Why I pasted a quote about 'you-know-what' in my Opera notes

What does RunDMC mean? (Thought of this because my RunDLL32 file is locking up when I shut down my computer. I need to do a cleanup, but that's a major project. I haven't done one in years.)  I wonder if that band was named after some computer file.

Yes, I cured the hypersomnia. It might have been pesticide on the cardboard - maybe not St. John's Wort. I got it out of the trash at McD, after all. I'm awake in the afternoon, and it's true, I got awakened by 'them,' but after waking up, I am able to stay awake and function, instead of going directly back to sleep and continuing until the middle of the night when Peter calls me and I say, "I'm too tired to do anything," which is how the last three weeks or so have been.

This is going to be an R-rated blog. It contains a few mild sexually explicit themes and images (not many). Where do I start? The puppeteers, pranksters, and hackers are all demanding that I explain why I copied that one blog quote to my Opera notes.

I was looking up post-traumatic stress disorder. I had gone to Peter's house and watched a couple of good documentaries on PBS in the middle of the night. The first one was about some country that I can't remember the name of - some Indian place, fighting a war. After being 'raised' by Libertarians (after my brother gave me The Fountainhead in my late teens, I went on to read more books that were 'approved' by my brother and other Objectivists, so I learned about Libertarianism), I know how to say 'The United States causes, or worsens, the wars in foreign countries by meddling in their governments.'

That was true in this documentary. This country was fighting, and the people doing the documentary were struggling to understand *why* they were fighting. They interviewed people who said that the United States was putting pressure on them to find terrorists and militants. If you disobey the United States, that's not good for you, so they are running around trying to do what the United States is telling them to do. That means: killing people and burning houses down and chasing people from one town to another, while telling the USA 'Yes, yes, we're hunting militants like you asked. See? Dead bodies.'

The next documentary was about people who had gone into the military and then came home and went to jail, or had other problems. Some of them committed murder; some of them wandered from place to place, doing drugs. One guy got a tattoo on his arm to remember the first guy that they loved, the one who died, the leader who was really popular with everybody, who got killed in some random accident. That was the first death that hurt them all. It was never the same after that.

The voices told me that I'd gotten it right, pretty much, when I said that people in the military are all using prescription drugs that make you go crazy and kill people. They said I'd gotten it right about how the government promised them they'd only be there six months, but then extended it to a year, and then longer, and sent them home and then brought them back again, because George Bush and others decided to do a troop surge, and we didn't have enough people. You never know how long you'll really be there, but however long it is, it's more than what they originally tell you.

But they said that I didn't talk about post-traumatic stress disorder quite enough. I didn't emphasize it. So I decided to go read about it. I wanted to read blogs written by soldiers instead of 'official' medical web pages.

'People are all the same.' A line from the song on Cheers, 'Where everybody knows your name.' I looked for blogs written by people who reminded me of my friend. I wanted to see what it would be like if he did the things that they did. I searched for blogs that talked about post-traumatic stress disorder. I only found a few that were actually written by soldiers - many of the so-called 'blog' search results were actually official, government-approved websites instead of blogs. Eventually I found links to some more real blogs, but by then I was exhausted and I quit reading.

I found a few female bloggers too. I have less respect for female military ever since I read Warren Farrell's books (The Myth of Male Power; Why Men Are The Way They Are), which say that whenever women go into the military, they tend to go into the safest jobs, and the worst jobs are given to the men. So I read the women's blogs too, but a little reluctantly. (I'm being bombarded right now by people trying to control what I write. I always imagine that the mind-control attackers are male, because I can't stand the idea of interacting with females in my head all day long (Is that true? I don't know, it could be a lie), and I rebelled against Judith Swack whenever I was trying to do her therapy and I started hearing her voice in my head telling me what to do. The attackers, for all I know, are probably hostile females competing against me, or something, because that's unthinkable. Either that, or they really are males, and they want to make sure that I never bond with females, because that would make me stronger. You really can't know anything about who the attackers are - you can only guess. When someone controls your brain, won't let you think, and forces you to tell lies all the time, it's impossible to understand complicated ideas about why someone is doing what they do, so that you can profile them and figure out who the murderers are, so you can catch them red-handed and arrest them while they sit in front of their computers and their gadgets, spying on you, your name and your image on their computer, their weapons pointed at you and your house, all their guilt and their crimes obvious to whoever walks in on them.)

