January 2, 2019: Something Else

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January 2, 2019

 

So unhappy with the numbers on my scale.  So unhappy with the size of my stomach and shape of my body.  So unhappy with all of you.

I did not want to pry.  How very English of me.  It is constantly being asked of me, why didn’t I already look and read someone.  Well, I didn’t want to pry.  I am able to walk about the world without my mind scanning and looking at them with my brain.  It says a great deal about me if you are unable to understand that one sentence.

She is something else, Cherith is something else.  This is what has been said of me for as long as I can remember.  As a small child, friends of my family would say of me, she is something else.  Something they could see in me as a baby, as a child.

Did you miss me?  I used to say this almost every time I would arrive home, talking to my cats because they were at the door waiting for me, happy that Cherith was back.  My cats are not my nemesis.  My cats are not my enemies.  My cats are characters.  The only nemesis I have are those who steal from me, so readily.

It looks as though my mother was told to bring me to Timberline Lodge.  They were filming The Shining there, however, if they were filming at all it was not being done at the lodge.  It appears they asked my mother to bring me there to be seen, for a reason.  Not entirely bad.  The Stephen King connection is a bit vague at present.  All I remember is my mother speaking to a man who was keeping people away from the ginormous fan in the snow.  It has NOTHING to do with being a fan of Hollywood or celebrities.  It was as if to give me a look into production, so I would have an understanding.  I would have been nine years old.

When I was being tested in school for “learning disabilities” they could have done the testing in an unused or empty classroom.  They used a room behind the broiler because it most resembled an interrogation room.  Not a police interrogation room, and interrogation room used for terrorists, or spies, or something of the sort.  He was not sent to test or evaluated my IQ, so much as to watch and observe me.  He probably filed a report of finding that was used – this is so laughable – in the field.

Do you get it?  Do you understand, yet?  They were sending grown men and women into the field from the direction of a child.  The child being, me.  It is too absurd to not be true.

There is this story that is being told to me that I do not completely believe.  The story being that David and Courtney got pregnant after he had sex with me through that stupid man.  If this is true it is either that David was so virile after having sex with me that he got Courtney pregnant, or it was told to Courtney that she was losing her man and she should get pregnant to save their marriage.

David being so happy with the pregnancy and being a father that he had to share it with me somehow.  He had to tell me.  The reason he placed himself in front of me after I helped the persons with a baby at The Container Store.

It this is true, it is not the same for me.  I do not need to be involved in his life at all.  I do not need to know about his wife, his life, his family, or anything.  I want my own life, away from him.

To further the horrible lies, if this story is true it makes the timing of his hands on me – to me, disgusting.  He did it while Courtney was pregnant.  It is as if to say he wanted me to be the mother of his child.  As if he couldn’t help himself in any way.  He wanted it to be me.  He wanted it to be with me.  He wanted me to be the mother of his child and children.  As he has always wanted it to be with me.

I cannot say I agree or feel the same.  Not at all.  I have wanted nothing more than to move on from David.  He needs help, and not from me.  He needs therapy.  He needs help.  It is sick to me.

What you people have done to him and to me.  It is sick.

Here’s a surprise, Sculptress bras.  Sculptress bras were a line of products with Nutri-Metics.  Nutri-Metics was the only make-up and skincare I used to use.  They used to have the best ingredients.  Sculptress bras were different from other bras in the stores.  They were designed and engineered after the Golden Gate Bridge.  Designed and engineered to give support to the breasts without pulling and putting pressure on the straps and shoulders.  The design took the breast tissue from under the arms, putting the breasts and breast tissue in front.  They were, by design, a natural breast enhancer.  They did nothing but use your own breast tissue.  They did not squash, squelsh, smoosh, flatten, pancake, or droop breasts.  In my experience in wearing them the support alone, offered the best breast health.  Just by wearing them.

My mother sold these bras for many years.  She helped many women.  She helped many women who had mastectomies also.

If they still exist, I have not seen many bras that are able to offer the design that Sculptress bras had.  We like to think that the fashion of a woman’s silhouette should be a certain size and shape.  I say, at what cost?  Should fashion, should my breasts come at the cost of my health and the health of my breasts?  No.

Women, take you own body, take your hands and move the breast tissue from under your arms making your sides flat.  Notice the difference is your breasts.  Then, take your hands and place them under your breast and notice the dramatic difference in the appearance of your breasts.

Breast health is important.  Health is important.

His death, Michael Clarke Duncan’s death was meant to be a warning to me that I was supposed to notice.  How could I?!  I should not have taken the advice of a doctor who worked not only with my mother, but myself and my family.  A woman that I had known for decades?  Was she used?  Was she set-up?!  Should she have known better, yes.

It was meant as a warning to me that I was supposed to notice.  To not go through with the surgery.  It is out there in the world.  Very powerful, important people do not like these persons who have used and exploited me.  I am not to be messed with as I see from them.  I am not to be altered in a way as to keep or deter me from being, something else.

You should know by now; my real father is not much of a talker.  We would have had a better relationship if my parents had divorced.  My mother would have been happy.  My father would have been happier.  I would have been better able to communicate with him.  All those languages he speaks, I would have liked to have been able to know too.

I would be his unending joy.  I would be a man’s unending joy.

I am so very unhappy.

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