#my soul left my body on an airplane last week and this was the result

[sprnklersplashes]

heart of stone (15/?)

AO3

If there’s one thing Janis has learned about herself throughout this entire experience, it’s that she really hates hospital gowns. It’s definitely not the self-revelation she expected to be having during this process, but life is weird like that, and she’s sitting in an unfamiliar room changing into the thing and thinking about how much she dislikes them. The flimsy material makes her feel like she’s not even wearing anything and she feels drowned and lost in it. Finding the arm and head holes was an adventure in itself, trying to work out what was fabric and what wasn’t. She knows that they’re not exactly built for fashionable purposes, but damn would it kill the American Medical Society to give some shape to this thing so she doesn’t feel like the ghost of a little Victorian girl?

And that’s not even touching on the fact that it refuses to stay closed at the back, because that’s not something she wants to spend even five seconds thinking about.

They only have one useful function she thinks, putting aside all their medical uses because she can’t understand or really bring herself to care about those. The only part of this thing that actually seems beneficial is the way she can slip Purrlock into it undetected. He sits against her shoulder now, hidden by the collar, his paws soft against her shoulder and his nose rubbing against her skin. It’s a comforting presence, one she desperately needs right now. The clock behind her ticks closer to 3 o’clock, the time Doctor Wiley agreed to schedule their appointment for.

She swallows past the lump in her throat and presses her hands against the bed in an attempt to get some heat into them. She won’t kid herself, not now, not after everything she’s been through with herself. She’s not scared of pain. She wouldn’t be even if she hadn’t been assured she’d hardly feel anything. She’s just scared about what comes afterwards. Because no amount assurances from her doctor or any nurses can settle that feeling that has clung to her back and wrapped itself tightly around her soul.

She gives Purrlock one more squeeze before the doctor comes in, both her parents and a nurse in tow, all of them having left her to give her some privacy. It’s not Doctor Wiley doing it, and she can’t decide how that makes her feel. It would have been a lot better to have a familiar face doing this for her.

Her own clothes are folded on a chair beside her, except her hat. That stays on, she decided, no matter what.

“Are you ready Janis?” the doctor asks. She’s pretty, with lovely eyes and one of those smiles that should be soothing, but it isn’t doing anything for her.

“Yep.” She winces when she hears her voice cracking. Her throat feels like sandpaper but she feels too worked up to ask for water. Besides, she doesn’t want anything to put this off. The sooner she’s in, the sooner she’s out.

Purrlock’s presence remains steadfast as her vitals are checked, her blood pressure, her heart rate, and she pulls herself up on the table, turning onto her side as instructed. She doesn’t know if anyone else can see it, but nothing she does feels like it’s her own body. Rather it feels like she’s watching someone else doing the movements for her. Like her brain has been taken over and she’s just along for the ride.

“Okay, we’re going to numb the area now, okay?” the nurse asks. “You might feel a little pain.” She nods minutely, her thumb stroking Purrlock becoming faster. If anyone wonders what she’s doing with her hand inside her gown, they don’t ask. The nurse wipes something cold across her skin before there’s a little prick there, barely enough for her to register it.

She avoids her parents’ eyes as they sit down next to her. She won’t say it, but she wishes they weren’t here. The weight of their gaze that they try to make supportive only makes her more uncomfortable. She doesn’t want to have to put on a brave face now.

“Okay, there we go.” The doctor’s voice comes in, a little more cold and mechanical than Janis would have liked. “That’s all working well. Can you feel anything there?” Seconds, or minutes, pass without her saying anything, and Janis realises she’s probably poking at her back.

“Um, yeah, I mean no, I can’t feel anything.” She wraps her hand around her cat and tries to take a deep breath.

“So I’m going to put it in now, okay?”

That’s when Janis’ blood goes from being cold to being pure ice, stiffening over her chest and stopping her from breathing properly. Oh god what’s the procedure for having a panic attack right now?

“Okay.” Her voice is so small and weak that it doesn’t even sound like her. Not even in her darkest moments has she ever felt as powerless as this.

She lets out a small gasp as a sharp sting attacks her back and her free hand curls into the mattress, her face screwing up as a small whimper escapes her as well. It’s over quickly, but she feels the sensation lingering on her skin.

Screw her image, she thinks, and she takes Purrlock out and holds him against her chest. Her parents are probably sighing at her right now, half-pitying looks on their faces, but she has her eyes trained on the wall behind them instead.

She doesn’t know how much longer it takes, not bothering to count anything. All she knows is her own breathing, making them last for as long as she can and trying to blank out anything else, even her own thoughts. She just clutches Purrlock harder, her other hand twisted into the mattress until the pressure on her back finally eases up.

