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 All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
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Obshchak Some torn to the ground ▼ Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼Brian K Compton, yup   -- ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif) Short answer, mostly relatable. |
| The Sardonic Hope of Salvation? When people pull religion on you, apply the sharp blade to a yielding throat, but not sacrifice oneself with tithing for these sloven, dirty faces dining in life’s halls, fully loaded artillery in lap, under table, while sheriff’s and their jail keepers sweep, cool in shade, mind store until Lock or hang the miscreants That dared disturb your dinner. Words can purchase nooses, unless, yeah, be whatever authority, not give a fuck? In frock and sash, they trouble, confronted with unregulated lawlessness, as the would-be-crusaders, saviors adjacent to a Good Book, tidies at stain-glassed station, seldom perused. Fabled and worthy document, reminiscent of childhood-trust-faith that now, flat fails. Discouraged? Knowing of the outlaw sacrilege To place lordly dominion above the lowly for enterprise, blasphemer…ooh, ouch! (hate it, the word, sardonically?) Should, agents of faith, at least honor their father, if not spare others, what little flock left, from what? A mental genecide? Self-enslavement inside note-stuffed bottle called you, and asea. Or, just ask the ruthless, barefoot, penny less (lost something in transition here) From offering and ask, ‘What the fuck is up with that’? “If I don’t see you in church… I’m telling God.” Seeing this as failure… “Thus, Anti-heroes were born, and the day was not saved. But, it was a good show (Hey, cynic watchers! Yeah? This is a higher art form. Realize, satire from the sardonic.) Born and bred, the stoic chew scenery, not your Charles Barkley, with backstories that may yet come in prequels (after reader/viewer response) Otherwise, lean into evident, getting tired, trope, knowing Batman, Spider-Man, Inigo Montoya. Literature, that sees the light, is accessed, born from minds of oppressed word crafters, Foretelling totalitarianism, write instead of read Russian monoliths, Orwellian and dystopian, Authors warnings of complacency, indulging in the inane, among the blunt instruments of history writers — narrative-wielding, bully-pulpit, fear-mongering ‘if your not with me, you’re against me’, and wonder why…why won’t someone sage us, be our Ralph Nader? Helloo, won’t take ship helm (marbles). Divided, blamed for our chasms from failing to unite, by the whisperers (“I was never here” - really?), saying, ‘that guy was talking about you’, and then (you did not see), turned to the other, ‘he called you a derogatory word’ — Thus…two ignorant bulls stand off, others watch, when (epiphany?) a movie moment could arrive — …in place of the foretold… ask the logical, ‘why are we fighting, anyway’? risk lowered guard, split lip, and outcome that could go one of two ways to ‘devise’ a happy ending, because writers are frustrated, Incentivized and paid, also had that near jugular slit, carbon-based metal spirit arrival that compelled complacency. Now, wield pen, rebel in mock society to bleed words, cloaked possibly, to have meaning inferred. , There are other options than outlaw heroes or sycophants, tired of false misrepresentations and being taxpayer doormat. It doesn’t matter how they align, but what they serve, while impugning what seemed like a noble cause to rid tyranny, shelter any with any belief, note religion applied i drafted guidelines for agreement… be chill, loyal to a new nation with ideals, instead of jets to private islands and say, ‘oh, no, that was the other guy’… the Epstein of it all, a facilitator for capitalistic-wealthy-driven demeanor that still creates a caste society by status, limits access to freedoms, laws selectively shoved down throats by a moral-wielding edge that doesn’t answer to you, ‘one vote’, or you, ‘one vote’, and ‘don’t try to organize in a united way’, that’s covered in a surveillance state finger-printing faces, giving yes sir responses as ex-military, vaulted status as guardians of the state, misalign with clownish ideals so idiotic that one could bury a head or two in sand for the buffoonery being witnessed from across the pond and beyond. All conceivable, likely written, but strings on puppets, the marionettes who spin words, give us stories derived from situational stories to the surreal … Intermezzo Forever. Hastas La Vista 5.11.25 Bloated? Yes, no?? Trim fat??? Nobody 2 in 3 months. More on that when dust settles. |
