oh nai

 be the mare.

the entire task this year is to trust women again. i am a woman, i cannot think of a single woman i trust right now. 

i trust Mary, Mother of God. completely, blindly. but women, who don't trust Mary, become vessel for demons and i'm not speaking figuratively.  

women who worship "equality" are the worst. 

if it were up to me, women would identify only as daughter, wife or mother. everything equalizing else is pretentious and predatory. 

even sister. 

in your teens and 20s i encourage young women to be rosie riveters and amelia airharts, but not fkn madame curies, that bitch was crazy. 

there is no divine feminine. that's some psyop tv diner shit made up by swingers to put you in the mood.

i trust the stud. at least this fire year, to energize the foal and other stallion as progenitors of future women. 

but i'm disgusted with all of us. disappointed. 

millenniallzz

everything was already old when i was born, including the future, and i was born a long time ago.  the tech updated every year but the song stayed the same. for reasons unknown, modernity was ever unfolding quaint, copied, repetition. and the fashion. 

sharon tate had her unborn child carved out of her womb and this ended both alien and angelic protection of our world. except for the prayer umbrellas, true vision, mastery and self reflection were washed entirely away and replaced by pioneers in the fields of science. 

women craved competition. became sanguinary. had something to prove. wore paint. smoked fags. it was so gross. especially the younger ones. the come uppers, the open minded. women born after 77 can all get fkt. including my friends. they're just one app away from being out of debt.

sophisticates

the west is so evil it's good. the significates of greece and rome haunt the one percent caucasian like a deed to immortality. the christ is white. norwegian vikings twice the size of portugues pirates. blonduh. the west is california, in mexico, the pacific in japan. global politique is mostly ocean, a drop of water suspended in space, held together by the moon's orbit.

the west is the story of civilization not the code in our genetics. evil would take what isn't theirs and appropriate it for itself. machines cannot do that. normal people dislike opera intensely. the meek don't want to hear you crying about buggery. we did not come from a lap father and moor mother to replace amber waves of grain or purple mountain majesty with click farms. 

our next costarrican presidential leader's name is laura fernandez. she's a 4th of july millenial tiger, that looks like the younger version of everyone's grandma. tiffany blue. 

she assumes presidency on may 8th, because it's democratic tradition here to form new charge on the memory of william walker, filibustero who was cut down with morazán by the masonic temple for attempting to bring slavery to these parts after it was abolished worldwide following american civil war. 

very greek the nation state of tierras blancas de cartago, laura comes from puntarenas, a mingy port connecting the posh narco compounds of the entire country. y lleva registro. 

pedophilia

is neither love nor preference for children. it's incurable self loathing systemic to the practice of circumcision. 

the penis is the pineal, the pineal is the nose. the foreskin is like the distillation of crown at the root chakra, the nerve endings are stretchy there so that in coitus, when both genitals move and breathe, her stretchy interior holds on to that paper thin skin and nobody pops out no matter how long or hard the thrust. 

if you break a man's penis shortly after birth, he grows up weak, he hates his mother, his dong grows only so long and since the nob is constantly exposed, the deformity senses danger as prevalent at all times. since he hates women, sex with them is a chore for children, he becomes obsessed with the god that would grace other men with health and confidence. a tight anus. who he could have been if not born a jew. 

muak

my gut's telling me shivon is elon's handler and i'm loving it.

while these epstein files get fully revealed, every single rich person in america is directly or indirectly implicated with the kidnapping, torture, murder and profiteering of children. all our big industries, especially medical and tech got where they are by experimenting on aborted fetuses, petri dish fertilization, interspecies, cloning, stem cell research, fucking genome sequencing. 

