4/28/2021 The Rat Man Cometh
If you haven't read Adam's Featured Musings, I suggest you do. If you are reading this and they are no longer featured, just select the Assassination category. They detail the assassination attempts recently made against him. There is one post, and I'm not sure whether or not it is among the featured posts or not, where he talks about how if you've ever been to his website, whether to download some of his models, check out his scripts, or just out of curiosity, that you are probably now being watched. You're entered in the pool of those targeted for harassment. He goes on to ask if anything strange has occurred lately, something out of the ordinary. Something out of place.
Needless to say, these things have been happening to me on a near constant basis for about 10 years, and I largely ignored them or wrote them off one way or another. Doing so has cost not only me a great deal, but also those closest to me. We always want to explain away the odd occurrences in such a way that the government is not trying to inhibit us. We blindly follow and trust and cast our ballots, like the good little sheep that we are. Anything else is insane. The government doesn't go after nobodies! I've got two words for you: Edward Snowden. For the record, however, I have not cast a vote since the 2004 Presidential election, so don't look at me for all the shit your local, state, and federal governments have been passing. I just wanted to share yet another of the strange occurrences that a couple of corporations have freshly bestowed upon me. To give you some background, I have been using an iPhone 5 for about 8 years, maybe 7. They stopped offering security updates maybe 5 years ago, and to be totally forthcoming, I assumed that "no longer supporting" meant that the phone would no longer work on the network. I didn't realize that it meant that I would no longer be receiving security updates. Had I known that and also accepted the fact that the Western governments of the world were trying to silence Adam, then I would have been keen to get a new phone with updated security at that time. At first, I didn't really notice anything unusual with the phone's behavior, but maybe that's because I wasn't paying attention. About 3 years ago, it started its gradual descent into non-functionality. The battery life was poor, often dropping 10-30% or more at a time. One moment, 68%. The next, 32%. Just from loading a web page. A couple weeks ago, I turned it on to type a text message. It wasn't a long message, but by the time I had finished it, the phone had 15% less charge than it started out with. The touchscreen functionality had stopped as well. In the right conditions: not too hot--not too cold, and indoors or in the shade, it would work without issue...usually. But get it out in the sun, no matter the temperature...whoa nelly! I would be able to get one keystroke in before the touch sensors stopping responding, causing the need for me to lock the screen, unlock it, and make another keystroke or three before having to lock and unlock again. In addition to that: color banding, non-responsive to touch, referred touches, ghost touches, scrolling on its own. Like the thing was possessed! Linda Blair in the exorcist! I can't tell you how many links were clicked without my having clicked them. Apps stopped working because the companies didn't want to pay their developers and programmers to continue to support the old model phones which Adam has said isn't that hard. Thanks, corporations. Websites stopped functioning. Pages wouldn't load properly if they loaded at all. A popup on the phone was constantly asking me to provide my AppleID password, even though I was already logged in. My guess is this was malware. By the end of it, I couldn't even charge the phone without holding the plug very firmly to the right in the port. Even then, it was inconsistent. Yesterday, when charging it up for the last time, I spent probably 20 minutes just trying to get it to acknowledge that it was plugged in. Because I live outside, where there are no outlets, I charge over USB from a battery bank. If whatever is plugged in to the battery bank isn't pulling a certain amount of electricity, the battery bank will turn off after about half a minute. So my method: plug the cord into the battery bank, turn the battery bank on, plug the cord into the phone. Remember that every time I plug the cord into the phone, I'm simultaneously pushing the plug firmly to the right. It becomes a strain on the fingers. If I don't get that little lightning bolt symbol, indicating that it is charging, I unplug it and plug it back in. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Lightning bolt. Lightning bolt goes away. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. The battery bank has turned off. Turn the battery bank back on. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Unplug, plug. Lightning bolt. Lightning bolt goes away. Unplug, plug. (Repeat 8-12 more times). Lightning bolt. Hold. Hold it there. Hold it. Try to maneuver my fingers so that I can hold the phone between my thumb and index finger while maintaining the pressure on the plug with my pinky. Lightning bolt goes away. Repeat all of the above several times until I can make the maneuver. I'm thinking that as the phone charges, the port and plug heat up due to friction from the flow of electricity, thereby expanding the metals, creating a less sensitive contact. Interestingly enough, if the phone is powered off and I plug it into the battery bank, it does not require the shenanigans. Just a simple, normal insertion of the cord into the phone, and the Apple logo appears and the phone boots up. This suggests malware to me. The malware only runs when the phone is powered on. As a result of having the firm sideways pressure on the cord at all times during charging, the charging port is loose. The wear and tear on the