(Author Lemony Snicket says that 'they' are the VFD (Should I give you a spoiler and tell you what that stands for? You can google it). The ghost hunters, however, are plumbers. Plumbers were also mentioned on the websites about 'Who are the real millionaires?' when I was reading about financial independence. Many of the nightmares and the attack phenomena have to do with fecal material, so 'plumbers' fits with that. I learned about 'profiling' when this all began, in the early 2000s when I didn't know about mind control yet. I started to believe that I was going to be murdered by a serial killer, and I bought a bunch of books by John Douglas and Michael Olshaker. So, again, before I knew about mind control, in the old days I used to try to 'profile' the computer hackers to figure out who they were. I didn't know that I was being forced to believe lies and that I was being forced to write entertaining letters to 'them,' and I wasn't doing it of my own free will.)

I have more sympathy and protectiveness towards the men, and less for the women. It isn't just because I read Warren Farrell's books. That's usually how I feel anyway - some distrust and dislike of women. I can't tell the truth because the attackers won't let me, but I'm struggling to name the feelings I have for women and explain why I feel that way. There's some competitiveness, some jealousy. The murderers insist that my dislike of women is all because I was hurt when Rachael left, but I tended to dislike women when I was much younger, too, although I liked 'tomboys'.

Well, first, I found one female blogger who was so messed up, she was hard to read. Sometimes people have trouble communicating clearly, for a lot of reasons: drug and chemical poisoning can do that to you.

So I went to read a different blogger:  myamericaniraqlife.blogspot.com. That blog was clearer and easier to read than the first one had been.

"Our relationship went on for a few months. One night after dinner, we ended up messing around. I unbuttoned his pants and moved slowly down his stomach with my lips and took him into my mouth. I looked up at him. While life was good for him, I had an epiphany. After he finished, he got dressed and held me for a few minutes. I told him I was tired. He left. Sitting on the edge of my bed I replayed our relationship over and over in my mind. I realized he would be perfect for someone just not me. I called him while he was driving home and ended it. I told him we both knew this wasn’t what we remembered and it never could be. I hung up the phone and cried. Within minutes I recovered. I promised myself that was the last dick I would suck who didn’t want to hear about Iraq."

I copied that note because it was something I could relate to.

I've talked a few times before about how I broke up with Eric. We met each other at work in 1997 or 98 when I first moved to State College. We stayed together for a long time, and for a while we lived together. I think it was about 2005 when I stopped seeing him. (That's when I met Peter, who I'm seeing now.)

One of the major conflicts between me and Eric had to do with the hackers.

It was the year 2000 when I went to an internet chatroom for the first time and started talking to strangers on the internet. I met a guy named 'Nerdman', and when I talked to him, I felt a longing to understand the mysteries of life, the universe, and everything - I felt as though he knew everything. He told me he liked the movie Magnolia, and because of that, I went out to see that movie in the middle of a blizzard, driving my parents' old Toyota four wheel drive pickup truck with the windshield wipers going, sliding through about eight inches of snow on the roads. It was amazing that the movie theater was even still open, but they were.

I was living with Eric at the time when I went to the chatroom and met Nerdman. Eventually, I started noticing computer problems, and I learned about hackers. I changed all of my assumptions about computer hacking. I had assumed: 1. Only a tiny number of people on earth are smart enough to hack into a computer. 2. If they do hack computers, they only want to hack 'important' computers, like the government, and they wouldn't waste time hacking into the computers of ordinary people like me. Those are the same things everybody said to me as I tried to tell them that I was being stalked and harassed over the internet: 'Who'd want to stalk YOU? You're not important.' 'Nobody would do that. Nobody's that crazy. Crazy evil people don't exist.' 'Why would they do that? That's so trivial and petty. They can't possibly be doing something so trivial and stupid as that.'

If I told them I was being stalked and harassed over the internet, they'd say something like, 'Well, why don't you get the guy's email address and give it to the police? They can find out who the email address belongs to.' They imagined that some guy was writing threatening letters to me, and he was stupid enough to do it from his own email address. That's the only kind of cyberstalking they could imagine.

