Saturday, April 14, 2012

Everyone's Poodle

A tiresome coffee with my farm-worker "pal" (who makes a great effort to be friendly with me), as in planted ditz, who acted even more ditzy today for some strange reason. As in more chirpy and superficial. And no less, at this coffee house on the trendy walking area, and I had my gangstalker color parade coming to visit me, plus people with dogs. One was a mid-gray standard poodle, and lo, if I didn't "happen" to drive there in my same gray colored vehicle. And lo, if I didn't once have a standard poodle, going back to the pre-Fuckover days of 1996 or so. The ex kept the dog, which was OK with me as I was travelling with my job at the time, and it died a few years ago, and she now has a replacement standard black poodle.

Then a "friend" of the Fat-Girl Farm-Worker "happened" to stop by, so we moved tables. The freakshow then re-assembled, taking turns, around my vacant seat. I also got more Unfavored freaks coming by; fat and disgusting "Gut Strut" males, skinheads on show, red hair, those ridiculous baggy shorts on men below their knees, and others that I am not allowed to recall at the moment. It didn't help that the perps kept me dumbed down and tongue tied for this coffee rendezvous. Which further heightened the question as to whether this Fat-Girl Farm-Worker "pal" isn't another Fat Girl of US national prominence in morphover, and who has figured in this harassment a number of times, and has even been seen on a few gangstalking events. I am not going to get into this particular aspect of the harassment and abuse any deeper, as it is already strange enough. Observant readers can make their own deductions.

And so the Fat-Girl Farm-Worker found a job in the last day, a needed antidote to nine months in horticulture school. And too, the employer didn't reveal what the pay rate was. Which is almost exactly what "happened" to me in the last two days; I get a temporary fill-in job at a vineyard, one I had interviewed at for a more senior job but was not offered it, and they don't tell me the pay both times. I have had these emails from the "Fat-Girl Farm-Worker" every week or so in the last three months I have been away in Penticton with "miss you" and like statements, which is suggesting future romantic intent (to me at least). Each time I have talked to her on the phone and in person, no such leading statements or intents are mentioned. In fact, I am more turned off in these direct encounters,  like today. Not to mention that there isn't any attraction. And too, the harassment and abuse that I deal with is rarely mentioned, another example of someone with more detailed knowledge of my circumstances who is strangely lacking any curiosity. Not unlike the New York Times reporter I spoke with at least three years ago now, and detailed in a blog posting at the time.

And too, in keeping with the perps' games and props, the Fat-Girl Farm-Worker had to show me her bruise on her side she recieved from her Felco pruners, and giving me a look at this purple on white baggy skin (digusting) on her side midriff. She had just come from working at a plant sale, so I suppose she had absorbed "plant energies" which was similar to my prior morning, as I was slinging soil and treating plants too, at the First Feral Family house where I am temporarily residing. I go back to Penticton in two days, to start the vineyard job.

And too, the Fat-Girl Farm-Worker came with her tool belt and Felco pruners, the identical kind and model as my pair that I own. So she had to show me her pruners and her knife twice during coffee, when it was patently ridiculous to be even wearing these items at a trendy-buzzy coffee house.

Afterward, I drove back to the FFF house, and spent two hours power washing the rear patio surfaces. The perps like to often arrange this activity around me, and it was my turn again, having done the front yard driveway three days (or so) ago. And lo, if they didn't also have a neighbor start a power washing job only 100' away, to be somehow heard over the noise of the power washing I was making. The small black helicopter also came out to do a circuit overhead, and then a larger Sikorsky S-76 also came by later. There was STRATCOM B-52 noise as well, though I wasn't tuned in as much when I had the power washing noise in front of me.

And this morning, I got up early to get the compost slinging ready for tomorrow, which was when my perp-abetting mother returned from shopping, and she just had to lean on the compost bin with both hands as I was removing shovelfuls of it to place on an adjacent blue tarp . (Different levels of compost breakdown piles will be amalgamated into one pile tomorrow). It doesn't get any more obvious than that, someone leaning on something when they don't need to lean on it in the first place. Seen it many times, and all the more ridiculous when the perps have been hounding me for over five years over compost handling, and now have to make it (as in gangstalking) look so plain. That Ms. C of the story got her Master Composter training back in 1999 to 2000 surely wasn't a coincidence.

I am posting this tonight, as I will do a single post tomorrow, the 10th anniversary of when this fucking insane abuse began.

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