“Okay… and we’re done,” the doctor says. “You’re going to need to keep laying there for about ten minutes or so, just to make sure everything’s okay down there. Make sure you keep pressure on it, okay?.”

Janis nods slowly, flexing her fingers just to check. She made it. She’s still here. Them, as her mouth slowly curls into a smirk, she mumbles “that’s what she said”, just loud enough for her parents to hear.

Her dad laughs at that. Her mom slaps him for it.

She turns onto her back, letting out a quick sigh as she gets off her side, and shakes out her arm, stiff from laying underneath her for all that time. Then curiosity begins to take over, so she shifts slightly and slides her hand beneath her, her fingers coming across a bandage across her lower back far wider than she would have thought.

“Hey.” Her dad slaps her arm lightly, raising his eyebrow at her. “You’re meant to be applying pressure to that spot.”

“I am,” she sighs, wriggling her hand out of it. She presses her body into the mattress to prove her point. “I just wanted to see what was there.”

“You can look at your war wounds all you like later, okay?” he tells you.

“Do you need anything?” her mom asks. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? I can get you some water if you need it-”

“I’m fine, Mom,” she says, shaking her head. “I’m okay, really. Just bored.” And tired, but she leaves that one out. She leans her head back and looks up at the ceiling, squinting at the light glaring into her eyes. “Can you pass me my phone?” She does so, and Janis immediately swipes past every message she’s received since this morning and ignores any and all social media in favour of scrolling through pictures of her dad. After a minute, she turns it on airplane mode, even if no-one has actually texted her yet, just in case. It’s too early to let people contact her. She needs mor distance between herself and what just happened before she can even process it, let alone tell someone about it.

Her back still kind of hurts when she gets back to her own room, enough for her to manage but still. She crawls onto the bed, the short walk through the hall having depleted whatever energy she had to begin with, and barely remembers to actually get under the covers. She’s asleep just moments after her head hits the pillow, her toy cat still clutched to her chest.

                                                                                                  *****

She goes home that Friday; the two days having dragged out into what felt more like two weeks. The whole time she felt bogged down with anticipation, her head snapping up every time her door so much as opened or Doctor Wiley passed her in the hall. Every moment was so fraught with anxiety that she could barely sit still, despite the weariness seeped into her bones. The combination alone made left her nauseous and even though she could blame it on the meds, there was always that feeling lurking just below the surface or lingering in the back of her mind. She can fake it to everyone else all she wants but she can’t lie to herself. All she can do is wait. The problem is that’s the last thing she wants to do.

Still, she’s home now, and at least she can sink into her own couch and stroke her dog and try to detach herself from the past week. It isn’t easy, especially with the painkillers her mom picked up, but the change of scenery at least does something for her. She curls up even more, pressing as much of her body as she can into the cushions, as her mom sets her sandwich down in front of her. She rubs her cheek before she goes and Janis does her best to keep herself from pulling away, even managing a smile for her. She’s getting better at this whole thing.

“You feeling okay kid?” her dad asks as he comes in.

“Fine,” she replies through a yawn. “Back hurts but that’s nothing new.” Her dad hums in agreement, turning his attention to the TV, but his hand curls into a fist by his side, his jaw clenching just enough for her to notice and more than enough to make her stomach clench. She’s not the only one waiting for results and despite their best efforts to hide them, her parents’ anxieties are just as much a part of the house as the walls and floors are.

Her mom shares a look with her dad as she sits down on the arm of the chair, her fingers running through his hair, and something else in twists in Janis’ gut. Her parents are entitled to their privacy, just like any other person, but when it’s a private discussion about her, it doesn’t sit right with her. She hasn’t quite faded to nothing yet, and she sure as hell can pick up on those silent conversations that pass between them, all worried glances and quiet touches. She doesn’t know what they say exactly, but she knows that it’s always about her and it makes her want to throw something at the wall.

“I’m going to go upstairs,” she announces, breaking through the tight silence that had fallen over the living room. She pushes herself up, wincing again at the ache in her back, and that of course sets off an alarm for her parents. They half-stand, arm extended and eyes wide, the exact same pose as though they’re actually the same person. Janis pulls her cardigan tighter around herself. “I’m okay. Really. I can make it up the stairs by myself.”

“If you’re sure,” her mom says, nervousness lining the edge of her voice. “Are you going to eat your sandwich though?”

“Oh.” She turns and quickly retrieves it from the couch, spinning back around just in time to see relief flood her mom’s face. “I’ll see you guys later.”

