The fact that I am writing and typing with my arms requiring three splints is clear evidence of toxic academia. The homework is illegal but a death penalty is about it. The University are targeting someone beginning in grade school by extreme situation/brutal armed abduction holocaust simulation trauma promoting their post-doctoral dissertation, discreetly articulate, and their victim is conscripted into mandatory reply by experimental martial extrusion. My school has been advised. They mounted a response investigation that embraces multiple texts of the deviant power at work. I do not speak for them, wish I could verify that all intents were honest, if so they enjoy my enthusiasm, but I cannot state confidence, only that I am addressing this package. The agency they probably advocate for see this writing as something they cooked up and should be applauded for doing, no matter the injury done.
My infirmities however do proclaim that I am dealing with a monster and the ground around me is soaked like a Syrian river of blood. One square root of the criminal gang working an agenda is the obvious fact that Chris Bennett of Seattle media cannot tell the difference between black psychology and responsible journalism. Someone who knows he can’t tell the difference has effectively exploited his fallacy that they are the same. This allows them to upload the claim they were bluffing for effect when in reality executing mayhem, being that agency with whom a journalist should never take sides, the perpetrator of cold blooded murder.
The assailant targeting me will crow they know nothing about it, that I am a defective. I’m severely mauled. To cover this black psychology, masquerading as journalism while destroying all trace of reality, deny the injury. Deafness, they say, proves my character defective. This spins on a tabloid issue that they have made into Holy War cause. Famous Erun Gandhi summoned to hum not that Alpana did not tell me of her marriage but lo that instead I did not ask her who her roommate was and just assumed it was another girl. All very sad, from many decades ago, clearly justification for a Civil War in the name of Martial Japan. Whoever did this had their pulse on the one upmanship black boys go through in their hate fantasms.
To liven things up they added what they say is the merest play about the AIDS attack, charming they say, because nothing is real, and Frank Zappa pulled together Billy Graham and Clint Eastwood for the show at Pentagon-Disney. Non-toxic academics would say that’s terrible, that’s enough. But alas, this is professional toxic academia even armed with mouth poison. So murder is art for art’s sake because nothing is real. Do I click my heels and salute?
Curiously, the game says I was derelict in the death of Lennon “and by extension” (one of their favorite phrases) in the AIDS attack (which of course they deny is real, too) to which I have been chained as a super-drafted disciple of the non-authors, they like to laugh. To cover this, they snicker that I had sex, but they don’t call it that, they call it sexual access and experimental learning.
Their industry isn’t school it’s pornography, and gets the last laugh by my age, decrepitude and tendency to still feel love. They will never be satisfied because their bluff isn’t a bluff and their hired killers have not yet broken both my arms, but hey, this is a military friendly college. Their game of normalizing pornographic pseudo-psychiatry has many dimensions in 2019, Tupac’s death by gunfire and revenge on Alina Sheykhet by Black Lives Matter, campus proper behavior and disciplinary allegations clocked to the AIDS attack back in Pittsburgh, Warhol’s stake in the action and UW Sociology are conspicuous vigilantes posing as a collection agency with police admirers. Am I so remiss to wonder if my grudging interpreter Bear is part of the agency with that agenda? It is a crime in progress. The murderers probably want me turned over to them to despoil further in quasi-government thrill kill for ancient dissent and oddities before I knew what was happening, all below the radar of law enforcement. Zappa’s machine is party to the high command of the operation. He would say the victims smell bad and need to do it to the voodoo doll.
The obvious trajectory of the school’s vigilance is the arrangement surrounding the act of the URN (Unidentified Registered Nurse) who semi-castrated me chemically and did injury being defended, as usual, by my accomplice mother, they always get away with it by using her. It is an ASL, dispute too, because my grades improved after I learned sign language but they got to make their move and say I should thank them for protecting me from myself. Not that they weren’t deeply impressed with their chemistry know how when they triggered screams of suffering using sexual address. Focusing however on the acceptable debate of whether sign language or diminished interest led to my performance at school obscures the beastiality of the experimental injury and the cruel, weird circumstances surrounding the act of serial mayhem by a network of abomination.
