School is agnostic, but everyone knows Jesus lives in outer space, yes right there in the womb of that girl on the web, that mystery girl, right there in her belly, that's where Jesus lives, in outer space, there in her belly.
The reason why I am watched furiously is because prominent people would be in serious trouble, like Hillary Clinton, if Police ever realized they were recruited to abide the wrong principle. The Donald Trump queers are said to carry a grudge, wanting every trauma, every detail of phobia and fear answered and abused, but that isn't the real reason Queerbasque is attacking me. These forces were accomplice, they released the virus, they failed to warn, they made spy cam films of me. Half of my life is a disastrous attempt to get used to the psychological problems of thoroughly violated privacy, the suspect respectibles called in to oversee and monitor, to point to a buoger picked absent mindedly and dropped on the floor. See! They shriek, we were justified! Justified! That means they get to gloat over their sex tapes, Beatles sex tapes, state of the art.
Use not porn, lest you be used.
This began when I was ten years old. Gail Burstyn was a stubborn Jewish girl who seemed to admire me and yet feel rejected by me. That's all that I really ever remembered about her letters. The rest went by me as a smart girl playing games with language. She kept saying she loved me. Much later I learned she had hired men to kill me, torture me, but always she said she loved me.
As a Midwest kid who grew up taught to be neighborly, that people were neighborly, it wouldn't have been something I could comprehend. Then, of course, I lived for years in a house dominated by a licensed felon, someone from military intelligence involved with whom my mother is still in love and for whom she still lies. There they were, those stepkin, spreading evil rumors, hiring women to abuse and traumatize me, making illegal tapes, and spy cam for 20th Century Fox and Reagan.
When I was about 13 and never really hungry, I would go days without eating and marvel at it, weighing about 100 pounds for a long time, which is when the adults were horribly battering me in the head, flurries of blows by armed men, leaving me on the ground, almost always completely out of the blue, and there was this elderly man, Val Ostro. Occasionally his son who was tormenting me, as a hostage, keeping me doped horrifically and abusing me, but letting me in when I would be chased down Mellon Street, Ostro, a pedophile who would carefully disguise it behind King Crimson records, would let me in, and his father was always home. Ostro was adult, mature, I was a terrified child, and Val would get very angry if after a few days Don would feel some pity and ask if I could come to table for a sandwich, or maybe he would sneak me some food, and although I didn't let myself think that Mr. Ostro could smell the pot and semen, it seemed impossible. I would always behave just as I always would as a child, shyly, politely, like in Topeka. Dee would sometimes be there. Then there was Don, making angry remarks, or lurid ones.
I didn't want to be there. I had no place else to go. There were people outside looking for me and trying to kill. You have no comprehension of how bad what they would do when they saw me was.
When the an English pig started it up, too, who knows, they may have hired Burstyn and Ostro, but they were given this all as a divine right of kings by Reagan, especially the brainwave sonar, ultrahigh, the moonunit that evolved from Gail, it preyed upon the fact that I liked its music. You see, the Celebrity is popular so it doesn't accept boundaries put up against it. You think sometimes you even know them, but you don't, they are total strangers, all the more hideous, this one would call me its friend, in almost every letter. It even uttered, "I love you man." Like the lip smackings of a cannibal.
I know the Filipinos who muscled in and have to have their way, poisoning my stomach, promoting the dignity of police spy cam, making up date rape phobia allegations in cold blooded lie that they claim are proved by the fact that I startle when a snarling dog comes lunging at me. They see bukkake, ha on the vicarious cyberprowl. Saul Brecher and his friends did that to me as a child when I was sleeping. I cried and cried. Nobody ever cared. Don't think I believe you care about those women or that they care about their condition. They could do something progressive to stop trafficking if they wanted to. I get sick of seeing it, but it contains a few moments of interest and I'm looking for something as an artist, old and tired by the whole thing, information and knowledge about how this situation actually needs to be reformed, not the Brutalitarianism of the AIDS Combine.
Education matters. Pornography should stick around, and be used to stop human trafficking in favor of education. Anyone can see this bondage skool that I was abducted into by Santorum's forces in Pennsyvlania is what they mean to have going instead of schools. Ronnie and Kasper never made any secret of it. They showed up at school with a nine foot oil tube.
I realize of course that murderers like Rick Santorum and others like him, some of them have children. Most of them, maybe Santorum is the exception, don't have the power of Immaculate Conception, so they have to do laundry. They aren't spy cam'd about it. Nobody interrogates them. They certainly aren't answerable to weird hostile strangers and mobs of misinformed predators.
Going out would mean mingling in a situation where Martin Sheen rides around, wired and red, his silent siren flashing with alarm, telling everyone who to sleep with, who they can't and who they must, shooting at kidneys, slashering bystanders, all civic, with all these idiots in comply, because Totem Sire The McCartney Estate, King of America, has to have his juicy.