She doesn’t go straight upstairs though. Instead she turns the corner and lingers outside the door, her ears straining and her body pressed flat against the wall. From there, she holds her breath and waits, though for what she isn’t quite sure. She doesn’t work it out either, because seconds and then minutes pass, and the only sounds she hears are her own breathing and the faint voices on the TV. If they are going to talk about her, it isn’t happening now. And so she turns on her heel again and heads upstairs this time, closing her bedroom door tightly behind her.

Much like she did a few days ago, she crawls onto her bed, groaning against the flash of pain in her joints. She can’t be bothered to actually pull the covers over herself, so she stretches and grabs a blanket from the foot of her bed and tangles herself in that instead. Her bag sits by the foot of her bed and she tells herself she’ll unpack it later, even though her definition of later has become much more broad than it used to be. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and lays it beside her, the screen so dark and shiny that her face is reflected in it, albeit stretched and distorted.

She finally worked up the nerve to talk to Damian last night, sitting in the armchair next to her bed. Granted, he had texted her first, but she had answered, and that had seemed impossible this week. What’s more, she told him mostly everything he’d want to know about the procedure. She had embellished a little, making herself sound braver than she had been really, and she doesn’t know whose benefit that was for. But what matters to her is that she told someone, and that he seemed fairly okay with it. Maybe he’s making good on that promise he made to her.

She lets out a long sigh, her throat growing tighter when she thinks back on that exchange. The way he had looked at her, the tears shining in his eyes. Desperate for a solid answer she can’t give him. She wants nothing more than to wake up tomorrow morning and to tell him and everyone else that she’s back to normal. That there’s no more hospitals or medicines and she can go back to school. Or better yet, to wake up tomorrow and for this all to have been a horrific dream. Unfortunately for her, the past weeks have drained all that stupid naïve hope out of her, and so the last thing she feels before she drifts off is the pit of uncertainty sitting heavily in her stomach.

                                                                                   ******

She’s not much better by the next day, physically or mentally. She feels it even before she wakes up; it’s crawled up and over her like ivy over an old brick house. She wakes up in the late morning with her brain feeling like static and her vision half-blurred, buried beneath her blanket and her clothes wrinkled from sleeping in them. Against her better judgement, she rolls over, half-sits up on her elbows and blinks rapidly until her eyes adjust to the half-light of her bedroom. Her parents must have come in at some point last night, because the curtains are closed and her room is significantly less messy than it was last night. Either it was her parents or she’s taken to sleep-cleaning.

The next time she wakes up its past noon, and regardless of how much she’d like to just stay here until her brain fixes itself, she figures that the least thing she could do is show her face to her parents and announce that she hasn’t died or become a vegetable since they last saw her.

Her train of thought stops there and a coldness washes over her despite her sweater and leaves goosebumps on her skin.

She pulls on her discarded beanie and a pair of fuzzy socks and heads downstairs, finding Maxie sitting at the bottom and springing to life upon seeing her, tail wagging and eyes bright. She smiles, albeit just a little bit.

“Hey buddy,” she tells him softly, scratching behind his ears. “Either you’re really happy to see me or you really need to tinkle.”

She lets him follow her into the kitchen, counting on her parents to let him out if it’s the latter.

“Morning kid,” her dad greets from the table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. “Was just about to get worried about you.”

“I’m fine.” She reaches up and grabs the first box of cereal she finds down from the cupboard. “Just tired.” The box feels heavier than it should as she heads over and grabs a bowl. “Where’s Mom?”

“Oh she’s out meeting some of her friends for coffee,” he explains. “You know. Girl time.”

“Girl time,” she agrees with a nod. She thinks, but doesn’t say, that it’s good for her to be getting out. It’s not really a conversation she wants to have with her dad, not with where it could lead to, but it’s true all the same.

Just as she’s starting her breakfast (or lunch, really), there’s a knock at the door; a fast, sharp rap, probably on the glass. Janis looks over at her dad, finding him just as lost as she is. Apparently neither one of them were expecting visitors. He shrugs and goes off to answer it, probably expecting a neighbour or relative. They’ve been coming over almost every week now, bearing baskets or bags full of treats, for them. Fresh pastries, baskets of fruit, home-cooked dinners ready to stick in the oven. All out of the goodness of their hearts. Janis only hangs around for a little while in those cases, just enough to answer the basic questions, before finding some excuse to slip out. Nine times out of ten, it’s more her parents’ friends than hers anyway.

“Janis?” her dad calls from the door. “It’s for you.”

“For me?” she mutters. She sighs and heads down the hall, taking the cereal with her, perplexed as to who could be calling for her. Damian doesn’t even need to knock anymore and Cady always texts before they come round. Maybe it’s just another classmate, someone she got along with like Sonja or Sophie. That’d be nice, she supposes.

