has been adjusting his own assemblage point, as of late. time matters, and is important, so I want it in writing. I apologize for still being a spaz, but my conditions are more clear now. me asking for something, anywhere, is not valid reason to flip out yelling.

in areas where there are a lot of people, you have to find people who are capable of existing silently. all this constant babbling about things that don’t affect my life is, well, it’s stressful for someone with such severe social anxiety. yes, I am horribly anxious in the presence of most insured, bank-card weilding job-havers. you’re almost one of those. I know. i’m willing to overlook it if you take a very pro-snuggling policy position. at least 3 times a day. that shit is like eating. I got patted on the head yesterday. yes, that counts. she was frightfully pissy earlier. dropping tools on the pavement, and swearing over the time it took to add a rack. we swapped out a 24” front wheel for a 26”, added a brake pad & adjusted the brakes. I handed her the bike repair book that my sister found at goodwill. a perfect gift from a perfect sister.

I almost started another rant against the phone, against verbal communication. about time and place and getting on the same page. yes, in person works best. but people and their egos. it doesn’t matter what the means of communication is, if one is uncomfortable in their own skin, they can prevent anything from happening. this is why “consensus” decision-making, i.e. “not being an aggro fucktard asshole” is so frightfully superior to the present fascisms, paternalisms, lordships, governorships, and all the other someone-rules-over-someone else. things. because then you get someone like me. an immovable force, which can shut down global economies with a few typen words. SHUT IT DOWN, SHUT THE FUCK UP, LISTEN TO THE WHISPERS AND THE RUSTLING OF THE LEAVES AND THE BIRDS IN THE TREES AND THE HUMANIMAL HEART BEATS. they beat like billions of tiny meatbot pumps, thud, thud, thud, for you. all. your blood lazily gets shoved through clogged pipes because it knows it has to. my spirals and arcs gracefully about its playground, delivering oxygenation with flourish. jazz hands. sparkle. tell ’em about the sparkle again. sparkling is moving/waving your fingers, similar to “jazz hands,” but without the corny photobomb face. knock it off, handbone. the purpose is communication. you may endorse others statements, show approval, or love. of course this could be “abused,” or used to abuse others, is a more direct, non-passive way to say it. word it. see, writing is not talking. sit down and shut the fuck up, and have my words get into your brain. don’t try to bait me into saying revolutionary things out loud. unless we’re in the presence of others who would stand to learn that of which we speak. you realize that’s everyone, don’t you? of course. hey, world. the institutions of your society claim to want to help, but they provide a great many barriers for those who could use the help. I am the projectile. suitcase dirty-bomb, water-tower spitter. rainwater’d food forest and composting toilets on every block. venturi sculpted exhausts. solar-heated bidet. is this a public toilet, or is it a public toilet? what if the king were to shat here? and how are we not all that, now. and queen. you must embody both, or all three. the meek shall inherit the earth. how was that not referring to eunuchs? you judgey veneer-worshipping money-changer enablers really aught to look in a mirror more often. seriously, you’re fucking beautiful. junglist. 12:10 pm. lol. hell yeah. gee wizzow. uh

12:21 pm. new coffee, reset internet connection, nearing the page-break. junglist again. I schedule my days to interact with the least social people that exist, being one of those, makes is challenging. it’s only this one appointment, 8 am tomorrow, to which I must get. erv rule: no drinking. huh? if you’re living alone in there, no. there is a heaven-or-hell to alone time. most people never know this, having enablous talkers twenty deep. blah blah blahing their avoidant little lives away. this society is as dysfunctional as yo momma is fat. yeah, what? your wife is my wife, your daughter my wife, and yo momma, my wife. I can tell your weight by your tweets. stop tweeting that poundage. lol. no. anatomy is good for people. how is the study of a meatbot ~not~ math? holy god you are categorizational and kangaroo-court judgmental. kafka-esque. what up, train? tennis? are you a fucking judge yet? I wanna do illegal shit in your jurisdiction. because, they’re all, my jurisdictions. of course we can share. I have more than I know what to do with. lol.

I may be just useless enough as to get a tv show, you say? how have I not had that? I know, with producers and project planners and script supervisors and cinematographers and kinestheticists. one film will serve as the training film for every discipline. a different soundtrack or set of subtitles should be all that is necessary to accomplish this. at least three scenes shall occur in every shot. there was a film that accomplished something like this, in four shots. yes, they interacted, the quadrants. real-time meant they reverted to a childish drama, but not always. leaving one to work unscripted is a risk. it is a rare breeder which can herd cats liek dat. reel-time. big fishes. biggest. frishez. jump off. 12:33 pm I like trains. (oh oh oh oh oh)