muscles and ligaments in my fingers was the last straw, plus the phone's functionality was getting so bad, and I knew it would only continue to worsen, so I texted my mom to see if they had any old phones around that no one was using. At first she offered me her old Galaxy S7 that my nieces play on. I accepted the offer but suggested she wait until we get to the next place where we were going because at the time, we were about to leave the campsite we had been at and migration is not conducive to receiving packages. Well, by the time we made it to our next campsite, the plan had morphed. They had offered to buy me a brand new phone. Fine by me. A fresh battery sounds great! After I explained the shipping methods compatible with General Delivery (USPS, UPS SurePost, or FedEx SmartPost), she asked her "guy" at their service provider what their shipping method is. He tells her UPS SurePost. This was the first red flag. It has been my experience that corporations use FedEx Express or Ground. Even if they use UPS, they do not use SurePost. So I gave her the appropriate address to use which is: My Name / General Delivery / City / State / Zip Code. You see, with General Delivery, the customer is not allowed to use the street address of the post office. I was once told that this causes "a big mess" at the post office and that the only mail that can use the street address of the post office is for the Postmaster. One post office, when I went in to tell them we'd be receiving a package General Delivery, encouraged me to use the street address, "Just to make sure" it got there. Those were his words. He was very friendly. He might've been the Postmaster. At another post office where we've received a few packages General Delivery, the form online at checkout wouldn't accept General Delivery as the street address, so what we did was put in: Name General Delivery / Street Address / City / State / Zip. The package was delivered, and the postal official made no comment about using the street address, but you will note that when we received the package, the label had the address exactly as we entered it at checkout. When my mother went to order the phone and case, she asked me if the post office had a street address, saying "they might need it." Having already told her exactly how to address the mail, this was a little frustrating. I've shopped online, though. Sometimes, as I mentioned, they just don't accept General Delivery as the street address. When it was all said and done though, she told me that she addressed it My Name / Attn: General Delivery. She neglected to mention that she had entered the street address of the post office. Remember, though: every time that we've put in the street address and also specified General Delivery, it gets delivered. Second red flag: it shipped FedEx 2Day even though she specified UPS. I want to point out here how strange this is. When you order something online, and you have the option to specify what shipping method you'd like to use, they don't just go with another shipping method. They use the one you selected. My mom might have grounds for some restitution here. On the day the package was scheduled to be delivered, that's when I noticed that the street address was entered. I send a few texts explaining that it likely won't get delivered this way and that we need to call the shipper and ask them to contact the carrier and tell them to change the delivery address. Prior to ordering, I had a backup plan in place in case the shipping method was not one of those compatible with General Delivery. At this point, she hands off the duties of making the calls to my step-dad, so now I'm in contact with him. He tells me that he was on a three-way call with the shipper (their service provider from whom the phone was ordered) and FedEx. FedEx would not change the address citing that the address was valid and that they would deliver to that address. Third red flag: I've had to do this multiple times in the four years we've been receiving our mail General Delivery. Not once has the carrier refused to change the address. As predicted, the package is refused. Another three-way call is made, and the address is, apparently, successfully changed. Fourth red flag: another delivery attempt is made the next day. Why, if the package was refused, would another delivery attempt be made to the same address? If the person wasn't home, sure. But if the package is refused, it's refused. It goes back to where it came from and that's that. The new expected delivery date, I'm told in a text from my step-dad, is the 26th, but the online tracking does not reflect this. It just reads Scheduled Delivery Date: Pending. There is also discrepancy in where the package was coming from. Whenever I looked at the tracking, it always said it was in transit from Fresno, CA to my city. When my step-dad informed me that he checked the tracking, he said that it was in transit from Oakland, CA to my city. Why would the same tracking number be showing different information on different devices? On the 26th, I get the call from the store that agreed to receive my package that my package has arrived. I ride into town to pick it up. The package feels really lightweight for a phone. I open it at the store. It turns out they have only shipped me the case. Red flag number five: the printed label only has My Name / Street Address of Post Office / City / State / Zip Code (without the "Attn: General Delivery"). Not once has the address not matched what was entered at checkout. There is, however, a sticker about 2x4" with the correct shipping address hand-written on it. So they got the change of address. The tracking number on this package is different than the one the shipper provided to us. I ride back to camp and inform my step-dad that I have received the case but not the phone and that the tracking number was different than the one we have both been checking. The next day, he