3:09 PM 6/20/10
My heart rate was at 120 today, or at least, the blood pressure monitor said it was. That thing is inaccurate, but it was over 100 - I could feel it. It happened because I wore my sandals without socks, which was what set off the outbreak of tachycardia drug residue in the first place, a few days or a week ago. My sandals must have socks because the floor of the car has drug residue on it, and the sandals gradually get contaminated. I need new shoes, actually, but it's hard to find the kind I like, when Wal-Mart doesn't carry them anymore. They were the - I forget the name. Clogs, or something. That's not it. They're made of a kind of styrofoam, and they're made for getting wet. I hate the style that they have - I used to buy a different style that looked like a normal sandal. But anyway, I got those hoping they would wash off more easily, and because they were cheap.
I had the sandals without socks on and had the bad reaction a few days ago. I did it again today and by the time I got home my blood pressure monitor said my heart rate was at 120. I washed off my feet thoroughly, waited a few minutes, and then I took my heart rate again. The BP monitor said it was now at 102. Then I took it by hand, looking at a stopwatch, and got 90 something a few minutes later. It quickly goes down when I wash my feet.
This reaction is causing a lot of stress. I'm not sure where it went, but I think it got onto the floor of the bathtub, and that's why I was getting it all over my body in the shower, and then getting it into my uniforms. Now it's in the uniforms, and I'm getting tachycardia at work, along with intense emotional reactions. I also seem to have intestinal parasites, or colon cancer, or something, and the murderers are zapping and burning my intestines anytime I have to try to do something that takes courage. My intestine, the lower bowel, has been hurting a lot over the last couple weeks. Something is wrong with it. I may have picked up parasites while walking at Fisherman's Paradise, but I think it started before I went there. I'm not sure.
Everyone gets upset when I talk about the vigilante fantasy. Yes, every once in a while, I need the vigilante fantasy. It is worst when I'm having a bad drug reaction while also being attacked. It's the wish that someone, somewhere, will kill the people who are pushing the buttons on the zappers, the constant attack system that zaps my brain and body every couple seconds, no matter where I go, so that I never stop hearing voices and getting distracted. Whoever owns that computer system, that weapon system, that's doing that - the fantasy that some vigilante would destroy that system and kill the owner-operator so they will never rebuild it again. Everyone, the voices, the attackers, gets freaked out when I mention the vigilante fantasy. It is usually a sign that I am having a very bad drug outbreak and can't stand the discomfort of being zapped and tortured.
They always get scared that I'm going to snap and go after the wrong people, innocent people. I am nowhere near that. My drug outbreaks are low-dose layers of residue on my clothing, the floor of my car, and some of my belongings. It goes through the skin. It is nowhere near as high as the drug doses of people who take prescription pills and then go out into a public place and shoot a bunch of people and then kill themselves. Those are very high doses of drugs.
I'm probably going to buy some fake uniforms for both jobs, something that matches the color and style, until I can get new official uniforms. This is another reason why I'm a nudist. I was already a nudist, but I became even more of a nudist after drug residues poisoned my clothing, and I found out how life-ruining that is.
****
Voices told me his dad committed suicide. I'll believe it when I see it. If he tells me in person, I'll believe it. I went to his dad's, or the guy who I thought might be his dad's, facebook page, and he hadn't been there for a couple weeks. It looked like he was just playing games there, and I don't know how often he went there to play games.
Curtis had written something about death, on his own page, and had the crying Caden portrait, and I assumed it was because his girlfriend was abusing him and breaking up with him and making his life miserable somehow. I'd love to ask, but they won't let me send him any emails, and he won't respond. I called him once and left a voice mail, and he never called me back on that, either. I know not to try. That was quite a few months ago now that I tried leaving that voice mail.
It doesn't matter that the voices told me this. I still won't be able to look at him. I might try, but I can't talk to him in front of other people, and other people are always there.
It would explain why he seemed numb, dazed, and depressed. He seemed apathetic. When I spoke to him to ask about the email, he had a sort of dazed voice, like, 'Huh?' Like he barely even heard me. He didn't seem to understand what I was saying and didn't really care. He answered, a little bit. I haven't talked to him since then. Yesterday I asked them what they were doing when he was making a noise with a duck, a squeaky toy, like a dog toy - I think I've seen them in the pet section. Of course, they had to use a duck, because all that anyone sees is that I took photos of a Muscovy Duck biting and pecking me. That was at the duckpond apartment. The landlord got that duck from someone, and it was too friendly. It always 'attacked' people, when actually, it wasn't attacking, it was trying to climb on your back and have sex with you. I tried petting the duck and being nice to it, and I was able to keep it on my lap - it climbed onto my lap on its own if I crouched down or sat down on the ground, but it was so annoying and kept pecking everything, and at first I thought it was looking for food. But then it started climbing up on my back, getting tangled in my hair, and trying to have sex with my back, and it would do this every time it saw me, and it did it to everybody else, too, so the landlord gave it away and got rid of it. So, of course, they would be honking a duck toy. I heard the noise and asked what it was, and Curtis said, 'a duck,' and showed it to me, and that's all we said to each other yesterday.
'Being set up to fail.' That's exactly what they're doing to me. Forcing me to write letters to someone with a reading disability. Being forced to call him when he's going to be drunk, or worse, in jail. And they're doing the same thing to him. He probably was just trying to make me laugh, but it made things worse. And still, it didn't matter - there were other people around, so I couldn't talk to him. I can't talk to him and tell him, 'I've been trying and trying to reach you, and haven't gotten any replies to my text messages or emails.'
They told me that Carrie has actually seen the movie, Finding Nemo. I assumed she never saw the movie, and she just saw the phrase 'the dumbass' under Dory, and decided to label that as Curtis. However, they told me this morning that Carrie has actually seen the movie, so she knows Dory's character, and it fits because Carrie said there is more to him than meets the eye. Dory is the character who only seems to be dumb, but she actually has unexpected skills and knows how to do things - she could talk to whales, she could read human language, and she remembered that they were supposed to go through the scary looking chasm instead of over it. I remember the time when he figured out what was the source of the drops of black water on the salsa containers in the refrigerated shelf - the containers above it were leaking because they expired and the containers swelled up and leaked, and the liquid ran along the black painted shelf and dripped onto the ones below. And whatever 'special skills' he has, they're not helping to get through the communication barrier. He will have to talk to me. And he will have to do this while I'm suffering from a drug residue outbreak, which puts me into an unapproachable, cold mood, which is even worse after being rejected and insulted and not knowing for sure if he did it himself. I won't know what to believe until we can talk about it.
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