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.
I'm not sure if I've had too much weed or you have (I grabbed some live resin the other day and the damn shit ass pretty cat stole it in the middle of the night. She let out the same "mighty roar" she does when she is hunting bras so I didn't think much about it. Look how smug she looks. But it's probably me) but I'm only following about half of what you said/typed.
Fucking shit ass cat stealing my weed.
The purpose of the sacrament is to see life from a different angle. I've abused tf outta drugs, but I'm doing alright now. I fucked up last night with Benadryl because I have literally no one but liars in my corner, but you should be more careful with your weed. Your cat is cute, but you're corrupting him from his previous trajectory of working eight hours a day, five days a week as a dishwasher.