sends a message saying that the package is scheduled to be delivered that day by 4:30 pm. I get the call from the store around 2:30pm that my package has arrived. It's the phone. Continuation of the fifth red flag: the address printed on the label has My Name / Attn: My Name / Street Address of Post Office / City / State / Zip. Still not a match to either the other package or what was entered at checkout. And the final red flag: there is no mention of the changed address anywhere on the package. Not a sticker, not a new label, nothing. Have you ever seen The Departed? Toward the end of the movie, the police captain Queenan is meeting with his rat in the mob, William, at an address specified by William. Meanwhile, the mob's rat in the police force, Colin, has been assigned by the police force to find the mob's rat in the police force: himself. At the same time, he is also trying to help the mob identify William. So he assigns his team to follow captain Queenan in hopes that it will lead him to William. It does. Colin's police team informs him that they saw Queenan enter a building with the address "344 Wash." Colin calls the mob to let them know that he thinks Queenan is meeting with the rat right now and gives them the address. The mob then calls William (while he is talking to the captain at their meeting place), to let him know they've found the police's rat, and they're going to go take him out. Only they accidentally tell him the wrong address: 314 Wash. The mob shows up and storms the building. William escapes the situation via the fire escape while Queenan stays behind and is killed by the mobsters. They throw him off the roof, bloodied and dead, and his body falls to the ground right in front of William, who is coming around the corner as if he is just arriving. The mobsters come out of the building and find William hovering over Queenan's lifeless body. Some yelling ensues "Where the fuck were you?" William feigns ignorance, and they yell at him to get in the van as they flee the scene. In the hubbub, the police team opens fire upon the mobsters and hits one of them in the stomach. Later, back at their hangout, the mobster who got shot is dyihg on a sofa and calls William over for a chat. He informs him that when he called earlier and left the message, he made a mistake. "I gave you the wrong address," he says. "But...you showed up at the right one, didn't you?" William reaches for his gun, but his dying friend, with his last breath says, "Tell me why I didn't tell no one. Tell me why!" Turns out he was also a rat for the police. The package containing my phone was addressed with my name and the post office's address. It arrived separately at the correct address. Tell me why. 4/25/2021 Other People are not Your Tool
Adam has posted about this before on his own website, but there's hardly a movie out there that isn't, despite what it seems on the surface, about a man doing anything and everything to win over a woman. You can see his writing at inventati.org/1337gallery/musings.html and search "Obsession," you should find it, dated 02/08/300,020. In it, he details how music and movies, and to that I would add television, are a breeding grounds for misguidance on romantic relationships. He goes on to explain how this ends up playing out in reality: all the children, not just the girls, grow up with these really unrealistic examples and learn that's what love is. He explains how it then becomes a complete mess as adults, concluding with the statement that we are all unhealthy, mentally unstable individuals as a result of this. I couldn't agree more, and I wanted to testify with some of the experiences that damaged me which I then passed on to others.
Every Saturday night, my mom's thing was that we would all go to dinner & a movie. Afterward, there was either a trip to Barnes & Noble for perusing while sipping something from the cafe or a stop at Ben & Jerry's for ice cream. So not only can we see here that every week I'm being battered with a barrage of images about what will fulfill me and make me happy, but I'm associating it with being served a hot meal, buying things just for the sake of buying them, and sweet treats, all courtesy of the minimum wage slaves. Every week at the movies, I got a fresh take on the same message: the woman is the Queen of Heaven, the man is her object whose sole purpose in life is to exceed her expectations. When I think about it, it's hard to believe they can even come up with so many different ways to say the same thing, but here we are. The really unfortunate thing is that I really bought into it. My soul and individuality and ability to think for myself were stamped out well before this stage in my life, so I was empty, ready, and I shudder to say, willing to accept these messages of horror. I am reminded of the parts in the movie The Dark Crystal (young boy believes he is the last of his kind and overcomes evil so he can save the girl he just met, to be fair, he sets out on the quest to defeat evil before he meets the girl) when the evil Skeksis strap the innocent podlings into a chair then beam a laser onto their face which puts them in a trance-like state. The Skeksis are extracting the life-essence so as to consume it in order to sustain themselves, but the look on the podlings' faces is one of complete emptiness--just a blank, lifeless stare. With this same blank, lifeless stare, but applied to my consciousness, I accepted and believed what I was being told. That I wasn't happy, that I wasn't worth anything, and that the only way that would change was when a man would some way or another come into my life and be, not himself, but my robot. My slave. My sex-toy. No matter how you put it, the man is not a man, but the woman's waiter, butler, chauffeur, therapist, private chef, secretary, and dildo put on this earth to cater to her every whim! In this way, the woman is the Skeksis and the man is the innocent