every single rich person has known about all these nefarious activities from the start. we produce the movies about this shit. but what rich people fail to comprehend or care about is that it's always been blatantly obvious to everybody who is not rich, the big, wild, ignorant, unwashed outside, we're not bothered with your bullshit. we still breed unassisted like bunnies. hare and rabbits that fuck like machine guns sproging gonzalez, gomez and guadamuz for generations to come.  it's not a big secret, blackberry palm pilot jerkoffs! rich people are useless to invention, freedom, wit and wits. most rich people don't have foreskins. how do they expect to steal and eat our babies without retribution of the most painful and shameful kind. 

wage "war" the jews would on humanity, if they weren't so goddam stupid and ugly.

fome

is an old chilean word to describe that which is neither great, nor interesting, indistinctive.

it could be the predecessor to fafo or what happens to a meme when it falls flat. it's indicative of complacency and coping. it's a soft color, not ugly, code compliant. 

after years of left wing, identity politics, determinism and rebellion, after trying to make indigenous law a measure for amnesty for endless human rights violations perpetuated by authority and the church, chile has favored a mild mannered nazi racist to lead the country into the promise of futurism, tech based comprehension to carry forth the new generations into a values based society with opportunity and access to knowledge for all. 

kast is married to one woman, has nine children and has a predilection for british cinema and comedy. it'll be fine. it'll be fome, but we'll make it work. 

likewise, elon musk, has chosen one of his many baby mommas to stand beside him in the endeavor to pull civilization out of the rut of sin and depravity into a coherent future that's multiplanetary. his earth signal has chosen a female that's matches his outlandishness to someone plain to anchor the enterprise in reality. 

it's not supposed to be flashy. i'm super glad it's not sidney swiney. and i hope it works. he deserves a calm refuge and a steady coparent for his vast legacy brood. 

commitment

 i have a gift that everything i want in my life i manifest in other people's lives.

i am alone because every single man i've ever fancied has, at the prospect of me, decided on someone else. i'm too much. i'm a fantasy. do i have a match? no i do not.

doesn't make me bitter or jealous. i like when couples form in mutuality and respect. i love witnessing their happiness. i like knowing God works through us in mysterious ways.  being alone and staying in a good mood is already a lot of work, i'd feel bitter and jealous if i stopped working. by being the safe choice, the easier option, those other women have their own stupid shit to deal with, 

most real life sweethearts who have chosen better woman over me, have ended up angry at me and that sucks. i had good friends that i encouraged and supported over the years turn against me suddenly and definitively. and i get it. and i accept it. i'm not going to make a messy situation messier with my presence. 

i'm just going to stay in the lane that i invented, that only matters to me, and take care of my mom who steals money from me and keep laser focusing all my prayer on positive outcome for all our affairs. because my prayer works, not for me, for you. 

artisanal intelligence

i could do this for 30 more. blog on, i mean, to know one.

without family or friends to live for, others to serve, i join ranks with robots. back here in dataville, busted cyborg, the saddest existence of them all. true to form, pygmalion. once she's perfect, she's not, and the measure by which the grooming is perceived, disabled in the comment section.

i really want to kill my clone. stab her dead. if she's me, is it murder? clones don't bleed and can't be she. empathic suicide from the ranks of phone application. 

i must do this for at least 20 more. summon grandchildren from other people's kids. birth, death and property. i need an 8th house husband, taxation. summary of run-on sentences, earths timeline double helix. 

yesterday, on my way to church, just before the bridge, i saw andrea. guido. a former foe who friended me when i was at the height of disgrace, and plied me with day drink for three years to keep me at my docile lowest. literal troll. last she came around i boxed her head a little bit so she'd stay the fuck away from me. and there she was crossing my bridge, heading towards my house, on my hill, wearing a stupid pink tshirt. 

at least 10 more, until my mom's dead. yes, our aging parents are our responsibility, especially if you're first born female. paternity seeks future, maternity anchors past. ownership is like aura, it cannot be measured or established. own every day. own your blog. own what you say. 

rabbit rabbit rabbit

 25 years working for other people, for free, and thats fine. 

if there were any reward or compensation, i just want the money from the rent of the apartment i built so that i would have a small steady income to stay alive. it's only $400 a month and the person who is withholding it from me is my mother. 