They can't understand that somebody, for instance, would shut off the electricity at the place where I worked, and they would cut off our connection to the internet so that I couldn't do my job, and they would force OTHER telephones to make phone calls to our business, using automatic dialers from places like credit card companies that they had hacked into. And they would send me anonymous 'spam' emails which were obviously referring to things that I had done and said in the privacy of my own home, but were disguised as spam so that I couldn't prove that somebody was doing it to me. They weren't stupid enough to send me emails from their OWN email address, saying, 'I'm watching you all the time. I see you when you're naked. I see you having sex with your boyfriend. I know everything you're doing. Blah blah blah.' They would send me photos of OTHER women, not me, who were standing in exactly the same position I had stood in, wearing the same colors of clothing I was wearing, and the photos would be in spam letters from random places. That means that somebody SAT THERE ALL DAY LONG, searching for photos that were similar to whatever they had seen me doing, probably using some kind of image recognition software, for the sole purpose of harassing me. Is that crazy? Is that mentally ill? Yes. Am I mentally ill because I was the victim of that? No. I am lucky to be alive. They were trying to force me to commit suicide.

Here's another example of a 'petty, trivial' thing that the murderers do. If any part of my body is touching against a surface, and if there's friction, if that part of my skin has any tension or tightness against what I'm touching, the attackers will zap that part of my body so that it 'slips' a few millimeters against the surface, over and over again, and they'll do this for hours unless I move so that I'm not touching anything. If I crouch down, for instance, squatting with my backside propped against a wooden shelf, reading the magazines after I punch out from work at Weis, they will buzz the place where my butt touches the wooden shelf, so that it slips down a few millimeters at a time, over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, trying to provoke me to scream with rage and punch my fist into a hard object and break all my finger bones. The murderers get very, very excited whenever I scream with rage and punch things and break things, and it doesn't make them stop - it makes them attack me even more. Then I hear voices calling me a 'tiger.' They pretend to be masochists who want me to beat them up or kill them. I only become enraged if I'm on drugs or affected by transdermal drug residue contamination. I can ignore the attacks if I'm NOT on drugs.

Would YOU believe this if somebody told you someone was doing that? Someone is actually sitting out there, in an unknown location, aiming some kind of weapon at the point where my butt touches that wooden surface, and they're doing nothing but zapping that place over and over again. Why? That person would have to be mentally ill. That is why I always call them 'mentally ill murderers.' But if you talk about this, YOU get labeled 'mentally ill,' instead of the murderers who are attacking you. I'm not the one who's mentally ill.

Well, I was talking about how I broke up with Eric years ago. I had become friends with Nerdman in the chatroom at the time when I started getting harassed by computer hackers. I told Eric about going to a chatroom and writing letters to Nerdman, who stopped answering my letters. I was being attacked and forced to continue writing hundreds and hundreds, and then, I think, over a thousand emails to him.

'We,' 'They,' 'I,' or somebody, stopped all of this, finally. Here is how it ended. I went to Nerdman's college's website, the place where he was employed as a teacher. I wrote a bunch of letters to email addresses that I found on that site - his colleagues and co-workers. I pretended to be Nerdman himself, signing his name at the bottom of the email. I pretended that I was going to commit suicide and I was calling for help.

The people who received the emails called the police. The police banged on Nerdman's door, and, they said, they nearly had to break down the door, because he didn't answer. They found that he was just fine. When he told them what was going on, they figured out that I was the one who had written those fake letters. So they printed out every email that I had ever sent to him, and it was a huge pile. This included the naked photographs that the mind controllers forced me to send to him. Somewhere in Princeton, NJ, if I understand correctly, there is a police office that still has all those letters and those naked pictures on file, if you're curious to go look at them.

I did this big attack, sending those fake emails, on Christmas in 2005, I think it was. Was it 2005? Was it 2004? I'm not sure. Right around that same time, there was a tsunami that wiped out everything on the coast of Asia. I would have to look up the tsunami to see when it happened. 'They' like to claim that they caused that tsunami because of me. They also claim that they caused the stock exchange to crash 999 points a few weeks ago because I wrote the blog about irrational exuberance and 'When I Ruled The World.' They also claim that they caused the electricity to shut off in New York City because Eric and I went to Six Flags Park in NJ a few years ago - when was that? I don't remember what year that was. Somebody was waiting in line for a roller coaster, next to us, talking on his cell phone to a friend in New York who was experiencing the power outage at that time, while we were there at the park. 'They' threatened me, saying they could have caused the power to shut down at the amusement park, which might have left me stranded on some ride, hanging upside down, waiting to be rescued. They also claimed that Cindy Song was murdered because I wrote 'Follow the white rabbit' to the hackers when I used to type on the computer at work, imagining that the hackers' keylogger recorded everything I wrote. And some people wondered if Ray Gricar had anything to do with me, too. And I don't know, because my court case went through them, and I remember reading Ray Gricar's name on the papers somewhere, and not knowing who he was. They wondered if he found out too much information, if he found out who they were, if he found out the truth and they killed him. I don't know.