Nodding your head to the banter offered by hostage-taking armed men who were molesting you as a child and professional killers in order not to alarm them is a child’s behavior they knew and counted on. Police monitors of course made clear they would never help me after trying to save my life by wearing a mask to ward off beatings, nevermind hiding in the top shelf of my towel closet at home. In other words, there was never any provision in the plan for my escape. As much as that pleasures the NAACP, I cannot comprehend the psychosis of an organization who would lie about the attack, and give up a chance for timely warning in order to keep a ‘the white’ … ‘in its place’. I’ve tried, it’s a dead end.
You’ve heard about the Jew who hid in the latrines at a concentration camp, and of course was hiding something illicit that they had to find out by interrogation and shaming, he didn’t like the smell, it made him cry to think of it, clear evidence of wrongdoing. You didn’t however follow how they mimicked this act by making the neurological system itself of their hostage into their latrine and demanded right to play it by extrusion. What you heard instead was that Jimmy was hiding something up there in the closet with him, and his tears were barking from the womb like the piteous yaps of his sheep dog put to sleep for being a nuisance, and how conveniently that metaphor surfs to allow us to shout: John Lennon! Is crying from the barks of Evelyn the dog arfing of carrots because Trump and his brave black generals can do anything. And they understand this, it is their juice, Tupac cider, vizdum of allegiance to their lyrics, their Aum Cult, a repast, necessary soul food they shout. You don’t have to believe the truth that DisneyMagic was used for a put on when Lennon was ready to head to Rivendell, to recognize the travesty being done by Seattle Art Museum or that a ravenous hate crime is still in progress.
Things have changed in that I can almost keep up with the FBI intellectually, a lot harder when I was a damaged, traumatized child with undiagnosed concussions and severe neurotrauma, but Ichiro Suzuki’s sadism ran a course of obliterative cruelty that is ruinously hard to render. The head wound had multiple uses - to lure me into a search for what was going on, to keep me struggling in a controlled semi-coma, to facilitate humiliating me, to make me easier to disbelieve, to make me a pawn in black psychology and to inflict beastial subliminal pre-seizure, invisible torment, calling me a schizoid man, by way of my wedding plans. The ringleader, not saying you Hoffa, is laughing up his sleeve in glee at the dare, dreaming of the day they have Lousa on the witness stand, tell us what you did with Jimmy in the parking lot, Lousa.
The black gangsters were playing churchly and calling me cheater to help the white nightmaricans behind Mt. Desert Island. The impossible condition of the sweet cheat mobius foisted on me by the assertion of school propriety being the root function of the psychiatric pornography on Mt. Desert Island was red-lined by UW Sociology at TCC when hireling and SI leader Sarah D. reported my shy depiction of myself as a cartoon saint for inappropriate communications and requested I leave tutoring even though I called it: I’m sorry. She tends to congregate in the Co-Lab surrounded by muscular black men who seem more interested than I do, although for sure the awkward condition the experiment has left me in includes the forgotten sensation of a kiss. I thanked her for protecting me. The last thing I need is another round of field work as an entrapment object illustrating the white suck’s sickening and deteriorating European tendency to degrade the moral fiber of the beknighted, being “subjected to successive degradations of the X-motive.” (Greg Karl) Obviously, one can only be the villain.
Campus language is loaded of course. I don’t know what to say about the issues of free speech. I get profane poetry here occasionally, or hear the beating drums of intelligence concerning Tupac Shakur. I don't really know where to draw the line when it comes to freedom of expression. Although TV (Two Virgins Pussyball, their AIDS war game) is an attack on the idea of a sin of the heart, clearly grounds to be removed from campus, that daydreaming of love, having done your service to the industry of their secret tapes, it was the Axis of the AIDS attack, the social program went deeper into the mentality of the blood panel ledger comparison, getting even good for reporting them. Exposure by Robert Fripp was being promoted in 1979 when I hitchhiked to St. Louis from Pittsburgh making sure to hear him play. The found art direction of that work Exposure is supposed to be overlooked when they claim, with no established chain of evidence, confiscation of their Texas Schoolbook as contraband.
