saturn in aries

 skin in the game

SAPPHIRE’S SERUM - ORGANIC OILS:

— 2 TBSP Castor Oil

— 2 TBSP Black Seed Oil

— 2 TSP Argon Oil

— 1 TSP Jojoba Oil

— 1 TSP Rose Hip Oil

— 10 drops Frankincense

— Store in a brown or blue glass bottle, use on face, arms, hands & legs for optimal summer glow.

i don’t want to be back in the IT fam. i do not crave the company of they, endless diligence over self and worth, identity and passing, all out in the open, under big God sky. fleeting narcissism and spent fornication. i don’t want to be around them anymore, not even the few. i’ll admire their villages and their coctail hours through computer screens. hear the laughter over things that were not funny before and still are not funny now, glad to be one scroll away, into the formats of single and talented musicians, and grand cattlemen. the surfer nobody noticed on pretty ocean waves. 

and yet i do.

souring over money angers me. it’s all i ask when i first meet you, don’t make me mad. i don’t want to hear how much anything cost, or who you don’t like, it’s vulgar. i do not care if you do not like potatos, or whatever is on the table that day. it’s a potato, you’re an ass. why can you afford four nicas to leaf blow the yard and you won’t pay me to garden, and you won’t give me back the machete? sure i get fired up about our fraternity when you can restore wifi connections and foot the bill at family lunches, you just don’t get to yell at me that nicas costing your time, makes the yard any cleaner.

when the family circles of trust break they become the surfer’s wave, the skater’s sloping surface, the yoguis pasty petroleum floor mat. 

i never claimed sorority with any group of women. i had friends, some came in groups of sisters, and we moved in groupish ways perhaps. i’d have prefered to have been married and the ones who i still consider friends were married and are grandparents now. when abortion became legal, and aids and herpes became a threat, and disgusting petroleum condoms laced with chemical dust were handed out, everyone, who was not married, started acting the fool, letting their bits and bobs fall out intentionaly, and while men got prettier and dumber, women got ugly and fat. 

homosexuals have to work so hard to be seen and real.

like jews.

all they have is community.

all they have is them selves.

it’s kitsch.

i’m so far from caring about push back or rejection. of mr smith popping up to tell me i need a job to finance my business ideas which are great by the way, and in due time will happen without me, poorly. critical mass is catfish, a folder filled with top curriculum vitae, applied by imposters at linkedin to control the entire work force of the planet. you’re a life coach now?

truly wealthy people keep grand and glorious homes.

the filthy rich buy new houses and yachts and armies of assistance and surveilance. they’re filthy because they built the jails and credit systems.

the truly rich build railroads, utilities and witness protection. they don’t have to breed like bunnies bacause their security relies on vast generational networking and task management. numbers like ours do not dwindle. 

 the reason we write is cause the devil can't read

marry up

 i went to the hospital yesterday. a few things surprised me.

san juan de dios is costa rica's premier hospital in the heart of san jose. it's old with new parts. the east corridor pavillion is open with arches, the are trees and birds in the inside patios. the floors are spanish tile, shiny. schools of learning doctors, teams of nurses and orderlies, in the old wing of the hospital, seem to outnumber the patients. 

our patient is roughly 63, midwestern american, who not unlike most other gringos got lost in a place that seems liked paradise, a shangrila of happiness and horse farms far, far away from all the churches only to get smacked down by and reborn in jesus.

she needs a new hip. she's not diabetic. all she wants is candy, to taste a little joy despite and reward for enduring pain, in the dark, alone, in the middle of nowhere for months. six rides up and down twisted dirt mountain roads, in 4x4 ambulances ended up disarticulating the entire pelvis of what would be a very strong, very healthy woman. 

i guess it was all the tragedy of her life partner leaving her there. and also covid. fucking lesbians. it's never real. someone always has to be the man. fornication isn't selective preference we have any right to, some lifestyles are not sustainable as they bear no fruit, and orgasm is attainable through other means than intercourse. american women got pummeled by pornography so hard they forgot they were victims of it. 

not to say we aren't friends. but women who are friends without men, can only ever be just friends. it's dishonest to say there is a human right to become an indentured to denial. dick is very important. 

this east wing where she lies and clutches to feelings of fear, knowing she's just lived through hell, is not kosher, rather it's clean, bright, fluid. as if this hospital has never performed the rite of circumcision. her bed is next to the window. if she unclenches her eyes she has a view of tropical heaven and ever changing sky.

i leave knowing she's in the very best of hands, that she's going to make it, however long it takes. she says she's german mexican but i look around at the other five ladies in the ward, all injun, every one. they aren't in hospice, they came to saint john of god, to get well, not to die. 

epstein

 all the names.

on the list, of every man and woman who participated in sexual ritual and sacrifice with minors for the last hundred years.

i want to know the business holdings of every last capitalist that has enabled and been enriched by human bondage, trafficking and slavery over the last twenty. 

same way israel flattened gaza, i want to see celebrity that enabled and crafted the story of genocide in ruins. they are already captives of identity, imprisoned in their own minds, glimmerings on black monolith shaped phones, huddling zombies in broad daylight. 

there is no torture worse to famous pedos than the ordinary. the plain. the common. the good. don't put anyone in prison, inform the public. tell us their names so their neighbors, students, clients, understudies, mercenaries, butchers, book club, gardeners and coaches can treat them accordingly, with the compassion they did not show the children. 

the hazing is over, may no earth born human ever endure humiliation, nor initiate into any group that would haze another human being. 

i want the names of the genital mutilators that used foreskin tissue to experiment on cloning and other abominations. i want every abortionist from planned parenthood behind bars. i want a guaranteed permanent ceasefire in the middle east. i want every last jew deported back to their country of origin and i want the name benjamin netanyahu to be the big arrest. 

it's all stupid, especially grok

the reason we write is cause the devil can't read

tesla roadster. not a classic car. too heavy and gimmicky to be desired. too cartoonish. why does elon only use son x to garner attention towards HIS paternalism? the garish audacity of white south african entitlement baffles. 