So anyway, I was talking about the Nerdman emails. When the police broke down his door and printed out all those emails, and then called me on the phone to ask about it, I found out once and for all that yes, he WAS receiving them. He received hundreds upon hundreds of letters from me, and didn't answer, and didn't tell anyone, and didn't do anything about it, for years.

So I was being forced to do that kind of thing, but Eric thought that I was doing it of my own free will, because I was crazy and there was something wrong with me. And he was jealous because I was 'having an affair' with some other guy (who, in reality, I never met and I've never seen - I don't even know what he looks like). I was able to break up with Eric because my problems got worse and worse, and Eric couldn't understand them - he just thought I was losing my mind.

Eric described what he thought it was like to be me. He's used LSD in the past, a long time ago. So he told me that he imagined that being inside my body, seeing through my eyes, must be like a constant LSD trip that never ends, where the walls are melting and everything is changing shapes and colors. That's what he thinks it's like to be crazy. That's his image of how it feels to be me.

When I learned about radio frequency weapons, and other technologies used to attack, control, and spy on people's minds, I was finally sure of one thing: I'm not crazy. That was my ephiphany. I'm not crazy, and I never was. There is nothing wrong with me at all.

The mainstream doctors will tell you, 'If they insist they're not crazy, that's a guaranteed sign that they are completely, totally crazy, and they've lost all connection with reality.' You have to admit that you're crazy, you're weak, there's something wrong with you - that's 'sanity.' But stubbornly insisting that you're NOT crazy is the worst possible thing you can do. That is what I did.

I'm not living in a constant LSD trip where everything is melting and the colors blend into each other. In fact, I feel strong, safe, secure, sure of myself, at peace, and calm. It's better to know the truth about the world.

So when I saw that lady writing about Iraq and her boyfriend, I understood. I broke up with Eric because "I promised myself that was the last dick I would suck who didn’t want to hear about Iraq." If somebody said I was crazy, if they said there was something wrong with me, if they didn't believe me, if they didn't want to know about the world that I live in, then I'm not going to do nice things for them anymore.

A few days after I copied that blog quote to my Opera notes, my friend went through the drive-thru smoking a cigar, and his girlfriend says, "he's got the biggest cigar I've ever seen!" I didn't really think anything of it. I just let it go. 'They', the attackers, weren't satisfied - they wouldn't let it go.

So next, they gave us a prank call from a guy who wanted the manager to make his food for him and then touch his foreskin. Still, I didn't respond to that incident.

So they sent somebody else through the drive-thru a couple days later. This time, it was a different person, wearing an orange coat like the ones worn by the inmates in jail (representing my friend, going to jail), and this guy was doing a prank or a dare, while another guy sat in the passenger side seat. He had a stick of pepperoni (it was pepperoni because I recently wrote a blog about how processed meats are bad for your health, like smoking), partially unwrapped (the wrapper represents the foreskin) and he was sucking it like a dick when he got to the drive-thru window. 'I love pepperoni,' he said. It was, obviously, an imitation of my friend smoking the cigar.

I didn't really laugh, I just did a kind of sad smile and shook my head. In fact, I almost wept. I actually felt sorry for the guy because he was humiliating himself. He wasn't able to look at me while he was doing this. I wondered if he was a puppet, and what was the rationale that they gave him for doing this prank. There's no way to tell the difference between someone who really does hack your computer and spy on you and read your mind, versus somebody who is a puppet being forced to do things that make it seem like they know you, when they actually don't. You can force people to do and say ANYTHING, especially if they are on psychiatric drugs.

'It's okay,' he said, looking up into my eyes, after taking the pepperoni stick out of his mouth, as I smiled sadly with my suppressed laughter and felt sorry for him. 'I hope we've entertained some of you,' he said, as he drove off.

'I don't know WHAT to think,' I said, and they laughed.

That's why I'm finally explaining why I copied that quote from her blog, after all these penis-related incidents over the past few days.

They want me to say that the moral of the story is that if you want your girlfriend to suck your dick, you have to understand her world and you have to care about what she's going through. That might not be the only moral of the story. It might mean that if somebody seems to be really interested in hearing your story, they might actually want you to suck their dick. Either way.

That's it for now.