Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Busy with the Mundane

A four stop outing this morning brought on major silliness of gangstalking. The preparation of the TI (me) was to have a full frontal shave with a new razor insert, change my clothes for an entire fresh set and do laundry (including the rare event of the shower curtain that had to be done twice due to an eruption of blue lint in the washing machine). Part of the clothing change up included a never-worn-before sand colored shirt that had been lying in "fallow" on the drawer bottom (plywood) since 10-2009. As mundane as all this sounds, it is a big deal for the tormentors who are obsessed with my laundry, the "effects" of just laundered clothes on one, the "effects" (whatever they are) of a new unlaundered shirt and that of plywood and its phenolic resin content. Don't ask why they are so nuts about these items, but they are, and it is totally predictable.

The above text didn't get saved in Blogspot due to some "internal problem" and was transferred to Notepad, and lo, if it wasn't gone when I logged on again. Fortuneately, I could copy and paste it back. And in another related coincidence to the ongoing perp interest in my Windows Select/Copy/Paste actions that goes on all the time, I get a phone call on the heels of pasting the above journal entry back in. More silliness over the mundane, but that is what they are up to these days; parsing the minutiae of doing squat into yet smaller chunks, -e.g. having me make two trips to the cupboard when one would of done. As mentioned many times before, the timing of phone calls is almost exclusively at events that interest the perps. Usually the calls don't last long, and sometimes are these apparent system generated calls for the wrong person. I suspect the EMF signature of the live earpiece and the microphone offer localized benefits, which makes sense as they are keeping me in a densified magnetic field, measured at over 1600 Gauss last year. (And shown in one of the 2009 pictures). Other magnetic activity is seeing masers and plasma beams in my vision all the time, where once (late 2002, measured then to be 200 Gauss) it was only a few times per minute.

This morning's outing was to the employment counsellor to get my Oracle course certificates photocopied as a result from my training grant application. It seems that someone is actually reading it, and wants further information no less. The same grant was submitted last year and got turfed within a week for no specific reason. And with a new employment counsellor, and the doctor turning around for reasons that are uncertain, I have the counsellor's recommendation this time. All a big game it is, everyone playing along, and that includes the doctor.

I took a course of new medication in mid-December that made me worse, which to my knowledge was not tied to getting his recommendation. And when the counsellor showed me the doctor's letter last week, why, the medication change was a key reason for his change of opinion. Let me count; that is six of six neuroleptic medication courses that made me worse in 7.5 years; when is someone going to get it that I have ADD as shown by a SPECT scan in 2001, before the fuckers went into overt harassment in 04-2002, and it still remains the trump card of diagnosis. And furthermore, the coincidence of ADD and psychosis is so remote it isn't even in the clinical texts, Barkley in particular. And again, having no family or personal history at age 47 is also extremely remote, so why is it only me that is putting these improbable events together? Though, I should mention that the current doctor says I am being persecuted, and it is not a clinical condition, and that the medication is to help me deal with the stress. I don't think he knows the definition of the word in my context, though I would not be surprised if the entire physiolology of stress weren't remotely detectable and controllable, and that what seems like stress to me has any longer term consequences abated. And all the more curious too, is that stress makes one age prematurely, and here I am, looking 10 years younger over 2009, 20 years younger than my present age 55. (Sorry, Rachael).

A big noise day today; the outside gate to the parking lot below is being installed, second installment in fact, and plenty of metal bashing and pounding is going on as I write this, along with a constant generator hum since I got back at 1100h. The metal bashing started in earnest when I was chopping up the cooked turkey meat, still working through the Christmas bounty. As mentioned many times before, the noisestalking is almost a given when I engage in this activity, and I have yet to find out why the assholes want more noise at this event than most. The application of peanut butter and jam on my one slice of gluten free bread at breakfast is also a big noise, that being them enraging me by flicking the jam or peanut butter off the knife and other assorted fuckery over what was once a mundane task. They cannot get enough of having one color placed in front of another, especially if it is body substance colors; red, dark red, brown, dark greens and dark blues (latter two being vein colors). In this case, it is the noise of me yelling at the assholes, and I think they have only let up once in the past year on this one.

Other entertainment from the gangstalker consort this morning was negro placement at the bank again; they do this about 30% of the time at least, and there is less than 3% negroes in this town, so what is the fucking deal? Maybe PTSD from those "cage the kids" days as seen in the Indian Lake Project, where I might have gained (read, traumatized) a dim view of kids, blind people (one today), males, especially grey haired mid-aged ones of which there had to been at least a hundred over my three block four stop outing this morning. Nearly all of them in red/black or yellow/black Goretex anoraks, aka Teflon coated clothing. Don't these fuckers have a day job where they can go to, say, write scripts for other TI's instead of hounding me all the time in public? I cannot stand the sight of them. So, it would seem the sickos have the advantage; I have no idea what was done to me from mid-1956 through 1959, and I have indicated in past blogs that two of those years were spent in Montreal. BUT it would seem that the Fuckwits know exactly what transpired, and want me to see re-enactment vignettes of these days to emulate the very parties and props (especially big black vehicles) that has left PTSD scars, aka subconscious traumatizations, of this time period. And it is this particular cast of loathings (aka the Unfavored) that seems to be a continuing problem for the said Fuckwits. So what does it have to do with me, and why cannot you assholes come out of the closet on this ongoing insane life wasting nonconsensual human experimentation?

