War in La Jolla, sixth year, seventy-ninth entry
I hear these are the people who can do that sort of thing. They can follow you home. They can follow you to work. They can call the police and tell little white lies and get people thinking in all the wrong directions. They can rape your neighbor and make the people twelve blocks away kinda think it may have been you. They can abduct your child and return the kid to you half bent apart with nobody to hold accountable. They get away with that. They bring their dogs to shit on your lawn. They vandalize your favorite grocery store while you're there, dressed in the same clothes as you. Nobody ever catches them. They make entire lives out of such little tricks. They don't get caught, they're never held accountable, they never know anything. That's what they do in life. Somehow nobody ever manages to pin anything on them.
They go out like a light switch. Someday they choke on it, their glory money dispenser, holding their breath with their pants around their ankles, and the pretend sultan doesn't quit until it's done. That's how they go out. That's how they've always gone out. Until then they get to do those things that make everybody hate each other. Every once in a while they get caught in a bad script like anyone else, but mostly they go out with their lips wrapped around a dog, with dribble running down their chin... and then in a few days the mine gnomes wake them up and tell them to get ready 'cuz here it comes again. Then it's all about the love boat crew to the schooner and presents.
And here they are, all walking around all tall and proud here in La Jolla, CA, 92037, running their little tricks around me daily, to the tune of eight or nine hundred persons daily, to the levels they could never run against any other citizen because, at some point, somebody somewhere in the chain of command would have checked the idiocy. But against me? No, go ahead, we'll even write the ticket for "illegal lodging" against him for you...
What's next? Well, I'll tell you what's next. When the officer filled out the ticket (I am yet convinced it was one of "them" phonie officer) he did not ask me for any information other than name and date of birth. The computer gave to him an address of "1675 Garnet Ave", 92109 (I believe to be their phonie computer and not the official San Diego central PD). I have never used such an address. Google maps tells me of a presbyterian church (I am not looking closely to verify anything at this time) and the picture briefly shown looks, out of context, quite near exact to an abstract perception of the front of Mary, Star of the Sea, where I attend daily here in La Jolla. The ticket also includes my correct social security number.
Why does that address exist like that? Well, consider every time you receive a speeding ticket, and you receive all of those letters from all of those attorneys plying for your interest in exploring a legal route to assuage such said ticket. Those are not your friends. Those are actually the shitbags closest to the big money shitbags who are specifically gunning on you. The police, whether real or phonie, or for whatever reason using the address 1675 Garnet, are either intercepting that mail or fishing to see who it is. If it actually is a presbyterian church then... well.. woe to fucking whoever put that address in that computer with my name attached to it--because I would have no reason to have ever done so. The same applies to you each and every time. The letters you receive from attorneys upon the interaction with a representative of the law and having your information checked into the ticket system (traffic, misd, fel, anything) are the, literally speaking, closest friend of a friend (of a friend) connections to the million dollar dog sucking shitbags who are personally deliberately gunning you down.
You really think there's a heaven if you spend your life sucking dog dick? Honestly, you really think there's a heaven for you if you spend your life earning money? Seriously. Consider, you were eight, nine, ten, maybe thirteen... you knew that first time you sucked that dog dick that it was going to kill you. You had to change your name when they (the performance reviewers) instructed "now say your name". You knew then that it would kill you. That's the Lord's joke. Maybe not this time, maybe not next time, but don't say you didn't know. Same with a job. Back at eight, nine, ten, thirteen, fifteen, you knew that some day this would kill you. Oh sure, now you make jokes on it, but you still have a day every four or six months or so when you know that someday it will kill you and you only just barely made it out of that or through that or past that. Don't say you didn't know. Don't say you weren't warned. When you stand up in front of the love boat tribunal of mine gnomes looking at you as a prop for the full chicken witch pole experimental route you won't be able to protest,"Lord, but all of us got together and decided that it was okay."
Do you think the Lord gives a shit about you? The mine gnomes have a laugh waiting for you.