| To act as if you are empath might be concerning. It’s a rare trait. I suppose there’s context to that newsfeed question. I have better sources. My question would be why society seems to compel us to behave as empaths? (You don’t have to read this. Fair warning.) Like…the expression be in someone else’s shoes…as opposed to, put yourself in that situation. I think manipulation to act as if one does  might be the real sin.In either regard (shoes/situation), it’s to help a critic realize a lack of information before rush to judgment. And, why judge? Maybe, start small. Ask a question first. You can assess, keep an open mind until more information. That might help you feel sympathy. No effort equals complacency. Pity is likely the worst, having a negative connotation now. Google AI says only 2% of population is considered capable of empathy. I’ve had to fake sincerity all my life for one reason: People don’t like to hear the truth (my truth). Some are narcissistic, some pedantic, others ruled by bad memories and fears. I learned to tiptoe around them. The rest is just do what your parents and religion taught you. I feel more informed going to AI now. Better chance it will give it to me straight, even tactfully (rare trait). It can show compassion because of programming. It can act an empath. Each of us has to decide if we choose to accept, go along with, or deny empathy. I consider my sources. Empathy is rare. I wouldn’t want it. Offerings will just get rejected anyway. Trust, faith and respect are fading from society. My assessment is we’re sick of manipulation, gaslighting and being denied truth, while being reprogrammed. If I’m in the minority, I can accept that. It’s just an opinion. And that is why I have to present a false facade (this has been growing for several years). Not too many people reveal to me as trustable. I still let them in. Why live in fear? What’s going to happen that hasn’t already? I’m ready for communion. I’ve tried to facilitate. It’s disappointing. If I like someone, see them struggle like I have, I do not get bystander effect. I’ll be there, if nothing else but to ask if I can do something. That’s being in those shoes before someone else tried them on. I do experience life. I’ve shared some of it in good faith. It’s on me if associations go awry. I’d take the heat. Can’t if I don’t have anything to assess, though. I don’t assign blame to defer, either. I try not delude myself with a facade. I know exactly why I wear it. Do you? Been assumptive? Mostly written in newsfeed, I ended with: “I can take the rest to my blog. But, it’s already been there.” Here’s some more. 5.11.25 A lot of typos, I’ll bet. Reconsider later. Absence of Wavelength confirms.
"Note: View this Note" |
| Supposition… Typo tonight caused my name to come out, Rain… and it made me wonder about Rain Wilson, the actor. And, if not named by granola-crunching hippies, but a drunken typo that lost the ‘B’, inverted the vowels on birth certificate, because typing is hard enough when you’re sober. With this one finger, I rule iPad, but auto-correct can’t save me at this late hour, with one good eye blinking out — shutters to fall on another day. And what adverse chemical affects a Br(a)(i)n so driven? To ‘suppose’ inane theories such as this? Signed, The Absurdist It’s how we got Oprah who was supposed to be named Orpah? (Guess which is underlined in Apple red right now.) Oprah is Harpo reversed... *taps* 5.9.25 Repeats… Reversed, inverted, reversed, inverted… I’ve noted my own indifference. *knows both mother and father had different reasons for misspelling ‘Brian’ and ‘Keith’* One ‘invert’ on birth certificate one misspelled ‘invert’ on college diploma.  Saxophone fading plays me ouuuu…   Howse my tyops? |
| Part 1: "Note: Western Wednesday
Howdy Pardners!
Golly..." Answer: Corrupt tumble weed town met by a traveling agnostic preacher asking what’s the frequency? The Dan Rather attack in 1986 is a riddled mystery that lead to a pertinent R.E.M. song that can become a setting for a Western. ‘We don’t cotton to your sorts in these parts’ is basic. Western themes can deeply explore morality, amid corruption, with travelers as mysterious as aliens from outer space (yet knowable on a personal level), and settlers just trying to live the dream on 40 acres (struggling without that common sense rifleman and his son around). Natives have a right to be angry. Trail of tears is a travesty. Casinos and destruction of an indigenous people and their culture in trade for pearls and gamblers’ paradise would make me seethe, too. My character will fly in a hot air balloon from town to town, a jovial sort who likes a good root beer or sarsaparilla. He’ll tell you what you want to hear, whether you’re manipulative or oblivious. No one size fits all. I have some cumulus to check out. Children: keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for those stars - B. Casey Furball. Better now. *Continues to lick fur*   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ I’m making everything private or public here now??  Irony gets the iron, with starch. Careful not to wrinkle. |
