Hi, I'm schizoaffective n autistic n a bazillion other things, but NOT a victim, though I stumble. But y'know, I do this shit, right? I have a random word generator and am of interest to the police state like 27 million other listed Americans, and they hear everything I hear, or well, my phone or other devices hear. Because Pegasus II is not a kid's toy, y'know, so only the big boy pigs get to play with that, y'know, in Quantico. Graduates can usually access the Akashic records psychically, assuming they aren't stupid moles, which we are good at detecting, battle being won n all.

But, this is because I like incest role play, obviously. Partially true, counterintelligence be wild, but that intelligent unicorn or whatever does anything They want on my phone, which I know I can't prove (one of the first things They proved to me, the dazzle camouflage), but They send me messages/synchronicities in all sorts of ways - I've named many forms they come in - but sometimes they send me an easy pitch to knock outta the park.

I mean, I do a word of the day, some days. Today's word: lip. Obviously, this is the literal Illuminati wanting me to explain the succulents of fish lips, a type of rotten strawberries, as I learned in kindergarten on the streets of Portland/Real Life School of Hard Knocks. It was in a distant grocery store God sent me to at night sometimes, as I had immense difficulty sleeping around people all the time, in a functionally foreign city, no contacts, maybe a couple bucks of food stamps. I smoked some weed. It appeared as God said to make it appear.

Weed affects synchronicity; specifically the feeling/experience of pronoia/paranoia, with the differentiating factor being the shame/fear/guilt aspect of anxiety. Unmöbiate your sin, and that shit goes away.

But, I was in the store, right? And there were a buncha girls with different colored hair there, obvious CIA plants to cross-talk to me, specifically, because I was mondo simp supreme back then, and the neighborhood watch can see you, dude. But they said things that I associated with each of them as they interacted with each other, or the phone, or the rotten strawberry was the register worker, checking out a guy buying fifty pounds of meat or some shit. A lot. But she's flirting with him about him killing animals and going on crazy vegan rant (I'm 95-100% vegan) about wanting to go back to living in caves cuz all the animals we kill.

Y'know, too sweet because a little skewed in herself to perceive the world. And I was buying a salad, right? I thought this was the lay-up the Illuminati pitched for me that I would bunt into the end-zone to both:

1. Get pussy

2. Live Indoors

3. Eat

In that priority, and this was back when the Rescue Mission took my sixth plate of food away so I had to shoplift gummies and ice cream and stuff to not die from decapitated myself via train from bipolar psychosis ENHANCED by the deep state.

But what happened, I get up there, and she gives me this cold disgusted look, shaming me for my token purchase of all that I could afford, and that's when I realized that there are all these people living by these "rules" they define themselves by, which is an idea I ran with and impacted my decision making over my time on the streets, that being, I thought women dyed their hair specific colors at times to signal things, like green was a prostitute (money), red was doing her social justice primal rage n indignancy healing, blue was I don't fackin' know, but rotten strawberries are women with black hair with silver/white streaks in her hair, symbolizing how she had fake light in her and was really dark, obeying uninspected dualistic dichotomy running her memeplexic "protocell" configuration.

Telepathy? I thought this was about fish lips! No just lips, now shut em and go do an art and express and heal. Be happy, you deserve that. I earned it, personally, and it's really rewarding defeating your daemons of defilement within your personal topological matrix, I gotta say AND recommend.

Because if your lips are closed, meaning if you're not expressing yourself to do your own therapy, you are keeping the fire inside, and it burns, I know.