creature being drained of his life-essence. I believed in it so fully, like a good little slave, it became an obsession! I started having crushes in first grade, and by the time I was in 6th grade, and my man still hadn't come along to fulfill his destiny as my happiness-maker, I had endless fantasies about my crushes and what our married lives would be like. By the time I was 16, I had a near constant tingling sensation in my chest. I yearned so hard and so constantly for my happiness (a man) to come to me that there was almost nothing else I could think about. In dance classes, other girls' boyfriends would occasionally watch from the windows, and I pretended I had a boyfriend there who was also watching. Oddly, this really motivated me and I became one of the hardest working dance students in my class. Pretty fucked up that I would work hard for an imaginary person rather than because I wanted to. Every night when I went to sleep, I would snuggle up on my side with my back to the wall, pretending that it was actually a boyfriend behind me, spooning me. It didn't stop in adulthood. I came to expect help cleaning up messes of which I was the sole creator, attention whenever I wanted it regardless of the other's needs, status-enhancing jewels as the customary gift as opposed to gifts that are actually useful, the man to pay for everything, even if he was out of money and pouted or otherwise huffed around when I didn't get my way. These are just a few examples which barely scratch the surface of how sick I became and the havoc I have wreaked on blameless individuals. I blame Hollywood and television for instilling that in me, and I blame myself, once I saw the truth, for not putting in the effort to make myself less one-dimensional and to eliminate the grotesque expectations I had for a relationship. For who else is responsible, once you know better, but yourself? I hesitate to give these examples because on the one hand, I don't want to air my dirty laundry in public, but on the other hand, I don't want to come off like I am completely innocent here. I know that I am not the only one to have committed the transgressions which I have mentioned, I have seen them with my own eyes, in nearly every single couple I have ever encountered, and that is part of why I point them out specifically, as a calling-out. Sometimes I almost feel like the average adults of the world are doing this to the children (movie-going) on purpose, but reality is probably something closer to that they believe in this (the Queen-Servant relationship) because it is what was instilled in them from a young age. Our parents say they "only want what's best for us," but what they neglect to ponder is that they do not know what that is. So by taking us out on these "date nights," I think our parents think they're doing us a favor, treating us. Reality is that they are partaking in the warping of our minds without even realizing it because of the warped state of their own minds. Nice treat, there. The whole movie thing was compounded by the fact that I was surrounded by kids who were undergoing the same treatment. Being the gullible little suckers that we are, we all bought into it and reinforced it in each other. I remember learning the fortune-telling game "MASH" in about 3rd grade or so, maybe earlier. MASH stood for Mansion, Alley, Shack, or House. It's a little game we girls would play where you make a series of lists, four entries to each list. The lists were things like, what type of house you would live in (MASH), names of boys you had crushes on (so now we're all supposed to have crushes on boys), how many kids you would have, maybe a list of animals you would have as pets. I don't remember all the types of lists there were, and I'm sure they fluctuated with our imaginations, but the main two were MASH and the names of the boys. After the lists were created, you would do some sort of eenie-meenie-miney-moe type of counting. Each time the counting was done, you would cross off whatever line you landed on, eliminating that prospect from your future. You repeated the counting and eliminating until you had one item left on each list (and yes, boys are items at this point, see above about how film depicts this), and this was supposed to be your future. Of course it turned out differently every time, and the point wasn't to tell the future. The point was to sustain the illusion that being married in a heterosexual relationship with a house, children, and a pet was the key to your happiness. Nothing else will do. 4/21/2021 Pitching Woe
There is a particular personality type that I would like to discuss today. It is that of vampirism. I came across the concept in my readings on socio-pathy about 8 years ago. Now, I think there is a minority group of people who do perform literal sucking of others' blood. I find that kinda weird, but to each their own, I guess, and that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the type of person who weaves a web, or some other kind of trap, using self-pity and woe. They claim to be "stuck" in an emotional rut, and if only someone would hear their problems, maybe they could find the strength to claw their way out. There could be many different kinds of traps and lures set and cast by different vampires, but the one I'm going with today is injured mental health and adolescent friendships. Deep down, others are caring by nature and are drawn to this seemingly injured fawn, if you'll allow the imagery. Seeing the prey approach, the vampire's thirst grows as it knows it will soon feed. What happens here, outside the metaphor, in reality, is a type of friendship is struck, only it's not actually a friendship, remember. It's a trap that someone has fallen into. The prey offers comfort to the vampire in their moment of need. Keep in mind that, whether they know and accept it or not, both of them are in hell and perpetuating it in their own ways.
