Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Clashing Reds

Back from a post-lunch coffee with one of my former work mates, a large woman with psoriasis and mottled skin which I was give full view due to her bare arms outside of her green T-shirt. She was the "bait" last month when daffodil picking at the farm; twice she spoke with me there and they then put the Fugliest Negro in view just as we finished up talking. The third time was when they put a Caucasian dreadlocked woman in view in the same circumstances. Both conditions rate as extremely Unfavored sights, and are still under intense investigation as to why I dislike such conditions.

And lo, if there wasn't at least one dreadlocked woman seen in the overcrowded coffee shop we were in, but no negroes though. But instead, it was a case of the Redcoats, or more like, the red sweaters and blouses. I had my "usual" dude show of bald heads, then the shiftless ones loitering for no apparent reason, then two women came in white or grey tops, and one, in a mid-grey track pants, putting her cute ass on show. (Or at least, I was mind-fucked into gazing at it more than I would of done on my own). One had mid-back shoulder length glossy hair, something the perps like me to see, as I once had three Newfoundland dogs, and the same colored straight hair. Anyhow, the two women came to sit next to us at the table, an lo, if after they remove their jackets, one isn't wearing fuschia pink and the other a scarlet red. Given the red color games that went on yesterday in vehicular road traffic, I now get them coming to my table. And I get to see the glossy black hair opposite me, surely something they like to compare to fuzzy dull black hair, particular to a certain race that figures prominently in the gangstalking games. Oddly enough, my friend called the engagement off early, complaining about the noise inside. It was loud to be sure, but who knows, as the perps know I cannot stand red and perhaps they called it as I had reached my "red exposure threshold", however they determine that.

And a new high for cashiers count; there were three women who swapped off in the context of ordering the food and my colleague paying for it. The previous record was two; an apparent shift change in mid transaction from a woman cashier to a male cashier. This time, it was three cashiers, duly arranged due to apparent inexperience, and the chaotic level of activity at this cashier. Although I didn't pay, I would count this as yet another case of financial transaction associated orchestrated inanity.

The conversation was about jobs, work, not finding any and the whole employment scene, very much a perp prefered topic. But was relevant, as my friend had just been laid off at the farm, two months shy of her finishing her work term. She seemed to have this laconic look all the time while speaking with her, the "almost-grin" look. This has occured many times with many personnel I "happen" to see in the course of this harassment, and I have never figured out just what was so funny that this almost-grin countenance is maintained. There has been nothing funny about anything since they went overt/beserk with an apartment invasion nearly nine years ago. So, it is back to dulldom here at Abuse Central, as it seems they need to keep me inside much more than they did before.

Overhead pounding as I peruse today's bookmarking fof prospective employment. As I typed that, I got a stinging jab in my R eye. I had stinging jabs in my R knee when standing in the kitchen, but it seems that they want to get me at certain vulnerable, or maybe, high energetic locations. According to alien lore, the aliens can sense the energy coming from the subject's eyes, and in doing so, equate it to intelligence. And it is no suprise to see all the sunglasses on rainy days in this town, sometimes more absurd than that. The notion that I get is it limits the outgoing radiation, be it terrahertz, IR or something else altogether. Which might also explain the look-away nonsense the Fuckwits do when they get close.

And regular readers will know that this apartment has 12" of concrete and reinforcement steel in every floor/ceiling, so how is it the perps can make thunderous noises overhead from what should be a carpeted apartment? Don't know, but they are masters of sound projection and hearing dampening tricks, and even if they blow their cover of conventional causes, they aren't too bothered like they once were two years ago or more.

A round of screaming at the assholes for shaking my chair twice while bookmarking a web site that might be germane in another theme of perp abuse. (More overhead pounding noise erupts, even through the earmuffs; again, how is this conventionally possible?).

Some more overhead poundings and faux water noise, as if in nieghbor's pipes, and always tied to my activities, especially when in the kitchen.

And it is getting tiresome today, these conflicting vocational "interests", (read, planted ideations) as to whether to pursue horticultural work or drilling work, as both tie to the perp's research agenda. In the former, their unrelenting noise campaign when I touch, dig, cut, pull or pick fruit from plants, and in the latter, their ongoing quest to have me exposed to soil colors, rocks of varying type and vintage, in place or removed elsewhere. I cannot see getting work in either industry given the ongoing obstruction I seem to get from IT data analyst/modeler jobs, where I upgraded my technical training last year, though not exactly aligned, it does signal that I am in the game. And an employment counsellor meeting in two day's time, and I really do not expect to be making great strides to re-launch my career into a totally new endeavor. Especially given the sandbagging of grant money since 2009, which finally culminated in a half grant in Jan. 2010, the Oracle DBA courses. Given that this entire exercise is orchestrated, and with ample amounts of adversity, I have no expectations around vocational choices whatsoever. Though I suspect this week's imposed vacillations aren't over by a long shot. And how does one bring IT, vineyard horticulture/management and drilling into a single career narrative when one is going to be 57 this year? Just another example of what it is like to be in cognitive prison.

More overhead pounding as I seek the bookmark and copy the link, similar to when I bookmarked this site some 1.5 hours ago. This is called "ground conditioning", running pipes in the soil under golf greens and other surfaces to cool it down and optimize aeration, temperature and water retention. Or, in the case of a beach, running coolant to make the sand walkable. Talk about a perp arranged technical feature; they are constantly hounding me with noise and/or abuse when handling plant roots, so here we are, exposing plant roots to pipes and cooling equipment. Hopefully they won't pound the ceiling, walls or anything else while TI readers follow this link.

Somehow I "forgot" to post this last night, no doubt disrupting my readers, (few, I know), routines, which is what the perps like to do all the time.

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