I commended Sarah for protecting me and I still do. I also have an interest in preserving the dignity of our academic environment, but the truth is the truth. Ringo Starr is a godfather of kidnapping real rape pornography. So would be Jack Ruby. The women of TCC should not have put on a civil defense play defending him for Fox Military Media. It was an error. It was allowance of their slipknot, that they tortured me into a state of disability and so to them therefore I am guilty of having been ruined. They should not have done this to such a guest scholar. Jimmy was in a condition worse than Xiu Xiu the sent down girl. Rotterdam woman’s conference has many times stressed how love is used to deceive in order to entrap and pimp. What does it matter if it is women doing it? TCC did not do that, yet, but those they appear to be defending not only did that but did it with intent to kill. They brutally raped my deaf advocate to punish her for teaching me sign, a girl legally a child, and gloated it was a privilege in service to Yoko Ono. In defending the assassin at UW Medicine, the URN in question, the civil action was put together as Perky Ballet, bunnies on the hike, march against sexual harassment, being a hooter isn’t a crime and so on, to bring satisfy to Chris Bennett and the hoodies, lewd in their churchliness, that the white had been rejected, which didn’t use to be their game, but we’re beyond the turning point. Obviously, it is just understandable pussyball sour grapes, by violent attackers behind the AIDS attack, using AIDS injection threat as a scare to enforce their chivalric code, because the evidence shows that it is really part of this act of war and it involves a neuroplasm that they just happened to inflict me with in the lead up to using me who just happened to be born into the category of humanism by house identification and who just happened to have my fiance end up working for the man who locked me out of a church while I pleaded in tears to be protected from an armed gang as a child who reported death threats to the school office and was laughed at.
The pea in the shell really moves around.
It is a given that King Edward’s people will support forever Ming Na Wen and CMU. It doesn’t have to be logical since revenge society announced their interest from Martha Harty Schienes’ office under Granger Morgan of Alternate Conflict Resolution and of course the miseries of Dia call the tune, Reagan and Zappa worked together, they crow, so all is inherently well in production of their Texas Chainsaw Schoolbook from Death Row.
The question of who killed Tupac Shakur and was it the gang who stole Rosa and had deaf Jeannie raped is supposed to summon from the ether of black psychology the way rural burghers in Pennsylvania put together the synapse way back when: Midori Killed Heinz! But in reality it is just a spoiler’s wedge by British Labor hacking at both sides until we all meet their demands. Like this jerky cop-out by TCC pulled today, Joel Caplan was with “TAT” saying that the incident with Rosa was “fated” meaning preordained, a fact that is obvious from the text of Pener Gabriel’s SO.
In planning the AIDS attack with Reagan, Zappa lay in wait with Broadway the Hard Way having identified me and set up an echo of Boy Crazy by the Tubes (soundtrack to Andrea Swimmer, agent of NEVA and language tapes at CMU) to mockingly warn girls not to blow because of Jesus and his CIA bomb, anything to get people laughing and normalize away. Meanwhile, cruel to the max, he helped Will Zell cover it up, calling a pre-meditated war game Ezell’s game of chicken with Koop, and worked with Reagan on the mayhem ultimatums of Donald Trump and his mega-bomb scare concerning Mt. Desert Island where I just happened to be lured by the murderers who force fed me a nerve agent to the bliss of black psychologists. There Don Denis gave me scabies with the words, “I hope it’s enough.” That was 30 years before the mouth poison. McCartney’s gang had stolen a Lincoln in childhood after hitting me blindside. Somehow the echoes and this mentality hope it’s enough, eye of a needle, conveys. There is also something eerily similar to the claim they made that no utterance could pass their lips which would harm you to their judgment that no act of serial depravity would be too evil to match AIDS and since the victims are innocent they needed a counter-innocent for their taliban ledger of equity. JK by the way, the most notorious physical attacker, is a symbol of Japanese kogal porn.