She stops dead in her tracks the minute the person comes into view. Her dad stands to the side, his eyes on her, and standing in the doorway is Regina George. Regina George is at her house, clad in a white sweater and blue jeans, a silver bag across her body and a Tupperware box in her hand. Her hair falls just to her chin, rather than in the long waves everyone knows her by, but that’s nothing more than a footnote in Janis’ brain. Regina George is at her front door. Alone. And an invisible force has flung her right back to that middle school yard, complete with everyone staring at her and her heart fit to burst right out of her chest.

“What the hell are you doing here?” she asks sharply. Regina blinks, taken aback by the venom in her voice, and disgust curls in her gut. Maybe there was some freak lacrosse accident and Regina tragically lost her memory from middle school onwards. That’s the only reason she can think of as to why she would be surprised by this, because otherwise she should know that they are not friends.

“Hey,” she says. “I um… I made some pastries and I thought-”

“I don’t take charity,” she says. Heat rises in her cheeks. She may have promised to play nice for Cady’s sake, but Cady isn’t here. No one is, and even though she’s in her own home, she feels more vulnerable than she has in years. It’s not a good feeling and she fights it off with every defensive tactic she knows. “Not from you.”

“Okay,” she sighs and Janis’ fist clenches. She wonders if she could still take her in a fight in her current condition and decides that yes, she most definitely could. This cereal bowl for example could do some serious damage to her face if she throws it hard enough. “Janis… can we talk?”

“Excuse you?”

“Can we talk?” she repeats, exasperation creeping into her voice. Oh the audacity, Janis thinks. “Just for a minute?”

She takes a step back. She doesn’t want to talk to her, that much is clear. She doesn’t really want to talk to anyone but if she did, Regina would be the exception. And just her being here in her house is flipping every switch Janis has, her nerves buzzing and an electrical current surging through her. And she knows Regina, and she seldom wants to just talk. There were a lot of times in the past where she “just wanted to talk” that ended in her getting her way and Janis feeling winded. It would be immensely satisfying for her to slam that door in her surprised little face, and then open it just enough to take the pastries off her and slam the door again. And then dump the pastries for good measure.

But… she can’t say that her curiosity isn’t piqued. The fact that Regina took the effort to make pastries and take them all the way to her own house as a kind of… what, peace offering? Does Regina do peace offerings? How many people can say they’ve had Regina come to them?

This is a once in a lifetime event, and yes, maybe she’d like to see where this goes. And that’s the reason why, even as every part of her screams ‘no, no, no!’ she says, “Fine.”

Her dad raises his eyebrows at her as Regina walks past him, silently screaming “what the hell is wrong with you?” at her. She’s asking herself that same question. Maybe those pain killers are more effective than she thought. Even as he takes the Tupperware box off Regina, his eyes don’t leave her, asking for an answer or an explanation or for her to blink twice if she needs help.

Regina stands in a middle of them, wringing her hands.

“We can talk in my room,” Janis tells her. “You remember where it is?” Regina nods. “Good, go one up, I’ll be there in a second.” She opens her mouth, probably to ask what she meant, but thinks better and closes it before turning around and heading up there. The idea of Regina in her room makes her skin crawl, but she wants her out of sight and earshot for now. She waits until she hears her door opening and closing and, fighting back a shudder, she says, “Dad… if we’re not done in ten minutes?”

“Come and get you?”

“I was going to say, ‘assume that I have thrown her out the window’,” she says. “But you know, that works too I guess.”

Her dad nods, a hint of a smile on his face, but his eyes are serious.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks her. “I mean… you hate this girl. You have good reason to as well.” There’s a bitterness in his voice that makes Janis smile, ironic as that is. She feels less alone in it. But she crosses her arms over her chest and gives a small nod.

“I do…. But you just have to trust me on this,” she tells him. “I have my reasons. Besides, I can play the cancer card any time I want her to leave.”

“You’re a terrible child,” he tells her.

“I know,” she replies. “I’ll blame it on her influence.”

When she gets up to her room, Regina is standing at her wall, studying one of the paintings on it. It’s one of hers from sophomore year, and Regina looking at it makes her wince.

“Hey.” She jumps nearly three feet at the sound of her voice and manages to compose herself relatively quickly. Janis closes the door behind her and whacks on the light. “So go on. You wanted to talk.”

“I did,” she says. She pulls at her sweater and straightens it out, the gesture looking so unnatural on her that it actually scares her a little. Since the second they met, Regina has exuded a confidence Janis could only aspire to. Even after everything fell apart, Janis had to admire that part of her. Even if it was faked, it was convincing. Now she’s standing in front of her, all nervous eyes and fidgeting fingers and somehow her biting her lip in anxiety scares Janis more than her cruel smirks ever did.