Next, after a quick but deep pull on the prey's soul, the vampire is quenched. The prey has given the vampire their undivided attention for a number of hours, a shoulder to cry on, a hug of support, and this makes the vampire feel good, but the vampire will soon become thirsty again. In the following days, the prey will give the vampire lots of little gifts such as notes of encouragement, waves as they pass one another in the halls at school, lots of smiles, and they have even already started to develop a sense of respect for the vampire. The vampire had the courage to be vulnerable with them, but what they don't realize is that it was mostly an act. The vampire's pain is real, for she is, in fact, in hell, but she is in hell because she chooses to stay, even when she knows the way out. Logic says it is puzzling why the vampire wants to stay there when there is a clear, well-lit path out. Perhaps she is too proud to admit that her vampirism is wrong. Too afraid of the pain that admitting that would induce. Perhaps, and this is the one I really hope against, it is too late for her, and she just likes it. As the friendship continues, the vampire becomes very charming. She knows that if the truth were revealed, about the trap, that the prey would become angry and leave. This does eventually happen, but not yet, for the vampire is cunning and knows how to heal the prey, restoring their soul so that there will be more to suck. The vampire is very cheery, considering their given mental state a mere two weeks prior. Just snapped right out of it! The vampire showers the prey with gifts in return: notes of encouragement, waves as they pass one another in the halls at school. The vampire has even planned a big birthday celebration for the prey. It's not a party with music and food and all the prey's friends. It's a private affair. The vampire must keep the prey close so as not to lose them to another vampire or the prey's own freewill. The vampire plans a whole day together, just the two of them. Homemade lunch, then a nice private bubble bath for the prey, a carriage ride downtown, a movie, then back to the vampire's house for some cake, all the vampire's treat. The cake is lopsided and the frosting is not quite even, but the vampire, caught up in her own trap, truly believed she made it with love, and it tastes good, so it is endearing. Sooner or later, with the natural ups and downs of life, the prey will come into some difficulty of their own for which they could really use some comfort. Having spent so much time with the vampire in the months prior, naturally, they believe the vampire is their best friend and someone they can count on for this much needed support. How mistaken they are. The vampire is only good at nurturing the soul to health for the purpose of their next feeding. For this reason, the vampire has developed the ability to give a very convincing pep-talk. It is so convincing that the vampire herself even believes that she means what she is saying and feels genuinely concerned for the well-being of the prey. People even tell the vampire how sweet and caring she is. These are two words that she will hear continuously throughout her life. She feeds on these as well. Compliments and flattery go over very well with the vampire. She chooses to believe this sweet and caring nature is her true self instead of the truth: that the sweetness and caring are tools she wields for her nefarious purposes. She wants to believe she is good, and so she does. This leads to the false sense that she has no faults, and so for years, she will ignore the faults whenever they are presented to her, arguing that other people say that she is sweet and caring, so how could there possibly be anything wrong with her ways? Eventually, being an individual with their own freewill, the prey will start to stray, little by little, farther from the vampire. The vampire seems to be doing really great, mental-health-wise. The sense of urgency for the vampire's well-being is long passed, so the prey does not feel the obligation to give so much of their attention to the vampire. They can get back to doing some of the things they enjoy doing on their own or with other people. This spells doom for the vampire, for who will fill the void that she will not fill herself? The vampire may then employ a variety of tactics to reel the prey back in. The vampire may talk about missing the prey, she may seek out a new molehill in her life to turn into a mountain, necessitating another round of hours of undivided attention, a shoulder to cry on, and a hug of support. She might pitch some self-deprecation, admitting that she hasn't been a good enough friend, presenting agony so that the prey is compelled to offer reassurance that, no, the vampire is a good friend. Sometimes the prey will have the sense to keep their distance, adding that, even though the vampire is a good friend, the prey just likes to do other things too. Other times, the prey is sucked right back in. This cycle continues until inevitably, the prey just cuts off the vampire completely. Sometimes the cutoff is eventful where the prey goes to the school counselor to express her feelings which leads to the school counselor telling the vampire exactly what she is doing and how it is unhealthy. Or maybe the prey invokes the power of a mutual friend and former prey to lecture the vampire on how she has wronged the prey. Other times, the cutoff is gradual and naturally occurring, such as when the vampire goes off to college, and former prey are younger, still in high school. The physical distance is conducive to emotional distance because when the relationship is one of vampire-prey, distance does not make the heart grow fonder. Depending on the emotional dependence of the prey, it can take a longer or shorter time for the relationship to fade out completely. So what becomes of the prey? What becomes of the vampire? The prey move forward, wounded, with experience under their belts. Hopefully, they have the wisdom to not "pay forward" the pain that was inflicted upon them by the vampire. Like I said, though, the vampire and the prey both live in hell and perpetuate it in their own ways. It is a very rare instance indeed when the prey moves forward, wounded, without the desire to pass their pain onto others. As for the vampire, it is surely her choice as to whether or not she wants to remain in hell or take that clear, well-lit path out. 4/19/2021 Little Man, Big Problem
