HomelessInLaJolla's Journal: 121119 (La Jolla, CA, 92037, war v6.082)

War in La Jolla, sixth year, eighty-second entry

Your honor, I have no idea why they called you to wake me up at 4 AM. Fifty yards away there is a pair of dumpsters which have been locked once, for two weeks, out of the past seven years--with an entire host of the exact same people to arrive and root through and catalog that same barrel of laundry every day. Each arrives for an hour or more, each one every day, and somehow they all go through the exact same dumpster and take, mostly, nothing. Who are they, your honor? For seven years, no matter where I am, the aggressors have not missed a single confessional light. Clearly they have no need to call you to wake me at 4 AM--they are always there. For seven years, the moment my foot twitches at 2 AM, the car over my shoulder begins to idle. Should I wake and remain perfectly still then I will be able to enjoy the silence, but the moment I open my eyes to be visible to the world the car will start and idle. If I move to roll over that's when the car horn beeps or the person begins yelling on their cell phone (at 2 AM). Clearly they have no need to call you to wake me at 4 AM, your honor.

Obelisk. Go to your local pet store and buy a gerbil, male. Go to your local hardware store and buy a soldering iron. Apply the soldering iron to the gerbil, as an obelisk. Mayonnaise. See that look in the gerbil's eye? That's kinda like them, isn't it? Okay, now fit that gerbil with a heroin pad. See that look in the gerbil's eye? That's kinda like them, isn't it?

Adam went through the full progression to eunuch. Adam, there's just nothing we are able to do for yourself. You have a monkey up your ass, a chicken on your dick, a dog down your throat, a snake on both toes, a heroin needle in every circulatory vessel of your body, and we've surgically modified every possible part. We cannot give to you any more chickens or heroin. You will need to go become a chicken broker. If you try begging at the door then we'll fit you with one of these prosthetic in-town models made from dog ritz as a purse.

Once the trees are all cut down (how do you make them stupid enough to cut down the living trees and make all those witches? if you have them suck dog dick for money then they will be as stupid as you want them to be... been going on for a while) and the real women are a dying breed from too much sunlight and not enough tree-cover then all we have left are these sex servant eunuchs. They don't really perform the same, though, because they are only surgically modified--consider the surgical sewing job to be a scaffolding for the psyche. The obelisk is the pinnacle, the penultimate, of concubine technology. Nice smooth surface area burn with no reminiscent sensatory perception. Makes a good elephant ear, too. How does she know you're lying? She doesn't so much hear your voice as she feels it in her bowels.

On that note... do you know what you're saying? Of course you don't. You're a trained idiot. You make the sounds she tells you to make. The tip of your tongue, however, talks to that elephant ear. Take your tongue, put it on the bell in the back of your mouth, now shove your tongue up your nose. Try talking like that. It takes practice. Begin with "ah" and counting (mapfortu.wikispaces.com/incre) and work on it. You should notice that, primarily, you need to concentrate on the tip of your tongue (relax, honey). That tip of your tongue says things, all the time, especially if you're quietly thinking to yourself. If you do not know the architecture of your own upper room then you may as well have your roof caved in and letting every elephant ear listen to all of your most inner dirty little secrets.

The obeliskers. You shall no longer place people under the ban. Why not? The obeliskers do not want any competition from the banshees. What is a banshee? Consider a mandrake, only you are yet alive and not swinging from the gallows. A banshee is the result of sorting your doubles and triples properly (and not wasting your life servicing a dog or counting by ten for the money). Life has this habit of flipping inside out when it replicates. A banshee is a real bitch. Your little obelisker princesses wouldn't stand a chance.

Nanotechnology. BSM (hairpinblue.wikispaces.com) intro section includes a large description of the gumby system. Well, that's Ninevah, that's from a time when we yet had one or two real banshees around and a whole bunch of loseth's--servants, but not necessarily for the money (they wanted to be like the banshees--still a sin, but arguably not for the money). Sodom and Gomorrah features all obeliskers and everybody doing it for the money. Everybody is prepped by the mine gnomes and sent up on the stork. So what of nanotech? Well, two theories--either the mine gnomes are able to pack an upcoming obelisker with nanotech gumbies, maybe it's possible that the dog ritz installation produces a gumby or two, or else there are simply no gumbies at all anymore. The mine gnomes could tell you.