“So are you going to?” she asks. “Talk, I mean. Or are you just going to stand there like a dumbass?”

Regina laughs-actually laughs-and nods and lifts her chin and looks her in the eye and after what feels like a lifetime she says

“Janis… I wanted to say that I’m so sorry-”

“No.”

Regina blinks, looking like a deer aught in headlights. Janis simply stares her down, betting that this wasn’t how she thought this interaction was going to go down and yeah maybe getting soe petty satisfaction out of that, what about it?

“W-what?”

“You heard me,” she shrugs, a grin tugging on her lips. There’s a power stirring inside her that she hasn’t felt in months, probably not since she stood up on that table in the gym and finally let rip. It lights up inside her, igniting every part of her tired body and running through like wildfire. Even if it’s not enough to block out why she’s really annoyed about it, she can still stand and revel in the image of Regina standing across from her in complete uncertainty. That’s what makes the next word taste so sweet on her lips. “No.”

Regina’s mouth opens and then closes it again, annoyance slowly creasing her face. Janis continues eating her cereal as if Regina isn’t even here.

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” she says. “I can say it in French if you like but it’s more or less the same thing.”

For a second, there’s a flash of the old Regina, appalled that someone dared to stand up to her and crush the dream she had in her pretty little head. Weirdly, Janis finds she had missed that Regina, even it’s more of a comfortable familiarity than anything else. Ironically, Regina at her most bitchy is Regina at her most safe.

“I… don’t… get it,” Regina says, the words drawn out as she tries to connect the dots in her mind. “Why no?”

Janis sets the bowl down on her nightstand, the bang echoing off her walls. As she folds her arms, her nails dig into the skin and her whole body shakes with the effort of holding herself back from throwing herself at Regina. Or from holding back the tears that prickle at the back of her eyes. Either one.

She could lie. It would be easy to do so, especially to her. It wouldn’t even be a lie, just an omitted truth. But for whatever reason, she doesn’t feel like doing it.

“Because…” She steadies her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “Because you’re only apologising because of my cancer.” Her voice stayed surprisingly steady the whole way through, but they both hear the crack at the end. “And the one thing worse than a fake apology from you is a pity apology.”

“Janis,” she says. Her face softens and Janis wants to rip it right off. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me-”

“Correct. And so I don’t.”

“But it’s not because of….” She swallows hard. “Because of that. After the spring fling and over the summer I did a lot of soul searching and-”

“Regina I cannot begin to tell you how much I do not give a flying fuck about your soul searching,” she says flatly. She sighs and shakes out her hands, trying to get some feeling back into them. Feeling she’s buried for years come flooding back to her, blooming up from every corner of her soul and settling under her skin. All that resentment and anger that always simmered below the surface comes to a boiling point. “I don’t want you to apologise to me when you’re not fucking sorry.” She shakes her head, finding a bitter smile on her face. “I’ll tolerate a lot but you treating me like an idiot isn’t one of them. I would have thought you knew me better than that.”

“Well we haven’t exactly been close lately,” she mumbles. Her lips roll into a thin line, her finger tapping away at her forearm as she thinks. “You’re never going to believe me are you?”

“Nope. Not unless you strip naked and run up and down this street in order to prove it to me.”

“Pretty sure that would get me arrested.”

“Yeah well, that would be an added bonus.” She nods at that, a suppressed smile on her lips. She goes to move forwards but thinks better of it and stays where she is.

She doesn’t want to believe her. Hell, she doesn’t want to. Regina will never really understand the extent of the crap she went through. She doesn’t know about her puking at 4am, about those nights where she looked up at the ceiling until her eyes burned, about how her soul diminished little by little every time she crossed the school gates. She doesn’t know how it wasn’t just Janis’ life she ruined; it was her parents’ too. She doesn’t know how long it took until she could stop flinching from people, stop worrying that every compliment was backhanded or that every invitation was a set-up for something ugly. She’ll never know and Janis is so sure that she won’t care either. She doesn’t want her apology and wouldn’t even if it was genuine.

But the worst part of all this is… part of her thinks it might be. And she has no idea why that’s the case. She knows that trusting Regina George is like picking up a wild snake and thinking it won’t bite you. She’s got bite marks to prove it. That’s exactly what makes all this so painful for her, this feeling deep in her gut that she can’t ignore no matter how many traumatic memories she buries it under.

She closes her eyes and prays she won’t regret this.

“You want to prove it to me?” she asks. “You want to prove that you’re sorry?” Regina nods, a hopeful spark in her eye that looks uncharacteristic, but also too genuine to be fake. Her stomach clenches as she speaks, the words battling through her teeth. “Tell me afterwards. Tell me when I’m healthy and I have hair and I don’t need people’s pity. That’s when you can tell me you’re sorry.”