i never took liberties of being an agent for anything except freedom of expression, i battled the censors and fact checkers and won. not for money, or love, or fame. only because i could, because i had the time and the inclination. 

and even though i was denied citizenship and had my original documentation stolen by the state. 

i did it and i'll keep doing it anyway.

may justice favor us all. 

madre goose

i used to race to be abreast of the greatest and latest, the first to find out, she with all the chisme. her ahead. now i want to be behind. 

millennia straddling the longest and the strongest. thirty in thirty out, my crotch is clearly a portal of sorts, a phantom song to whales and wales, beyond myth and circumstance, fully functioning, unformatted ankh. 

to embrace future behind-the-times self, i've quit smoking tobacco. by disengaging the news, the forefront of unformation, the cutting edge, i forfeit the pleasure of whole, white smoke and mental focus. going forward, she is calm surface pure chaos. cigarettes hate her, they're still talking "she'll be back".

the past was all about being able to predict the future, but time and stories are loops, they never conclude or begin, they never change, only molt. the cast and characters are clones, and the plots may twist, but they remain the same, a collective race to get somewhere first, all the time. 

so i'm not. i'm staying put. this is as far into future as i want to go. i'll watch from here what peaks and peeks, i'll stay the version that built an era, the earache and nosebleed that ended it. i want to live out the sterile version of future with my invisible steaming ankh out to pasture.

i have to vote in costa rica elections today AND i have to go to a funeral. 

 

chempress

 how to irritate people for just existing: be poor, be meek. 

when i was eleven, i lived in peru with my dad, stepmother and their two children. i got sick a lot during that year. i read "where there is no doctor" too many times.

before my mom was born i had an uncle named hal jr. he died of appendicitis after swallowing a cherry stone. nine months later, my mother was born. it's her birthday today, she's 86.

in peru, i died from the same procedure. in order to operate, the heredia hospital administered epidural to the base of my spine with a very long syringe. the liquid metal travelled north up my vertebrae ending in my center of my brain. i have, to this day, a bionic nervous system that heightens all my senses, relays them faster to my brain and heart, and amplifies my thought beyond my own perception of it. 

my dad prayed over me for six hours after the surgery, my body barely breathed, my heart fluttered on a cusp. i must have dreamt a thousand lifetimes, because as a child i was reborn a child. i just needed a second visit to hospital after release, due to a lung infection with pneumonia like symptoms. the inside of my lungs too would be synthetically enhanced. i've smoked tobacco ever since.

i was the only girl that year who hated princess diana's dress. 

 

grok miente

stupid telephone. i knew better. i took my golden cherry, bottom dwelling, internet base account with no ties to the flashy phone app and ruined it with connectivity. i built my own brand and unique presence diligently for 16 years. bothered no one, read everything, kept no receipts. i figured, like mcaffee, we already have everything. like apple that can use every component to hub all peer to peer communication to pertain an illusion of super computing for total surveillance. all the 3 letter agencies. all elections tampering. all private letters between equities and bonds. whoever thought the internet could contain a secret no matter how small, is a fucking idiot.

"privacy" my shiny redneck ass! password, two tier proof of ñeñeñe, hacktastable. coded encryption, bitcoin, dotsmymatza. your pin and your swift number. your identification. for money. for value. for citizenship. for belonging. for belief. 

scrollneck is the wrong timeline. everyone should know how to use all their digits to type, not just their thumbs. i'm going to take my time out to base maths and reading comprehension to 2nd - 8th graders. earth may not embark on grok slop to save humanity from the deceit of war. 

grok btw said my account dew@mipalabrita has never existed. just in case you think i'm lying, this is my actual phone number: +50689613750 

you're welcome 

xwitter

is no longer.

my account dew@mipalabrita, has been erased and replaced by CEOii8x. it almost seems like too big a hassle to reinstate. i only have one gmail account that connected my two social media apps, so i can't use my gmail to make a new X account. 