Just over a year ago, when Adam and I were camped outside a very small town, a neighboring camper offered to take me into the town 20 miles away so that I could go to the supermarket. He was going anyway for his own errands, so I readily agreed, being eager for some fresh fruits, vegetables, and meat versus the canned varieties available at the local dollar store. On our way back, we came to a roundabout, the traffic circles they're putting in intersections now to reduce the severity of collisions. Before the roundabout, the road had been four lanes, but after it, it would be narrowing to two lanes for the remainder of the trip back. As we're approaching the roundabout, out of the blue, he's telling me about how if you see a man driving a really big truck, 100% of the time, he's overcompensating for a small penis. As a side note, I have to wonder what that says, if anything, about semi-truck drivers. Anyway, we're in the roundabout, which is two lanes, and there's another truck in front of us, and as we're coming out of the roundabout, he puts the gas pedal to the floor and guns it to get around this other truck, and with a smirk, he says, "Didn't wanna be stuck behind that guy the rest of the way." Meanwhile, that small penis comment is still ringing in my head, and between that and the display of machismo to "get around that other guy," I'm thinking, "Oh, kind of like you?"
Note that the two-lane country highway had plenty of dotted yellow, that is, opportunities to pass, later on. I guess if he was going to do it anyway, it would be safer at the roundabout than crossing into oncoming traffic to do it. Still, by making the "overcompensation" comment, he was clearly trying to demonstrate his intellectual superiority, but that little factoid is probably older than cars themselves. It just made him look real dumb...and desperate. Way to go, fella. At 5'6", I'm probably a couple inches taller than him, and he drives a pretty big truck, by the way. I should add that I pretty much opened the door for this kind of commentary, and this wasn't the last comment he made to me about sex or genitals. It's one thing when the topic comes up, but it's another when you can tell that the person is forcing it just because they want to say "penis" or "sex," so that your mind is drawn to that subject in association with themselves. It takes one to know one sometimes, and in my past, I pulled the same crap to draw male attention. Later, after I quit my job and followed Adam into the, then, dark unknown of freedom, it took me a long time, too long if you ask me, to make any decent effort at breaking the psychological ties to that world and way of thinking. The second half of that last sentence is pretty loaded and is another post of its own, but for my purposes here, I'll say that I wanted to, and did, believe that I wasn't something that I actually was. Back to the sex commentary, I honestly don't remember the full context of the situation. I think he and Adam and I were all standing around talking, and he had brought up sex in some way while relating a story to us and maybe apologized for the awkwardness of the subject, and that's when I said something to the effect of, "I think adults should be able to discuss sex without it getting weird." While it is true, that I think that, I have accepted now how much farther from that reality we are than I previously wanted to, and therefore did, believe. I think that opened the floodgates in his puny little mind. Another time, on another trip into town, he told me about a hitchhiker he picked up once, and she didn't have any money to contribute for gas, so she "paid" him with, and I quote, "A night of passionate love-making." Then he explained to me that when you were hitchhiking in the 70s, it was common to hold out a sign that said, "Ass, Gas, or Grass," indicating that you would be willing to "pay" for your ride with sex, money, or marijuana. I'm not sucking your dick for taking me to the grocery store, dude. That doesn't really add up to me--wouldn't it be the driver with a sign like that, indicating their "accepted forms of payment?" Turns out, I'm right. I looked it up so that I could find an image for this post, and if you do the same, you'll note that almost every single image includes the tagline, "No one rides for free." He conveniently left that part out. Not to mention, with hitchhiking, why do you have to pay for your ride? The person is going that way anyway, so why do they need compensation for doing a favor. I think we're really misunderstanding the concept of a favor, here. I noticed that he always made sure Adam wasn't around when he made these types of comments to me. 4/16/2021 Indoctrinated
Yesterday, it suddenly (and finally) hit me just how indoctrinated I was into believing in the US Government's "goodness" over what transpires before my very eyes. That type of thing, believing what you're told to believe as opposed to what you've witnessed in broad daylight, can be, to say the least, extremely detrimental to the health and well-being of those around you.