“That might take a while.”

“No it won’t.” There’s a defensive edge in her voice that she hadn’t expected. If the way Regina’s eyebrows shoot up is anything to go by, that was a shock to both of them. “I had this test thing last week to check how things are. And that’ll prove that I’m nearly done.” She hopes Regina believes what she’s saying because she sure as hell doesn’t. “By December this whole thing will be over anyway. Then, if you’re still willing, you can come over here and grovel and beg for my forgiveness.” She raises her chin. “There’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

Regina nods slowly, no doubt weighing up her proposal in her head. Regina George doesn’t take deals, she only makes them, and this role reversal is strange to both of them. And at least for Janis, there’s a small thrill involved here. The upper hand in regard to Regina isn’t an easy thing to come by.

“Deal.” She holds out her perfectly manicured hand and Janis, after a moment’s pause, takes it, finding it cold. “See you in a few months, Sarkisian.”

“And then afterwards we can go and ride some flying pigs,” she mumbles.

Regina huffs a laugh at that and before she can stop herself, Janis does the same.

She follows Regina downstairs, intending to see her out the door. The two of them are in a tight, prickly silence as they go, unsaid, unknown words floating in the air between them and neither one willing to act on them.

She feels her dad’s eyes on them as they reach the door.

“See you later then,” Regina says, the corners of her mouth turned up into a smile. Janis only hums in some sort of agreement and even that doesn’t dissuade her.

“Say hey to Karen and Gretchen for me,” is her response, and Regina tells her she will.

She waits until she sees Regina walk down her driveway and actually disappear around the corner before allowing herself to feel relieved, to let it flood through and around her and to breathe properly and fully for the first time since she came over. She collapses face-first onto the sofa in the living room, much to her dad’s amusement.

“So how was it?” he asks.

“Trust me when I say you don’t want to know,” she says, not bothering to lift her head from the cushion. “Just your regular dramatic teen girl stuff.”

“Mm-hm.” She doesn’t need to look at him to know he doesn’t believe her, but he also doesn’t press on it. “Well, the good news is, she may be a scum-sucking fart-mouthed life ruiner, but the makes amazing pastries.”

“Dad!” Her head snaps up at that and the room tilts and dips before steadying again and the black dots fade. “You ate her pastries?”

“What was I supposed to do?” he asks. “Just leave a box of perfectly good pastries sitting the cupboard never to be eaten? They were screaming my name, Janis.”

“You could have burned them. You could have set them on fire. It would have been immensely therapeutic for me.”

“Are you telling me that instead of sending you to therapy, I could have just set things on fire and gotten the same result?” he asks. She nods, a sharp pain flaring up as she does so, and he bursts into laughter.

“Oh stop,” she sighs. She rests her head on the arm of the couch, pressing her forehead into it like it can absorb all her pain from her. “What are the flavours?”

“We’ve got two. One’s apple and one’s this pecan thing.”

“Damn that witch. Making flavours I love like that.”

“She’s a fiend indeed. So which do you want?”

Her defences stay up for a microsecond. The she shoots her hand out and metaphorically waves a white flag.

“Pecan please,” she asks. “And can we at least burn one of them?”

Her dad laughs, but he doesn’t say no either and she takes it for now.

                                                                                                               ******

When Janis wakes on Monday morning, it’s with a deep, deep pit in her stomach. She knows what today is before her brain is fully awake, even before her eyes are open. She goes back to the hospital today.

And there’s a very high chance her test results are sitting there waiting for her when she gets there.

She pulls the covers up over her head and burrows under them, pressing her head further into the pillow and trying to get back to sleep. It really shouldn’t be too hard, not when she’s fallen asleep in far less comfortable positions before, in far brighter and louder places than her bedroom. But once, this once, her body doesn’t give in, and sleep deserts her in record quick time. She’s facing the music today whether she likes it or not.

Her dad is coming with them today, he told her last night.

“I know nothing might be happening tomorrow,” he had told her. “But just in case, I don’t want to miss anything.”

And as they get into the car, Janis sliding into the back this time with her hospital bag beside her, she feels a heavy sense of déjà vu. Despite how it feels like centuries, it was only two months ago she was getting into this car, whispering goodbye to her house and this whole was beginning.

The uneasiness doesn’t lessen when they get out of the car, or when they ride into the elevator. Outside the windows, the sun struggles against the grey clouds, its light blocked out bit by bit. When they stop outside her floor, her breathing is coming in pants and her hands are clammy and sweaty no matter how many times she wipes them. She considers just turning and running, pictures herself swiping her mom’s keys and making a break for it, getting into the car and driving off. She’d never make it far, but it’s a nice fantasy to tide her over.

