Today the CIA gang-stalkers said I'm supposed to get drunk and hit on cashiers. Be friendly at least. Hard. Can't do what the cross-talkers said to do in a Demonstrative Performative Transmission; just talk. Oh what I'd do today? Oh well, y'know, my CIA life partner is in the hospital as part of his ploy to defraud the government in which he shoe-horned my help in this matter by having me report honestly at how he is manipulating me just as he manipulates doctors. Oh, and I wrote a poem. Jacked off once. Wrote 2k words in that true story of me getting taken advantage of by the cult. God talked to me again, he said...what? American Gladiator? You watched that all weekend? Oh, I see you have the full capacity to empathize with me. Better open up about how I like my sister's feet. And this is what I live with. Never good enough. Dad beat tf outta me. Shit in my soul. Won't even talk to me now. Not good enough. Well, all you fucks are gunna feel my wrath in Heaven.
Flashback?
No I'm just like this. I got upset because the decentralized autonomous organization of secret police described the the New Testament goaded me into realizing I can network with this virtuous grisettes working as cashier every morning, and it pissed me off because [complicated trauma]. So I did my art to process the emotions. Would you read something of me in a better headspace for writing? It's a lotta emotions at once, y'see. But I'm a skilled righter and performance fartist and I do this for me as much as other people because the occasional person gets caught in a whirlpool and goes digging and learns a lot because this is my educational art project.