dead.  I just don't know what they're out to accomplish -- mere emotional manipulation (not that hard with me), or successful cognitive capture and perceptual blockage or manipulation?  What does it matter whether or not I perceive my assailant?  What the fuck is the point of ghosting a non-com?  None  of these goals makes sense, as I'm as big and important as any other of the 7 billion assholes skulking about the globe, and really not worth the trouble.  And if I was wanted dead, why that was easily accomplished out of hand years ago.  What does it matter what's going on in my skull?  How does Dr. Caligari-ing me aid humanity in any meaningful sense?

And where did the fucking overwhelming firepower brought to bear on a psy-ops subject come into play?  A baby blue Marine could swish into my hovel and break my neck with two hands.

And what's with the being threatened by my occasionally making sense of some of what's going on?

And how is a conspiracy against little old me in any way impressive?

Of course answers will never be forthcoming.  But I'd really like to know why I'm the chosen one, when I'd much rather be another paranoid schizo loser.

Eat your heart out, MKUltra.

Of course, wouldn't it be funny if the punchline were that I was to me made a fool of?

Um, yeah.  There's a reason I just listened to that inane shit for years -- I was forced to.  If anyone else feels put out by the situation that's been going on, just count your motherfucking lucky stars that you're not me.

Un Milagro

For better or for worse due to my mental issues I sometimes suffer terrible tactile and auditory hallucinations.  But today I didn't feel beset by demons.  Rather, as I walked past the front of the Mission Dolores around 3 pm, having blown a kiss to the plaster Virgin Mary inset in a niche in the southeast wall of the cemetary, I felt a strong warmth pressing on my left hand, as though someone were holding it while walking with me, and I got the impression someone was expressing love and gratitude to me.

Who gets to have moments like those?  They make it all worth it.

I Could Not Stop Crying

At these thoughts:  my fellow man has given me these gifts:  The decision whether or not to suffer is mine alone.  Now, no one is king of the world and can perfectly arrange circumstances so that one face suffering and another not, therefore no one is exempt from what one doesn't deserve, pain, injustice, et cetera.  People, however, often just by exercising their free will and operating in their own self-interest, generally treat one another fairly as best they can, so things more or less work out.  And this is what people judged me worthy of:  comfort, happiness, and contentment.  They did so consciously, and with the utmost freedom to choose otherwise for me.  This is the greatest gift I have ever received, on par with the unconditional love my parents feel towards me, a gift I was born with and one I hope I pay forward to all beings.  My heart swells with gratitude.  Another gift -- this one gives me some sorrow -- is that others have sacrificed and died so that I might have any life I choose, and may do with it whatever I please.  I pray that all who have gone before me know paradise, and am comforted that any who disrespect that sacred gift will get what they deserve.  One I always enjoy, and have since childhood, is the ability to see the beauty in every iota of perception.  I'm privy to the coolest shit on Earth.  The last is less a gift than a burden, but a sterling honor nonetheless, and it is this:  my happiness has been hell for those who deserve such.  I am not a gloater, and can't lord anything over any one.  But it's an awfully important duty in the scheme of things.

These treasures were awarded me despite my greatest sins:  failing to place enough faith in people, and inducing my own suffering despite the fact that those who wanted me to be content and well deserved to see me so.  I have also been remiss as I have not taken refuge in the sangha as I say I will every Sunday morning -- may I have time enough to do better.  I beg forgiveness, and pledge the following as a token of thankfulness:  I will pursue my destiny with diligence and self-compassion, I will make better choices for myself, and will present the most authentic me I can to everyone I meet.  My loved ones look me in the eye.  They tell me to my face what they think of me.  Moreover, I'm aware of what's said behind my back. May I ever keep these gifts in mind.

I crave everyone's indulgence, however:  I must continue living moment to moment, one foot in front of the other, because unfortunately none of the abovementioned blessings are guarantees of a tomorrow.  My karma is my karma, and I may yet face the ultimately unbearable -- who can know?  But even if I have days when I have to fake it, I promise to fake it really well.