The whole place feels off, she thinks as they make their way to her room, trying to smile and nod at people, pretend it’s business as usual, pretend there isn’t a sense of dread gnawing away at her. By the time they get within spitting distance of her room, that uneasiness has taken her over entirely and it takes all her effort to keep herself walking straight and steady. It’s not that she wants to collapse into her bed anymore, it feels like it’s the only thing she’s capable of doing.

She doesn’t bother unpacking, but her mom on the other hand makes it her mission, filling the small cabinet with all her possessions, leaving her laptop on her tray table just as she likes it. None of them speak though, so the only sound is the cars outside and her mom bustling around.

It takes five minutes for Doctor Wiley to finally show up. And if Janis felt uneasy before, she feels pure, unfiltered panic injected straight into her veins at the sight of him. He clicks the door shut behind him and her heart stops beating.

“Janis,” he greets. “Mr and Mrs Sarkisian.”

“My test results,” she blurts out. She locks eyes with him, willing him to look at her by sheer force alone. “You have them, don’t you?”

He blinks at her, perhaps alarmed at her institution, but his head then moves in a slow nod and her hand clenches around the bedpost.

“Well?” she asks.

“Janis…” She bites back her cheek. The déjà vu from the car comes back again stronger, less like a memory and more like she’s travelled back in time. Her chest grows tighter than she thinks it’s possible. “We looked at your results and… it seems the treatments now aren’t enough.”

Not enough.

Not enough.

The past two months of her life weren’t enough. All the events she missed and the sleeping through days and the vomiting and the passing out and the losing her hair… none of that was enough. Nothing she’s done up until now has been enough. Her lost days pile up in front of her eyes and blow away like dust because they didn’t. Mean. Anything. Apparently.

She wants to scream all this at him, to ask him why he couldn’t work this out earlier and what the fuck these past weeks have been for if they haven’t been doing what they should have been doing and why she had to essentially lie to every person she cares about if it wasn’t working anyway. But her mouth stays closed, her hands by her side and her body on the bed. She feels more like a hollow statue than a real person, her veins empty and her brain blank.

“So… what does that mean?” her dad finally asks. The room had been silent for so long she had actually forgotten what a person actually speaking sounds like. She doesn’t dare look back at her parents, because she knows it would either kill her more or throw her the opposite direction and she’d lunge at Wiley and tear his skin off. Or she’d scream and scream until her throat was raw.

Maybe that would feel good.

“Well… the good news is that it’s not…. It’s not the worst news you could receive.”

Maybe not for you she silently tells him.

“What it does mean is that we’re going to have to extend your treatment here,” he says. “For another four weeks.”

Four weeks? What’s four weeks? She can’t even see past today. He could have said four weeks or four years and it wouldn’t have made a difference as far as she’s concerned.

“Four weeks,” her mom echoes. “So it would end…” Her voice trails off and it becomes a question rather than a statement.

“In January, rather than December,” he finishes. “And another thing… we think it might be better if Janis stayed here permanently rather than going home.”

“But…” It’s only when everyone’s eyes land on her that she realises she had actually spoken at all. She takes as deep a breath she can and goes on, her voice so, so small. “What about my dog?”

“Your dog?”

“My dog,” she explains. “Going home. It’s the only time I can see my dog.”

Somewhere in the very, very back of her mind, an impossibly tiny part of her is saying ‘really?’. But Maxie is all she can think to care about right now. Wiley’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly and he turns and looks to her parents for any kind of direction.

They get it, of course, and her mom’s hand comes up on her back.

“We’ll work something out,” she says. The softness of her voice makes her flinch. “We’ll work out a FaceTime with him. Okay, sweetheart?”

Through her tight throat, she manages to slip out an ‘okay’.

Wiley keeps talking, some spiel about optimism and close monitoring and priorities, but the words ricochet off her and fall meaninglessly onto the floor. If they really matter she’ll get told them again. Or not. She doesn’t really care and she’s not sure if she should be worried about that.

“Janis? Janis?” She blinks and Wiley is looking at her, eyes anxious behind his glasses, his mouth drawn into a grim line. “Do you have any questions.”

She does. A lot. The first one is ‘what the actual fuck’ but nobody probably has the answer for that. Most questions she has probably don’t have an answer, but there’s one she’s willing to try.

“I… Did I do something wrong?” she asks. “Is that why all of this didn’t work?”

