Hearts and Minds

I’m going in multiple directions right now. The chaos continues to ensue.

I did a Twitter thread. I stand by it. I blame everyone. The machine works. It always has. The preservation of the state for the sake of the state, not necessarily the man. As I said to the guy the other day, do what you gotta do, I guess.

I just want people to know.

The true problem with that is this: I sound crazy. Crazy people can’t be trusted. They aren’t credible. The second, the very moment, you bring in anything regarding a government cover-up, you are immediately labeled crazy. Then you get the public records, and they don’t show anything about him or the videos or the evidence or anything like that. It’s just a lie that was made up and put into the record to discredit me.

Yes, I fucking told his daughter her father was a rapist. Yes. I did that. And I fucking stand by it. She deserved to know. What I never did was start contacting her from multiple numbers. That didn’t happen, and I can pretty much prove it, because he texted me when it happened. Actually, I told him.

Now, several months later, like seven months, I was sending friend requests on Facebook. I was just clicking everyone for the blog’s Facebook page. Apparently the algorithm gods put his daughter on my People You May Know list. It was a friend request. {D} contacts me. It had been since we spoke. This was clear blue sky. I told him fat fingers and best of luck getting a restraining order for two contacts, one accidental, months apart, and 3,000 miles away. Like, that’s not what restraining orders are fucking for.

So they put it into the public record. I can prove I was told by him both times I had any contact. And that was fucking it. Period.

But that’s that shit. I’m just crazy. I can’t be trusted. I’m not credible. Oh my fucking God.

Anyways, I have to go to urgent care at a minimum, like today.

I haven’t been taking my blood pressure medication. And I’ve been feeling it for sure. The chest pains and the trouble breathing and the headaches, obviously. I’m easily triple-triple sustained BP. And I am so swollen my joints won’t move.

If you know medical stuff, it’s some level of heart failure. Like, there is a chance I just won’t wake up in the morning. Between the swelling and chest pains, like, I’m close, you know. It could just shut down.

I’m feeling a little twinge of self-preservation, though. Like maybe I should go to the hospital. It’s a hard decision to make. Like, I have no real desire to stay alive. There is nothing for me. Nothing is ever going to get better or improve. I’m not going to suddenly find someone in my life. Like, this is easier, just let go.

But I’m also kind of not ready. Like I want to get the book out. I want at least a shot at changing the outcome for someone else.

I also want more fucking public record about what happened and who did it because fuck you, I fucking matter. What happened to me actually fucking matters. He doesn’t get away with it this time. He doesn’t.

I said something in jest about, you know, having to resign over a sex tape and how that, for as big a political junkie as he and I both were, was kind of a badge of honor, notch on the bedpost, secretly enjoyed kind of thing. It’s quintessential politics. He got mad and said that story was not going to be part of the story. No one was going to remember why he left. It wasn’t going to be part of the story. My fucking ass it won’t be, baby