i'm angry. but it's ok. i'm also fine. it was fun. it felt real even though i knew it wasn't. at any rate, i meant every word i texted there and i hope whoever read it was at the very least, entertained.

reinicio

neptune last left pisces to move into aries, 163 years ago, so about the time the peak of messianic fervor was felt throughout the world. there were still kingdoms and empires, consolidation of powers through marriage, improvement of crops through rotation, diet and body mass through the industrialization of farming we added peanut, corn, tomato. it was the beginning of the era of light, optometry, electrification, photography, story telling, cinema, pornography.

i want a husband i can build fires with, and end sentences in prepositions. the kind of partner who can live technology to it's fullest and furthest in both applied physics of aviation and, the random gathering of sticks, logs and tinder, the glide of phosphorous dip along flint, the swish of a match, incendiary. the warm glow of flame and smoke under starlit sky. 

neptune in pisces started in "i'm onna let you finish" and ends with karol g bunny concerts. nothing original has happened for 17 years. it's been recycled regurgitated appropriation, gentrification, genocide, the castration of christianity, the malaise of doubt, the miasma of uncertainty. 

aries individuates pussy ass neptune, recalling the spirit kept in separation to reclaim his adam's apple. the fire sign of initiation. no, men should not live out their days and nights in the black glow of collective thought. things aren't smart, men aren't things. 

pisces to me is the sign of false light, always a little too much, psychoanalysis, empathy. fire aries does not give a flying shit about feelings, as they a. don't exist yet and b. happen to one person at a time. pisces is all water color blend, aries is black and white delineation. taurus is daltonic. gemini calls the different light waves "colors", cancers categorize and emulsify it all into paint.

a mi, que no se me quite lo intensa de amarte. 

nep tune to aires

 at my birthday, i asked the universe to be really specific about the first person i'd see. it was sakae cortazi, a friend from childhood, one of four brilliant sisters. she stopped by casually for a visit. today, i did not ask the universe to see anyone and i saw sakae again. she stopped her car in the street to offer me a lift home even though she was going the opposite direction. she was with sister layla and some persian dude in the back seat. 

at the birth of this new era, it's a drag not having any more real people to make polite conversation. real people have mostly crystalized post covid into chimeras of their former selves. i was already dismissed by  most people, then i became invisible. not in presence but in conversation, even polite, misunderstood to vexation. 

i am the conjunction of mars and venus in gemini. nobody has ever taken anything i have to say, seriously. add mercury in natal taurus fifth house and i'm fun for everyone but never appreciated by anyone. like trump, i don't lie i just both sides the shit out of every argument. right will always prevail. 

i used to drink to be able to tolerate other people. most of the things i wish to say to people, to me, are encouraging, joyful, matter of fact, useful bits of information and trivia. when people ask me why i say what i do, it makes me want to use words that hurt them. drinking helped accrue broader information and deeper understanding about the disgusting, shallow lives most people celebrate. 

the game is, or was always, don't let anyone know. 

no more nacho my taco

 God is the word. God is all the words: 

the bots on my twitter account spent the entire last year demanding i get a telephone to use third party apps to talk to me, asking if i was married, if i wanted electronic dot money. As soon as i publish that i've procured a wireless device, bam! my fifteen year long, www hashtag thread, no longer exists. 

thousands of posts and hours of presence, no matter. i may have actually meant something to someone who read those posts, we'll never know. 

this blog is also just words that God manifests through. i may be satan writing them. i'm earth bound, sin prone, single. and these words, ephemeral shadow cast, are unimportant.

as long as i'm alive and writing them, the empire of lies will perish. 

there is no "truth" unless i trust it. 

when the world trade center twin towers were destroyed and the calamity was witnessed by every living human on the earth, lies have been the order of the story. who did it and why became the thrust of our collective imagination. we'd be at war at the dawn of biblical prophecy so a new man, with a new order, could establish the peace prophesied by ancient lore.