They're so good at it, the brainwashing, that you can be living as far outside of it as you possibly can while still maintaining a certain level of convenience and comfort for OVER A DECADE, believing that you're not contributing to their dastardly ways, but you'd be wrong. You're still working for them if you believe what you know they want you to believe over what transpires before your very eyes. Even if you know with your whole being that working for them is wrong, even if you want to want to believe the painful truth, you're still working for them as long as you give them even the slightest shred of credibility. 4/16/2021 Clean Skin: The Real Ugly
By taking your 8-year-old daughter to the dermatologist for a solution for her blackheads (??!?), you might think you're "helping" her or "doing her a favor" by exposing her to the tools against which "ugliness" can be fought, but there's so much wrong with this that I have to end this sentence and start a new one. First, you're sending the message that she is, in fact, ugly. Don't bother denying it. "Blackheads" are the collection of dirt, oils, and dead skin cells in the skin's pores, and, out here in reality, I imagine that they actually act as part of the body's natural defense system. They plug up the access points and create a bottleneck. Your body's immune system can then fight off any harmful pathogens as they trickle in, if they get in at all. Because there are also naturally occurring oils also present in these "heads which are black," I figure that like lots of other oils, they are acidic and help to disarm said harmful pathogens before they even make it to the deeper realms of the pore where they could enter the bloodstream and wreak havoc. So not only are you agreeing that she's ugly, perpetuating the severely psychologically harmful precedents set by Hollywood and cosmetics companies, you're also helping to work against her immune system. Congratulations, you're stupid in two ways for one thing.
4/13/2021 Therapointless...
When I was a young child, around 5 or 6 years old, my mother decided to send me to therapy because, if memory serves, I had become really quiet. That is, not wanting to talk to people. Rewind a couple years first, and I remember an interaction I had with a second grade teacher at the school I would later attend. My father worked at the school at the time as a teacher's assistant and coach for various sports. One day, I was walking through the halls with him when we bumped into this teacher. I remember my father introducing me to her, "Mrs. Mills, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Jennifer." Being a teacher of young people, she had the air you would expect: talking in that sort of sing-songy voice and extending the vowels out unnecessarily. I guess people think it's supposed to make children comfortable, but I really think it's condescending. Not that she was particularly condescending overall. Anyway, I smiled weakly and averted my eyes. When she bent down to get to my eye level, something a lot of adults do when speaking with children to signal equality, she asked, "And how old are you?" Why is it they always want you to tell them how old you are? I used to do this to kids too, which I now feel kinda bad about. I can only speak for myself, but maybe it's that you want to engage the kid in conversation because, y'know, they're another human and you want to get to know them, but being an adult and so far away from childhood, you assume they don't have anything to talk about because you assume they don't know anything, except maybe that they're learning how to count, and surely they can count as high as their age if they are under 2 1/2 feet tall. This is really presumptive and downright degrading on the part of the adult. Just because someone is 4 doesn't mean they don't have a lot going on in there. Sure, it might be fantasy if the kid is prone to living in fantasy like I was, but still, their age? That's the best you can come up with for engaging conversation??
Still looking at the floor with one hand holding my dad's and the other at my side, the only muscles in my body to move were the ones in the thumb and back of the hand to lower my thumb and straighten the four fingers to indicate my age, 4. To this day, I'm not sure I could pinpoint exactly why, but I would like to have disappeared in that moment. Later, in the car, my dad asked me why I looked away and only held out my fingers to Mrs. Mills. I told him I didn't know. Looking back, I think I felt really intimidated and put on the spot. I often preferred to play by myself, away from the adults, when I was that age and for a long time after. To this day, there's really only one person I'm comfortable around. Whenever one or the other would check in on me, I felt like I was being examined, tested, like I wasn't normal or what they wanted me to be.