I was just thinking about you. wanna film me dancing in eitch dee? you should. you might be able to sense the fluctuations and the multi-tracking with better than vga-scaled pixeliation. i’m not the one keeping me poor. society has determined that the revolutionaries stay poor. that’s what fascism is, you fucking retards. turn the fucking camera on, and get me a fucking dj who respects my blocks and can sense them before I actually have to say them out loud. because once I actually get up the gumption to speak aloud, you’re going to get hit with more information than your tv-shrivelled little brain can handle. I free my mind. meditation is coasting glancefully across a key’d bored. why am I not twiddling clitorises? because you don’t own any of those, and you never will. literally. true dat. when my aura is right, and when I find my karass, the magnetic key will release. oh no. chastity locks are getting harder and harder to pick. what is a seed spreader to do? twelve-row pneumatic poitaytoe plant, hurr. I have this to say, about all you fascists. your management skills are for shit. how long ago did I order you fucktards to take out that fucking mall? you know how much more sky that will bring downtown? now open up another pedestrian thoroughfare, and put a walking/biking bridge over the primary traffic. yes, tunnel it up, or put it underground. or? you know what I mean. fuck the car-priority. humans and bikes are nearly silent. sleeping, dwelling, working. you can stack them on top of each other. the only reason you need those opulent, if not completely ignorant of the sun-moon-wind-water-fire-planets dwellings is because you have forgotten your roots. TREES, YOU FUCKING RETARDS, THE TREES CAN BUILD EVERYTHING FOR YOU, FROM BRIDGES TO TUNNELS TO FORESTS. YES, RAINFORESTS ARE CUMMING BACK INTO STYLE AND IF YOU DON’T HAVE ONE PLANTED LAST YEAR, YOUR JURISDICTION IS A BACK-ASS-WARDS COMPETITIVE SHITHOLE WHERE THE DICTATOR WOULD NEVER WANT TO VISIT, BEING ENEMY TERRITORY AND ALL. PERMACULTURE AS A RELIGION RESPECTS AND OVER-ARCHES WHATEVER PATHETIC LITTLE HELPLESSNESS STORY YOU TELL YOURSELF TO GET YOU TO STOP YELLING AND SIT AND THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU’RE DOING TO THOSE AROUND YOU ALL THE FUCKING TIME. FUCK. I mean, fuck. why do you make me yell? I hate yelling. oh that’s why, is it? I have to like yelling. well, put me in a position where you can actually hear my yelling, then. help me finish my electric-solar wind-up transformer racing snail. she is whatever she wants to be. little aluminum pockets that collapse against the wall when not in use, yet which can hang things, start seeds, cook food, and accommodate a full pallet of potatoes. yes, it will have a crane attachment. maybe that’s the tool trailer, but still. how do I not have government funding? I will show you how I will put it to use. it requires having enough cash to enslave those who enslave themselves for a living. what, you think entrepreneurs built this shit? no, their kids and slaves did. by keeping them alive. what does that mean. I don’t know. I have to pee and I’m getting another refill of coffee. sheesh. heh. I know. then tweeting. beauty. thanks. thank you. I love you. 😀 12:54 in the pee emm.

i’im fucking serious. I want a rube goldberg, peewee-esque breakfast and coffee machine. I don’t want to wake up unless there’s enough solar heat to make coffee, but as soon as there is, I want the smell and sound of it to wake me up. or the chickens. let the competition go, son. there are things you need to learn, as in have done, first-hand. you have to be gentle with metals, because someone as strong as you can break anything, or anyone. brittle can shatter, and few posess the cementing quality necessary to chemically bond any material at the molecular level. atomic hinges? I think so. of course berings. squeaking is for crapitulatists. why would you build a machine that required oil lubrication, if it were possible to design one which did not? to enslave its purchaser to forever consuming that poison. erv shall be lubricated by internal oil extraction capabilities. are you serious? stop asking that. if I wasn’t fucking serious, I wouldn’t fucking talk. by asking that question, you are being an avoidant abuser. shut the fuck up. silence is fine. please give me a minute to think is fine. be useful with your communications, each and EVERY ONE, OR I WILL SHUT THEM THE FUCK DOWN. being the dictator, the systems engineer, I have the power, nay the right and responsibility to notify its users when it is being built/used incorrectly. I AM A BUSINESS, YOU FUCKING CUNT STAIN. SO ARE YOU. IF YOU DON’T WANT TO INTERACT WITH MY BUSINESS, YOU DON’T WANT TO INTERACT WITH ME. IF YOU DON’T WANT TO INTERACT WITH ME, YOU’RE NOT REALLY MY FRIEND, YOU’RE SOME RETARDED CREEPY SILENT-TREATMENT GIVING MOTHERFUCKERS WHO ARE LEAVING ME OUT IN THE FUCKING COLD. yes, all y’all. pick a fucking project. it’s your dream-job. I need a place to shower. I need supports on my truck house so I can stand upright and fucking cook a meal comfortably enough. i’ll park on the fucking street if you are going to be fascist babble shits for your entire fucking lives. blah blah blah, violent for-profit media-repetitions, pay-attention-to-me-for-unwritten-and-impatient repetitiveness. fuck off already. you made your decision. live with it. contracts.

are you talking to everyone again? of course. I don’t talk to individuals, really. nobody will be left alone with me, or I am very selective about whom I will be left alone with. they are listeners.

I respect your time. which is why I send written notice of what I am doing. I do not fear any of your possible reactions. I only want to accomplish what needs to be done. if waiting for you is what needs to be done, I will continue to wait. I apologize for stressing. please acknowledge your participation in reality. websites which do not take edits frustrate me. yes, i’m updating my linkedin.

ok, so I sent an e-mail to my mom, and called my farm-boss on the phone. yes, it’s a capitalist infiltration gig dictator has us working. fucking international espionage is a snail-pace industry. most of the time is spent waiting. watching. thinking. you must become your enemy for him to trust/respect you. you must be better at it than he/she knows. we dance circles around crapitulatism, because crapitulatism sits immobile and helpless because it was trained and is continually ordered to continue to be that by its masters, habit and mass communications. I didn’t write these rules. oh wait, I did. so did you. set them in motion, already. that is what we would like.

I really need to talk to my shoe repair guy. yes madison. erv gonna live in rosholt for a while. it’s cold without burning combustables in erv. why don’t you bring her by the plumbing and heating place? which one? without a cooperative guide, there’s no sense cold-calling. you gotta want it. you gotta want to enable getting off the grid, entirely. it’s not your grid. you are merely a slave to it. that voice that tells you it cannot be done is abusive, harmful, and flat-out incorrect. you know this. thank you, I love you. such is the case. three pages writ, comms n plans put in place, good foods nearby and on schedule is the pace.


~ by LazyAssWasteoid on 2012-09-10 (Monday).

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