The ironies of wailing tutter for morale had multiplicities in play. Setting the standard for working class drug gangs in Seattle they depict a bulbar orgy of overdose wreckage like Jimmy Pimmy Whimmy Dimmy, “Look at her laughing like a hether to the slaughter.” Offering up useful concepts to connect the dots, ignoring the relevant asides in the mosaic such as the two Texas women who make “fag” gestures outside the Book Depository after the shooting of JFK, and the Japanese diplomat who steps before the Nuclear Shelter sign just as Oswald’s death ambulance comes out of the police department.
One of the pseudo-scientific chases the ballet masters spin is copping an angle of frame analysis gloating that since I cannot stop profane poetry being given to me at school, that therefore I expect that to be tolerated from me, even when there no such unreasonable communication from me going on. They don’t want to divulge their chain of evidence. They are like a rejected husband blackmailing his ex-wife with their moonshine cell phone movies from old weekends together, only they are stalking a man they held hostage as a child. These stutterings of justification are from the alliance between Neva and Pentagon Disney embodied in the triumvirat of Dolly Meieren, Leslie Katz and Misako Shiono, all in on the Burstyn squad, Valley of the Dolls after the dollars from Dallas blowing in the wind.
What UW is really doing is running an etiquette school for proper behavior towards the star from his road kills. They don’t like kiss and tell, and brought in Disney for consequences. As for who killed Tupac? Uncertainty is big, key element in how Penis Gabriel gets his way.
Millions die in war, yet still the Palace stands, the Beatles were so close to the comfort of home, singing us to death like the fiddlers of Dachau, that no one will give up the music that gives them pleasure, they’d rather accept the abomination as change, one can only worship the fathom.
It is proven by faculty correspondence records with TCC that the fact that I was chemically castrated is sufficient on its own to generate rape rumors, a fact that the authors of the attack knew very well would happen. It has never mattered that the opposite is the truth, that I was castrated for refusal to rise to the occasion of a woman’s provocation, feeling I was going over the line of my coy lover. This is the truth that withstands the test of scrutiny, which they relish, come look, dig it to death, they laugh. Her own lawyers told me to my fury, “It would not have been rape.” The murderers had subjected me ruthlessly to neurological hypnosis and the sort of ploy that TCC ran in defense of the AIDS attackers to inculcate rejection trauma and guilt for simply harboring the secret of love. The AIDS attackers made themselves heroes this ways.
One of the men who Fripp brought me in contact with with, Walt, told me a story of a Guru of theirs who made sheep conscious and then ate them. These vicious fiends held me in a coma, lisping as I cried, what did I do? What has happened to me? Wake up, little Jimmy, come on, wake up, and as I lapsed in to convulsive and screams on the streets of Iowa where I ran in hemorrhages of pain, screaming and screaming as my eyes nearly separated from ocular gyrations, and they hypnotized me to a rape accusation for which they invented an imaginary victim from the ghost of Lennon, and the amnesia of my trance, so that when I remembered being kidnapped in the snow as child freezing in terror for my life, as I cried, not even knowing it had happened, they pissed on me as self-dirtying, those vicious rotten English who called themselves “Amnesty International,” just as they are giving comfort to the neurobehavioral researchers who created the nerve agent they forced on me to render a golem. AI was a military symbol of Artificial Intelligence for shadow war, a robo-empathy program the Zappas thought up while normalizing contagion warfare. I was castrated for reporting being mutilated as a child, and TCC wants the killers to get away with it. Trying to get help from child mutilators in The State of Washington is like catering to Mrs. Pugliesi who left out her car keys and then called the Duzzledorf AAA for a starter button.