"made on earth by humans", is printed on the vehicle instead of china or usa. it could say america made, after all, we're still the new world, established through the church of christianity, by families of mothers and fathers, aunts and uncles, cousins all. we're still the first nation to declare independence from the British crown. meanwhile the boers have inbred so severely that some of them truly believe all of africa should be theirs and the blacks can remain, as slaves. they truly believe in the prodigal son, that he will master a race of robots.

in turn, i was born the year before elon, in honduras. i have 3k+ "friends" on the app that everyone makes fun of, but it's the app that houses the app preferences of more consistent subscribers, no, information miners, than all the other apps combined. so essentially twitter is just as small an echo chamber as facebook. 

as a peripheral citizen of nowhere, unlike musk, i don't measure my existence in likes or money. commodification of boundless emotion that as hard as he groks, the machines he wants us to refer to as "intelligent" can never feel. the socials have become the ultimate play ground, in virtual land anyone with enough followers can create content that mimics true success.

meanwhile, i'm outback, on the hill, shoveling and shaping terraces for future gardening, feeling the golden morning sunlight streaming through the trees, the sharp gravel and soft dust under my feet, the occasional poke of a reluctant cane shooting through. i'm outside, there, in the lightness of my body shaving chunks of anthill and chopping remnants of tall shoots and vines. the force of these arms, legs and back, the balance in push and pull, delicate strikes of a blade to the earth making vertical surface flat. there is no robot, ever, in the entire universe that can summon a demon. not as long as i'm breathing. 

social media made us "friends". real friendships didn't survive 9112001. when the phones came into production, the gadget garnered the avatars of the people who had loved before, a simulation of a good time, of a sidewalk, of a small town, of a bonfire. 

baby x is forming extreme attachment behaviors, children aren't designed to adorn their parent in public. every demon that has ever attacked elon attaches to his progeny. minime. made on earth, the car says, while it circles overhead. starlinking. 

my dad used to drag me to bars so he could play gigs. cause he couldn't afford a sitter. to be fair, they were day open mike events, hardly the drag venues that concurred after sundown, yet while he sang his medley of folk covers, i could sense the preceding night's disco themed afterparty, the dolls new york. i too was blond and pale, but unlike x, i had God's top angels standing between my innocence and the city's depravity. soho darts was dingy and smelly, and sad.  

elon's kid  seems like prince william's eldest kid, well aware that father will be king. x however, is not the eldest nor the baby among the musk offspring. claire boucher, mother, canadian, musician known as grimes is a kate, fake and overproduced, complicated. but to be fair, we’re all quirky online. 

pearl

 thomas the blind bisexual goose that loved two swans and fathered 68 goslings, died old, not young. 

the war is won by majority opinion, thumbs down on God's chosen. middle fingers up to the antichrist. guess we know the only two countries in existence willing to use weapons of mass destruction on our shared earth are the pornographers of humanity. haktua girls. 

thomas was neither blind, nor bisexual, he just loved two swans in equal measure not knowing he was a goose. 

weapons of mass destruction, who invented those? who brought terror and slavery to these lands? which people made torture a practice and devised language to defend it? who wants the machines to take over and replace women? it's not the christians. definitely not the muslims. 

thomas could see, enough to score and keep, not one, but two lady birds. his life was rich.

when even our weather had been weaponized by science, without permission, against the majority's will, there was one country that called every bluff and said "no"  every time, since 1988. and it's neither christian nor muslim, it's chilean. 

shots calling

    sheinbaum says we can gender profession, charge, title to fit DEI, while molotov says we can call me beaner, the makebelieve interlude of misters and masters, i am female, writer, author. in spanish, the new president of mexico wants you to call me autora which is grammatically incorrect according to the RAE royal academy of spanish. 

sheinbaum would also like spain to apologize for conquest.

gendering in spanish is very specific, the upperclass loaths beaners to say la calor. it's EL heat. they objectify everything into masculine and feminine. you can be an autor, but if you write novels or screenplays those specific genres are novelistas, guionistas. el calor y el frío son las temperaturas.

the charge of presidency is over all men. all men include females. you don't want to come into office that speaks for all men, by virtue of deceptive inclusivity. every time anyone responds by stating "as a" they're lying. i can't speak for women. i can't by the sole condition of my sex speak for my sex. and if i am to lead men, i want to be called chief not chiefa. 

carmelos

el lugar se llama carmelo's

las casas se llaman bruno, mckinney, weirsum, ken-garry, ozzy, frog and toad, y carmelo.

en casa carmelo las habitaciones se llaman: the eleonor, the sierra, the mariana, the anisa y los tres letras. casa mckinney: the sasha, the oliver, the river y titi's hot flower house,  frog and toad se situan donde estaba el bodega de abajo. 

le pertenece todo eso a julie, bibliotecaria.

nombrar lugares es crear mapas, norte, leyenda. 

#allodialtitle 

16:26

feb 13, 2024