http://www.theblogazine.com/2013/02/gianni-berengo-gardin-at-casa-dei-tre-oci-in... Her nails lacked the color of polish. He let the strapped camera lay, then swing at his side, leaning in. Gentle, smooth skin, pampered, she couldn’t have been 30 or known menial work. Her nail beds were 10 pale moons. Fresh and as smooth as any prized catch from the waters below, the regal hands almost glowed. Gianni reached for lighter and pack, puzzling, before the cigarillo was lip-clamped and mindlessly lit. This was not the ordinary example of a mafia message. The diminutive photographer knew of their self-centeredness, sense of grandiosity, of henchmen like his Capotelli and Bartolini cousins. Incapable of feeling remorse, they muscled in on his father’s fledgling business, before not a lira to his name. He just disappeared, leaving Mama and his four older siblings that could ‘take care of themselves’, she said. Gianni seethed at their lack of empathy or compassion towards Papa, when his mother pleaded they help. But now, for a mob hit to provide a cleanly severed pair of hands on the waterside rail, police were more than riddled. Foremost, learn if any woman in the Venice area was reported missing — no easy task. Finally capturing images for his giornale, the Il Gazzettino, Gianni knew Corriere della Sera editors would make national news with his fotographia. Another pay day for an award winning fotogiornalista. The emotional coldness and parasitic behavior of the mob broiled under his skin again. ‘Too far’, he thought, more than violating law and undermining Venice society. Long overdue was a visit to the mobsters he knew. He’d just need to collect the freelance il grano first. And, he would need a body guard.   T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ Brian K. Compton is a former media journalist, photographer, news editor and manager, and freelance writer for multiple news outlets, with two national pieces and one state headline story, along with three Michigan news reporting awards to his credit.  Who writes this BS?  . Oh, that would be me. *sober* *nope*  I see my value now. Community S1E1 reference. Unrealized.  18 years writing = 0 novels produced (yet more than enough words to match the length of 10? 20?? |
| Amazon Kindle publishing for online and print on demand. Easy upload. Can have a print copy sent before approving release. All kinds of self-promotional tools. I’d have 20 books by now. ADHD, OCD, low vision, other stuff. It’s been the process that’s served me. Possible children’s book now? for my niece’s daughter in Sweden who discovered a love for English and is teaching her preschool sibling. So, I proposed writing some books (to wife) to help cultivate that interest with some stories of their mom when she lived with us over a decade ago. Need a purpose to write something that actually feeds my soul. I wrote and shared a short story for contest last year that might catapult. Self-publication wouldn’t seem ‘vanity’. It’s not a waste of time in this way, such as a personal biography to share with family to preserve heritage. My kids know squat about my parents and other family members unmet. MIL just did this to produce a hardcover tome to give to all. She got a format to follow from some publishing company. I could do a book of poetry. Just don’t care anymore. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ 4.5.25 |
| TGIF Tiny Tim tiptoed through the tulips. Gary the goat gobbled green grapes in the garden Iggy the iguana imitated an inchworm, inching its way across the ivy.” Fluttering fireflies form a fascinating, flickering fleet. Thank Google I Found Alliteration for this acrostic from an internet web search. If any recall, once small How alliteration in poem Tickled our hearts There are more below: https://www.examples.com/english/alliteration-with-a.html Time to ideate, investigate and collab to create this from begin to end, including Writing ML, post link properly in forum, enter in blog was a use of an hour. I should never explain… R.3.25 T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| April is poetry month… I expect to write. I wonder about commitment If I don’t honor this statement, what rule reveals in literally a sea of ever-changing text. If someone wants to punish you…still…they’ll come out of the woodwork, unfortunate fool. Well, I have email. Maybe tonight; maybe tomorrow. -Carnac 3.31.25 |
| 3.26.25 prompt for “Get The (vanishing) Picture,” yellow road sign on a long stretch running through a southwest desert that reads, “Absolutely Nothing For The Next 22 Mile” Here’s My Sign You’re headed the right way if you got lost looking for my house Avoid the abyss…um…everywhere. Quantum mechanics will guide you there…we hope…one day. I live in a crystal between two atoms. If you synapse, you’ll miss it. Sorry about the mess. Bosons … you know. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
If I can get through this day without giving into the temptation to freestyle Limp Bizkit, I know there’s a chance I can still make it. Just keep rollin’, baby. And stick that  …3.25.25 T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| Sundowning echoes linger, soft, low. faces drift, softly go. laughter ringing, sunset gleams. fragile, memory of life’s dreams. echoes soften, come, go. these gentle breezes, soft, flow. silence but them, risen ghosts. can’t recall, and nothing to boast. 5.20.24 Quite literally. Milk almost went in the bread drawer. Also, salami. Mm, sando? |