Mine gnomes. That arises from the great pyramid as related to the great sphinx. Zechariah was the final soap pokie in the sphinx. I am now kinda like him--I don't know how to help you any more. It was never supposed to get to be this bad (obeliskers, eunuchs, adonai, roosters, torsos, rider models, seven layer human algae salad from d'nial, etc.). You need to go, make fast. That prompts you for "get out of the way old man! we need to see what's in there!" (that's adonis and eunuch together muscling into the sphinx labyrinthian tomb)... I am not standing in the doorway this time. Your own fault. So Adam ended up completely eunuch'd. "Isn't that the guy who used to sit begging at the temple?" No, that's Seth. Seth went for a walk. Like most traders, though, even if he was fast on the way there he didn't make fast on the way back. When he returned he had all these strange and weird customs from far off lands and he didn't tour (dry) them out on the return trip, so now he's all weird and fucked up. Now Seth (formerly Abel) sits begging at the temple, hoping for whatever... so they do more or less the same thing to Seth as they did to Adam and turn Seth into the sphinx. You'll never make it past the lawn troll, anyway.

Wah, wah, wah. Your life didn't go the way you wanted it to and now you're dedicated to taking somebody down with you. Eat my ass.

The Lord created you to be a divine being. The Lord did not create you to make money, get a job, or be a prosthetic for a dog. You are listening to K9PP (canine pocket pussy)--the million dollar sounds of the sultan's comfort cushions. If a dog could lick his own nuts we wouldn't need phonies and millionaires, now would we? You don't look like a dog. You must be a prosthetic. I don't know why we even allow you to grow up separate--we should sew your lips to that dog dick the moment you're born if you're going to waste your life doing that for money and to be part of your clique. The Lord did not create you to be a part of a clique. The Lord did not create you to be stupid. The Lord didn't even create you for sexual interaction (Abram, we're going to make your descendants as numerous as the stars! ... Why's that? Do you plan on killing me off?), per se, as a lifetime pursuit of happiness and achievement and gloating. The Lord created you to be a divine being--but, for the money, you will give it all away.

As of Sodom and Gomorrah things run kinda like the law as Tor put it. There are (approx) 620 different boxes. Some of them are floor plans for your kitchen, your bathroom, your driver's seat, your passenger's seat, your workplace, your cube, the path you will go through in this procedure, that procedure, or the other. During Sodom and Gomorrah, if anybody ever reported "I almost..." slipped, tripped, fell, got killed then... guess what? Well, we'll be sure we don't miss the chance next time!!! Every single one of the 620 boxes was carefully refined to encourage you to "I almost"... slipped, tripped, fell, got killed. If you ever, should you ever, if you even think about stepping off of cue and making for the path of the Lord, then immediately you will be assigned as the body between two towns. Look at that law of Moses, the torah, the law as guestimated by Tor. For that carnival, that 620 point space task verse response carnival, to work there is indeed a body between two towns. Some of the boxes have a gun, some have a trapdoor, some have "laugh at this and then walk down that ramp", some have "look at this glyph, enter, and remember nothing until we show this glyph to you again". 620-some boxes, situations, tasks, turnarounds, or pieces of the puzzle to be put together to make up each day of your life. For that carnival to work there is always a box waiting for the body between two towns. Should you ever get away from the money long enough to think about the path of the Lord then all of the people in all of the boxes around you will begin to assign to you the looks, verses, prompts, responses, and positions of "you are now the body between two towns". Read the law. See how that works?

The path of the Lord: You will never make it. Suckers.

Would you like to try? Silverspur's Stronghold is always accepting prospective members of fast. Follow the rehab section (BSM) and the "self" and "prayer" sections (Fifo2ed) over at hairpinblue.wikispaces.com. Here's a hint, though--likely, you will never make it.

Take that glyph of transaction. That square picture frame, be it investment, be it receipt for lunch, be it paycheck, be it bank account statement. Take that glyph of transaction, that line by line layout which adds up to be you at the bottom. If that amount is more than 50 (anything, dollars, carrots, cookies, any method of financial accounting) then you need to cut that down to fewer than five times yearly. Stop signing for anything on any regular basis. Then we'll talk about trimming the edges.

The path of the Lord: you will never make it. Suckers.