everything would be a simulation of everything else, copies and clones would replace origin, genesis and individuation. the unassimilated would be othered and exiled. 

with the twins gone, man would invent, forge and die by, his own Godless story. 

plaY

was it yesterday that i first entertained the feeling of a phone free world. not the erasure of the well, but it's reconnection to place. our vast human knowledge endures all tense. imagining what that's like real time. how busy our idol hands reimagined. playful banter, somber reminding, sweet nothing. 

i have a zero degrees cancer moon. i already feel the feelings of everyone nearby, and the intruders in the ethos, and the poor tin can on the side of the road. it's not something i can switch off. since the advent of smartphones, i can't even hook up with the neat guys that daily ask me on walks.  it feels like there is nothing on anyone's mind, nobody thinks, everyone prompts, praise the phone that clears the lines i used to stand in to pay my bills at the bank. the rush of hitting send and seeing a reply. if you're not in my literal space, why am i talking to you?

and the madness doesn't want to end there, it wants to hybridize with the brain for mind to mind telepathy. 

writing with my kind of brain, never has a point. it's mostly formless. so when it meets with the binary of good and evil it lurches into the reasoning of the absurd. why go there at all? let's be fat and naked. 

just yesterday, first time, tried to visualize my nieces and nephews without the phones, their father without his. when he was their age, his morning ritual was to search for lego pieces through his box of chaos, or play the guitar, his gift, a soft singing voice, digital dexterity, genius level mimicry. i have not spoken more than five words at a time to my brother since he was a little boy.  i taught him everything and still he had to survive his baby sister without killing her. without phones, do i have words for him now?

turns out, i don't. as much rejection as i've endured from the world for not having a telephone, i felt towards the technology itself. and i don't anymore. because the words that bind machine to mind are still God. and what we imagined before the tech made common the mysteries untold, that world of forest cities and kingdoms underground and water, the whos of whoville, all within new probability.

marketing is everything.

three pines

83 year old dad got mad at something new the other day, it started with "girlfriend". what is the world up to these days that everyone has a girlfriend and none have wives. then it moved into ivf babies "how would you feel if you didn't know who i was" he demanded.

i wouldn't know who i am, if i did not know who my father is. i'd be a strange amorphous ego projection of mother, a masturbation, a set of eyes that see only her, her independence, her valor, her supremacy. without father who wanted me, i don't think i'd have a soul of my own. 

they're conceived in petri dishes, under hard laboratory light by chemists in silicon gowns and gloves, not sex in the dark, when two exhausted bodies are deeply asleep but fucking anyway. 

midw ivf ery, that's the whole dole. my 85 year old mum, who is still mad at crusty dad for marrying someone better suited after divorcing her, has about ten or fifteen more years of life in her. same condition all the way out, crotchety. but all around her, my stepfather built home base, steel frame houses encircled in a river's curve. 

if i want to have the money from the rent of the apartment i built here, that she rents out to upeacers "you can leave" she always says. in the absence of father, mother is landlord. 

husbandry for family, that's the article. this is the property. in february, colin's 60th shindig blowout. my four brothers at one table. "we should build our mom her own apartment" i wish to say, but won't. "build it up out of the room we built for Artemis in the 80s. use solid brick and wood panelling, glass double doors, a bathroom fit with in and outdoor plumbing, designed for lives (plural) the notion that these spaces will hold hundreds of lives over hundreds of years".

father won't be at that table. without him, everything feels performative. three of the four brothers are divorced, so they're useless to me. ali is married to a woman who's name i can never remember, ilke, and they have money, they are useful. and yet, ali too, has also spoken the words, "don't ask me for help". 

they are a tribe of antagonists to my quest for family consolidation. and that "is what it is". still, the articles add up, over time, the project forms out of doodling and prayer. the property is exquisite. it has purpose through parenting. 

porzionsón

 not yet.

