ECHO CHAMBER: Part 1 of a Diatribe…. feat Elijah McClains Actual Last Words

I dont have words or punctuation for this. like i cant deal. i’ve always been different. real sensitive. effeminate at a young age. always. i was born this way. sadly my dad was a monster. i wont regale you with stories. who cares really. i mean i do. but, even all the therapists i paid were just working and none built an attachment with me over all the years i took myself to therapy. paid out of pocket ca$h money for every session. i chose my therapists based on some instinct for wanting love. none could love me. i was never good at picking love. i was just happy to be picked, but i was a disposable toy for my exes, whom i suffered, while putting them on pedestals for years. in poems. in longing. in pain unimaginable. its like drinking water when you are full to bursting, but none of it quenches your dehydration bc within the water is a hydrophobic bacteria that prevents any cellular permeation. its not what you need. its not love. its just temporary attention. as uncaring and uninterested as my caregivers always were. mom. fuck, you. the petit bourgeois attitude in my family of lower middle class insecurity is a legacy worthy of my miserly uncaring grandmother. rest her stupid soul. and fuck my wealthy uncle – mind you – my family came together from two broken families and my parents were two raging dysfunctional bulls on fire in a paper factory, so, anyway,  i never knew relatives. uncle sent money for braces, ortho was a fucking geriatric nazi who made me suffer unimaginably. i’m sure my dad was taking all the money. i pulled my braces off myself with pliers at 12. never went back. how my parents could have located the fucking dentist from hell is only a logical conclusion to my childhood. anyway, fuck my uncle harry h. quackenboss for sitting on my grandmothers estate for three years while paying himself to be the executor and hoping my mom dies. she could have used the money. im on foodstamps. my uncle has peacocks in his yard. unfeeling people. raised by an unfeeling woman, and an unhuman family. the only relative with any humanity is my dear aunt Sara [bless Shannon too – her brilliant partner whose theoretical physics work is impressive – I have a copy of their thesis – way ahead of its time] from Jungle Friends Primate Sanctuary. she is cool. she has heart. we don’t talk. im so alienated from my family its horrific. this is not a poor me charles dickens tale though little nell could tell you something about me. tho no caring albeit misguided grandfather. mine were dead before i was ever born. the men in my family have been short lived. my miracle, one of them – i mean i am a fucking living miracle – but one of them is my health. i drink too much sometimes, but even then i manage to be an olympian like specimen. i should be a model. shame my dentist left me so disfigured. this smile has been my man who laughs smile – thats a ref to a wonderful diogenes-like character in a titular novel from one of my lit daddies: victor hugo. i am him and steinbeck. and rickets, and a bunch of other references my cunt ex probably thinks she is cool for getting: forgetting that i taught her culture deep and wide, vast. ungrateful spoiled bitch. same as all my exes. oh i must be a brute. surely. fuck you u dont know me. you never will. bc to know me would mean to love me and i am singular in that regard as all others. i can barely be bothered to add periods to this shit. which has been dying to come out, while ive been in chrysalis liminality like only someone gets. not some university person. i find them as full of shit as book editors. chuffed to bits. tenure. fuck u. im sure ill be a professor somedday, sense of destiny and all. ive certainly been a rothian professor of desire. and this is when my loneliness opens like jaws threatening to swallow me. bc my references are from a world i alone inhabit. there is no reading public. not outside of university town microcosms. id be great at harvard. id outshine everyone there. in merit, breadth, dilligence, creatvity and not stopping to fix spelling errors, bc in a world where china has human bile bears in their concentration camps, where 2-3 MILLION ethnic muslims work as SLAVES for NIKE and a bunch of other fucking american corporate war criminals. i want only one thing. jd. juris doctorate. john baeten, bless you buddy. you called it. i should – am – will be – am, studying Law. with a capital fucking L. because these theiving owner class cunts have taken land dignity resources people art culture and anything else they wanted to rape and pillage. i’m something like a pirate. come to this planet to take it back for the fucking people. grandiose: fuck you. ppl are SUFFERING like you cunts cant imagine, and if you can, then, Gabrielle Ohrn, hi I love you. she has a heart. im too austistic so i pushed her away bc i loved her. i love everyone. Like Elijah McClain. Go find his last words. they have seemingly been de-indexed from SERPS. So here are the last words of Elijah McClain, a human this world didnt fucking deserve. bc they were too good. and we failed them. allow words to do what i cannot:

Elijah McClains actual last words from police video.

my original title for this was My Family, I, My Life, Has Been Torn Apart by Transphobia – which is fact. like everything else i fucking say. tho society would have you believe i am an unreliable narrator. just as society would dupe me into believing my life is by chance, a bug, rather than a feature, like my obscurity and my poverty. ten years over, writing here. for what, me.

jesus christ when i finally get an editor with the balls or ovaries or CPU to fucking see the Thomas Wolfe of time and the river quality to me, to my being, then, well, momma is going to finally have some security in this life. i’ll continue on. i have much more to say. and if you like this, subscribe. share it. contact me to make an anonymous donation to my livlihood. have some CPU. intel inside. oh, also, i need to set up a patreon. to try and stay afloat while i become my generations hamilton, minus the LMM Amex ads. my sponsors are weed, don julio 1942, fresh spring water, organic food, and the grace of all the gods new and old.back soon ya cunts.

also, im autistic. and genius, and a lot of other shit that makes me seem crazy, when i am in fact, one of the most informed beings in my age. im a programmer – did a decade of that – im well read – as anyone – fuck u. ive been writing here over ten years. call me crazy, but i just may have a point.

Allow me to quote a savory read: The Eternal Man Evgeny Bogat:

the posthumous love of eccentrics is enviable. they are eventually understood by millions.

Tho, the living fate of eccentrics is to be ridiculed at best, impoverished into obscurity. or Elijah McClained. i do not envy the living eccentric. i am one. as the aforereferenced artist came to his end – so have i lived – in the dungeons of the Bastille, a prisoner for their religion, killed by misery, need and poor treatment // at least copernicus is said to have woken from a coma, looked at his book, and died peacefully. and for a scientific artist like me with no artifice, just a hell of a backstory [Departed meets Count of Monte Cristo, meets Jason Borne meets Vanilla Sky meets Gatsby meets Les Miserables, meets Treasure Planet meets FUCKING EVERYTHING]. I’m a juncture in time. a convergence. an emergence. a phenom.

be back. i lost my point but i have fifty fucking million more to make. and a planet to uncuck from Time Cuck of apple and mark cuckerberg of FB and a lot of other fucks who let algorithms run the world by a machhiavellian design that darwin would call savage. echo chamber.


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