So here I am, four years old, being forced into interactions I don't want to have for whatever reason (maybe I could already feel that people are shit and will rip your heart out and eat it while you sit there, hole in your chest, gasping for air in your last moments of consciousness). Anyway, back to the therapy. I know that it was around the time of my parents' separation that I was sent there, so maybe it was that I had been "quiet" for a few years already, and my mom assumed that the divorce would send me over the edge or something, so she decided it was time.
I don't really remember that first round of therapy. There might have been some Play-Doh involved, and I think I remember some coloring, some puppets, and a sandbox. I definitely remember the sandbox. What I also remember is, "what the fuck is this?" Of course, I didn't know the word fuck yet, but that's the emotion. I again felt put on the spot for what I can see now was absolutely no reason whatsoever. So I was quiet? Who gives a shit? Instead of letting me develop language naturally and on my own timeline, I was "nurtured" in a way that the adults wanted instead of in the way I wanted, or the way nature intended. In the current situation, every attempt is made to strip the child of their natural selves so that they will fit into a box. This box represents what is acceptable behavior and personality type to society. When the child doesn't fit into that box, then it is deemed that something is wrong with the child, and that reflects poorly upon the parent. Ever concerned about image, that's why every parent is so desperate to fit the child into the box, no matter the cost. This box-cramming starts before birth, but these are my first lucid memories of this phenomenon as it applies to my life. I can't tell you what a great disservice this feels like to me, and it's not that I really blame my mother or father entirely. I'm sure they were doing what they thought was best, but I'd argue, now that I'm 37 and have gained some knowledge, that what they thought was best was really only based on misguided principles. I'm not sure, but I think I went for another round of therapy at age 9 or so. I remember the therapist had shelves covering the entirety of one of the walls of her office, which was a pretty good size room, and those shelves were bursting full with board games, books, toys, all kinds of things a 9 year old loves to get their hands on, but never once did we play. I always hated going to therapy because I'd have to sit there, not knowing why I'm there, not knowing what to say, so forcing myself to say something (!) just so the therapist would say something to me, all the while, staring at these shelves full of fun things that I'd much rather be doing but not doing them. I think I brought it up once when I was back for another round at 14 (I had become "moody." Big shocker: A moody teen in the (Gregorian) 20th century.), and the therapist acted surprised. "Oh! You wanna play a game?" This round of therapy saw me not only going to my weekly private session but also a weekly, or maybe monthly, group session! Oh boy! More unnecessary interactions and double the paycheck for the therapist! To be fair though, I jumped at the idea of going to group. By this point in my life, I wanted a social group, and I guess you could say I had one at school, but they were all bitches. There was basically no one nice at my school. It was a private school, so who can say they're surprised? No friendships evolved out of the group therapy, and actually, I remember thinking, "this is so dumb." every time I went. It's a little late and thousands of dollars down the drain, but I'm starting to wonder if my therapist was just a really bad therapist and a really good liar/saleswoman. When I confronted her about wanting to switch therapists when I was 17 (back again, against my will, after a suicide attempt), she of course gave me the old, "yeah, you could do that, but the new therapist won't know all your history." She always called my brother by the wrong name. Jimmy instead of Jamie, so pretty close, but you'd think she'd at least look at my file before I came in, right? Or at least, just say, "your brother" instead of fucking up the name every damn time. By this point in my life, I was extremely compliant with adults (to their faces), so I just let that sinking feeling penetrate me and gave up. So not only the whole, "I'm not letting my paycheck walk out the door," thing, but she would also often fall asleep during our sessions. Snoring and everything. So here I am, 17, with genuine emotional turmoil (you don't swallow thousands of milligrams of acetaminophen for fun), and the one person who's supposed to be able to help me is just flat out saying, "I don't give a shit, where's my money?" Instead of being given reassurance and tools for coping with emotions, I was given constant degradation. I'm not whining, just saying. After graduating high school, I called her a couple times for some support but was pretty much given the, "I can't do anything for you anymore." Who knows, maybe she wasn't licensed to sleep through the problems of people over 18. I ended up house sitting for her a couple times. She had a really nice house in a really nice neighborhood and a couple of cats. Looking back, I wonder how much of that wicker furniture my parents bought for her. Or maybe it was the carpeting or the gas range. |
Archives
February 2024
CategoriesAll Eats Gear HSFRL Lifestyle Nugs Opinion Patterns Recipies Travel |