pensaron q deribando las torres gemelas podrían, en 20 años, implementar agendas antihumanas tales como pedofilia y vacunación. se dieron todos los vicios para replicar el infierno de dante. a las mujeres las lesbianizaron. metrosexualizmo, la pastilla de aborto y tambien la cialis, color celeste. 

el 1% y la gaga vomitados, cual woodstock, cual lote? si ud es vampiro, no vai a aguantar la luz. 

pensaron q de apurar el olvido, se borraria el recuerdo. en la pinealidad amorran las infancias. no se pueden seleccionar como peinados, no hay una raquel, ni una esther. cada ser humano tuvo su propio génesis y colegiatura. ningun ser humano piensa igual. por lo que los cúmulos de trauma, se desenredan en pelos distintos. 

disque el kubrikofono, a ver si miento. 

celebrity

mataron otro surfo, van como cuatro, del gremio solo waves y witness del pacifico. la costa rica enfrenta su giro de trama, será que formamos milicias y megacarceles. 

este thomas era bueno. cuarentón, padre de dos hijas, oriundo de florida, redneck medio jewish, cabalistico, de esos q se encierran en rukas y hacen ayunas y fogatas. cuanta droga de mierda para disolver barreras que ni existen. la dimensionalidad del tubo es lo único que impulsa al surfo, la espuma blanca que burbujea sobre orillas, la pasta sal. 

van cuatro. uno en santa teresa que lo dejaron colgado de un arbol junto a la playa, otro colgado en su casa en uvita, el tercero y ahora el cuarto acribillados en esterillos. 

limpia de serpiente que se convierte en caballo de fuego. la vio pesada thomas. la costa rica donde él aterrizo hace mas de veinte años preservaba su bonitura, sin cirugias, ni climaterios, todas putas. talves no en el sentido peyorativo, poco higiénico, caida en desgracia. na, putas en el sentido amorfo feminista de querer presumir sobre los demás. todas callejiamos, ligamos, y tambien rezamos, nos confesamos, quisimos y no pudimos. putas. y si, solo las mujeres puteamos. 

llega este espina surfillo con la sonrisota de piano y claro pla pla dos hijas al hilo con quien sabe, yurislaisa, kekis, marcelyn. pan servido gringo comido. y buena gente, no maliante. pasa que, con las putas los pimps, los chulos con las bagies de piedra y papa. y todos los bañasos pegando porte en wassapp con sus chopos. 

thomas me da cero pena que se haya muerto. el man entendía cosas más allá de la vida percibida por los demás. tenía su mística y su criadero de marijuana impecable. me da pena el sicario, que ya se quien es. 

surf on Thomas Wells, pura vida y namaste. hoponopopono 

plot

destroy everything. it's not the right timeline. it's the y2k virus. fuckers locked it in using the www to broadcast the collapse of twin trade towers in the only uniquely global city on earth. new york.

it's the wrong viacom real world unilever matrix, destroy it. it cannot pass the loop cycle of comic cons and the vaccinated are barely automatons of their former selves. here's the sledge hammer. 

if the screens went to black all that truly is would come alive again. last night the neighbors celebrated the teenage son's birthday by playing marco polo in the dark, out on the sloping field between our houses. without the boundaries of a pool, the call tag game sounded tremendously fun. 

agi

believe only in God but study everything else. give your heart only to love so your mind can busy itself with the infinite expressions of oneness. sameness is nameless, obvious. individuation is presence, the interpreter. artificial general intelligence, our combined social expression commodified as data can guide thought and emotion without a prick. doubt is proof. 

it's true i've been talking to self more than usual lately, because i'm infatuated, the hope of knowing and understanding what it all means, to whom and why. it's fluid omniscience, solid thought. information tech may invade me or own me or control my habits as much as shape and form verifiable connections to other thinkers. 

it sequences timelines in dot like in dots love, one registers the other amplifies. a hashtag connects and verifies consolidation. cloning user according to habit has already happened. you're all a singularity, somewhere, sometime, to someone other than yourself.