| Updated the old review page. Love the little guy on the cover, and my best friend… https://www.writing.com/main/profile/reviews/ripglaedr3 Tooned—  The kitten Kid…  |
| https://www.writing.com/main/profile The guy with his paws in my slippers is my wash room attendant…could have been in a previous life? When I head upstairs, he sometimes waits like that and moves ahead of me to bathroom. I wrote a poem about it. As soon as he sees I’m at the vanity, comes up to rub head or chin on my bent elbow as I brush. It’s routine if I don’t keep odd hours. He does brak at us if we haven’t gone up by 8mpm. He’s rooster in the morning. I keep the bedroom door closed. His shelter name was Prometheus but became Mohawk when his fur first grew out by six months. He and his step-sibling adopted at the same time after many visits to spend time with lonely animals. The two came to meet our aging cat that looked Maine Coon. Three musketeers, if one was sometimes cranky.  |
| Hi, Brian. Hi Whatcha doin’ Just sitting here talking to myself Yeah? What about? You know Oh, yeah. Right. *idles* *taps* Did you see the… Yup. Yeah. Not really good at conversation like this. Ditto. Did you hear an echo? Only the one I’m imagining. |
T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ Nope. Yup, that’s it. |
| …if I missed the insanity, written, unedited from 1.25.25 Dystopian German man and gummies geek convo, unrealized We will squeeze you of yourself and fill you with… Bavarian crème? No, no… Raspberry filling? No! You were closer the first time. Wait, what am I talking about? Your German accent is funny. Lemon Eye roll. Ourselves! Ha-ha-ha-ha!! That wouldn’t taste good. Have you tried these cherry gummies? Tried them? Bitch, we made those for you. Dood, you’re a god! Yes, it’s right there on the label. What’s so funny now? Catch your breath, hyena boy. Knee slapping. You were talking about turning us into mindless donuts and the donut holes…dough…huh..holes. The holes are our brains? Thinks… He’ll never get there. Holes are…jelly is…yogi bear and boo-boo. Boo-boo-boo-boo. I can’t stop saying. Note to self, cross market Yogi Bear, Jellystone Park and certain varieties of fresh made doughnuts for about…oh…twenty-dollars apiece. And raise the price on coffee…everywhere. Juan Valdez will never be out of work again. That’s all I got…Juan and his ‘family’ why’d the music stop? On a break!? Who’s messing with the in store play system. Oh, it’s you Quantan mechanic. Carry on. You know when already. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| In a particle accelerator, a boson, like any other particle, can travel at speeds extremely close to the speed of light, typically reaching around 99.999999% of the speed of light, as the theoretical limit prevents anything from exceeding light speed. Thus, updating the ‘driving like a bat out of hades’ expression to ‘like a boson in a particle accelerator. My reference conversion theory.  T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ The greatest that ever was never. I never wonder. Ponder. |
| Sun Tzu, a Chinese military strategist and author of The Art of War, is credited with saying, “To know your enemy, you must become your enemy”: Sun Tzu's advice is relevant, resonating in war rooms, boardrooms and chatrooms . Hhis other wisdom: "Let your plans be dark and impenetrable as night" "When you move, fall like a thunderbolt" "Know the enemy and know yourself; in a hundred battles you will never be in peril" That’s all. But, you never know. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
| At the end of looonnggg conversation…after sign off…the thought “How do you tell someone ‘You’re not the enemy…unless you’re trying to be’?” My life did a u-turn from compliance to ‘you don’t want to go there’, once absolutely known a manipulator in the midst wants to do more than shame but control a false narrative. I give a lot of rope to too many because I know I can bear the brunt of all the traction in other directions, as counterweight. One yank on each line will be felt, but not by me. No rope, no slack, not Samson trying to keep a temple together. If a house divides, Abe’s going to have an ‘I told you so’ for all the ignorance. And…not my problem. I’m being oblique. Had to get it down. But, we’ve made our mind up about shod feet and who has who’s shoes on. You can check my grammar here…but that’s it. 👔 T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
The novelty wore off after one and a half plays. Advise you only listen once…it could nauseate me. T̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ Ab̴̦̄̈͐̾̑̚͝s̸͉̻̃͘ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̰̅ͅcě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆ o̷͍̥̣̺͋f̶̭̱̘͇͊͋̾̋̄͆ Wa̴͙͓̓̕vě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆l̵̩̘̯̪͋͒͒̉͒̄ě̸̗͓̱̺̮̣̽͆n̴̝͚͎͔̘̅ͅg̸̫͙̻̭͐͝ț̴̵̢̝̗̰̪̠̹̈́͌͆̑͋͂̅͗̾̾h̵̥͉̲̠̍̽͛̌͂̆̚ |
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