And why cannot I be allowed to type for crissakes instead of the endless train of typos that I clean up; I have been keyboarding on computers since 1975, so why in the fuck am I contained at less than 15 wpm? And why are more of the typos from insertions now, from keys that were not pressed by me?

One can expect none of those questions to be answered anytime soon, like two years or more, going by the idiotic fuckery over typos, turning a page, taking a piss, operating a light switch and everything else that is deemed to perturbable by sickos at work.

Back to the bank visitation this morning to get six rolls of quarters for the coin slots for the washing machine and dryer. (One dollar coins have been here for over 20 years, so WTF?). No line up, and the negro dude was 30' ahead and went directly to a teller; out of sight, out of mind, and never saw him again. I had a large homely trainee woman teller with a blonde assistant helping her, so everything got slowed down, but no big deal, it is the perp way of late. The teller wicket next on my left was active, and two more attractive blondes were at work there. At one point, they and my two tellers all went to the central cash depot, so I had four backs facing me, and that is a very common perp arrangement, doing a "back show", getting more spines arrayed toward me. And while this was happening, a black haired woman, overly made up and looking rather (overly) stern, did a back and forth between me and the blonde babes' backs (and the teller trainee). And so it seemed that the entire episode was arranged to have blonde babes around one homely woman, in some kind of "blonde auric goodness" demonstration. I have remarked on these arrangements many times, and usually it is the male Fuckwit that gets surrounded by blonde babes, but this time, the homely woman version as the apparent focus.

Then a 2.5 block walk to the LD store for a chocolate load up, and Gillette Foamy was $2.49, so I got two, even with the mid-aged male Fuckwit standing over me pretending to be shopping. Then back to the chocolate where a pink beret, also seen 2.5 blocks away only 15 minutes earlier "happened" to precede down the chocolate aisle with a mid-aged male chinless Fuckwit. (That is three Unfavoreds on him alone. I did the grab and go, Milka at $2.49 each, and went to the checkout where two ladies in purple were. I waited for them and the latter one's pink purse act  before I got my turn. And while waiting, the pink beret woman did another gangstalking reprise, and the the dude hanging over me at the Gillette Foamy came by too. Then two other shiftless males were hanging around, and just before I set off to go, why, they preceded ahead of me, and ensured that I walked between them. This fucking bullshit over entering and exiting buildings is just insane, and here two extra-obvious male Fuckwits were "at work". I got the cashier with the severed hand again; she is attractive and no older than 30, but I really don't want to look at her stump any more than I have to. A juxtaposition of the Favored and the Freaky perhaps.

And note, all eight items that I purchased were $2.49 each, and I suppose this wasn't a fluke either, and don't ask me why or how this kind of bullshit is arranged, but it happens. Extra dimensionality perhaps, for those who follow high strangeness in technical terms?

Then onto the alteration shop where I had the Cool-tan shirt hems resown; another planted vanity exercise to be sure, though I am sure the perps find substantial benefit from lesser sun exposures than flat out tanning. This is the way it seemed last summer anyhow, which had more sun tanning arranged than the year before, so who knows what is going down for this summer. More farm work I suspect, as they bumped me up to four months of it last year from two the year before. And lo, if there wasn't another mid-aged male Fuckwit who arrived while I was in the store, sitting on a bench 12' away when I exited the store, doing his lean-forward and look-away act. I am sick fed up of being hounded by this population demographic; they know this, but arrange "starter blondes" and put on the dufus dudes later.

Still no picture uploads allowed; the Blogspot buttons are removed, and the location of the former buttons isn't active either.

Big select, cut and paste job going on while compiling a hazelnut loaf recipie from four I found on the internet. Like I say, the perps have me doing this, and then fuck me over attempting to print the outcome, by preventing the print preview button from working. Then they wouldn't allow me to see the page break I inserted and then mangled the printing of the table into a compressed string of too-small boxes That precipitated more jerkarounds, taking the earmuffs off and screaming at them, and lo, if the neighbor and outside noises don't start up just then too. And just when I find the needed feature to "fix" this fuckery, why, a sudden need for a piss break. Then back to the "fix", and lo, if it doesn't print out just the way I wanted it in the first place. Only six sheets later, and then that was the lead up to taking a tea and chocolate break. A few more screamings at them for planting fake touches on me and excessive water splashing and messing up my fine motor control, and hey, everything is just they way they want it; having me steaming infuriated while eating brown chocolate.

Another round of this recipe compilation wretchedness, per above.

And all manner of visual distortions of a perfectly planar LCD panel are being tested on me; tilting the text in various directions, compacting it, lifting it as if it were a 3D puffy cloud, speckling the text and many other momentary and disconcerting distortions, like to be done for getting a vocalization response (aka, swearing loudly at the assholes).

Plenty of noisestalking erupted while I read the first news of the latest disaster in Haiti, an earthquake this time. Sometimes I wonder if it isn't tied in the the perps' negro and other racial presentation games, or whatever the fuck it is all about. Certainly a big gangstalking and noisestalking to complement their activities, though I won't venture that the earthquake was arranged.

Time to post this; (maser flies off the LCD at my forehead as I typed the semi-colon for crissakes)

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