“Oh my goodness, Janis, no.” Wiley rushes over to her, pulling the chair over and sitting opposite her. There’s so much determination in him that she almost believes him. “Listen… things like this happen. They happen more often than we’d like to admit. But they do.” He shrugs, looking pretty helpless for the person who is meant to be in charge of this. If he doesn’t know what’s happened, then where does that leave her. “Sometimes the cancer is just more aggressive than we first thought. And we need to redouble our efforts. It’s not your fault, Janis. Don’t ever think it is.”

He can’t tell her not to do that. She can’t tell her not to do that. No-one on this Earth can make her stop thinking that. But for his sake, and her parents, she nods and mutters something that sounds like an okay, and after he exchanges a few words with her parents, he leaves, off to tend to the dozens of other kids in his care.

Her body bounces slightly as her back hits the mattress. It’s a nice kind of feeling. It makes everything feel less real. Even more so when her head falls back and she looks at the world that way. She doesn’t bother moving, not even when her head starts to hurt and she starts feeling dizzy. Out of the corner of her eye, she feels her upside-down dad leaning against the wall, his cheeks puffed out as he exhales. She can only see her mom when she cranes her neck, leaning against the wall with her head on her dad’s shoulder.

“Janis, sweetheart are you okay?”

“Nope,” she sighs. She

“Of course she’s not okay.”

“It was just a question, Alex.”

That pulls her up, even if it’s only halfway. If there was a fight brewing her face stopped it, the tension between them fading into the background. Bigger problems and all that.

She is the bigger problem. Not really, but her cancer is.

That’s when everything slams back into her; realisation, feelings, panic. It explodes inside her like a freshly thrown grenade and it blows up all her plans and her promises in its wake.

“Holy crap,” she gasps. She draws her knees up to her chest, her eyes burning and her cheeks burning. “Oh my God!”

“I know, love, I know.” Suddenly there are hands on her back, her shoulders, her arms, and she feels suffocated by them. “Oh I’m so sorry, kid.”

“No.” She wriggles and pushes the arms away, her last semblance of sanity being the reason she doesn’t smack them instead. She jumps of the bed, stumbling over the tiled floor. Her heart beats frantically, wildly against her ribs. When she puts her hand on her chest, she feels like she holds it in her chest, barriers of skin and bone be damned.

“Janis-”

The room shrinks more than it ever has and everything is on top of her, around her and she can’t breathe, can’t move for all of it. All she feels is the eyes on her and the cancer in her blood, confining her here-

“I need to go,” she chokes out. Spit runs down her chin, tears down her cheeks. “I just… I need to be alone.”

Her mom goes to protest, but her dad takes her hand, his head shaking and something muttered to her. As usual, something about her that she doesn’t know.

As she falls to her knees on the bathroom floor, she keeps her mouth covered, her whole body wracking and trembling. A sound is ripped from her throat, something that sounds more like an animal than a human, primal and deep and so, so afraid. She’s afraid, more than she’s ever been before. High school girls is one thing. Having her identity thrown out for all to see is one thing. But she could control how she reacted to both of those. Both of those were other people, external forces attacking her and she chose how to defend herself. Now the attack is coming from inside her, and her fate is in everyone else’s hands and everything is out of her hands. All she can do is subject herself to others and even then they get it wrong too.

She hug her knees against her chest, wishing she had brought Purrlock in with her. Or better yet, if Damian was here again, holding her tightly and making her feel like she isn’t alone. She shakes her head quickly, bawling at the sharp, throbbing pain in it. She doesn’t want Damian here. Not if it meant he’d see her like this or have heard that.

Oh God. The realisation crashes over her like a tidal wave and drowns her. She’ll have to tell them all. Again. Tell her friends that this thing isn’t over months after she told them she had cancer to begin with. The weight drags her down, pulling her soul right into the floor, pressing it into the wall until it becomes part of it.

She’s just one person. Just one person. Surely there has to be a limit to how much one person can take, right?

At some point, she wipes the tears off her face and stretches out her legs. Her body feels hollowed out and yet completely full at the same time. She’ll either explode or wither away to nothing and both are fine with her. Both are better, in her mind, than what her actual future holds for her.

As her mind unravels, she finds herself wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t told her mom what was wrong. If she hadn’t ran into her dad in the bathroom. If she hadn’t went to that doctor’s appointment. Applied to old-fashioned method of “ignore it aggressively and hope it goes away”. Gone to school, applied to college and for a while at least, been normal.

When she looks down, her phone is in her hands, switched off. She didn’t even realise it was in her pocket. She turns it over in her hand; it holds every person she’s ever loved in there. She switches it on, trying to avoid the sight of her reflection. She can only imagine what that’s like. She’s an ugly crier at the best of times.

She swipes it open and goes to her contacts, swiping through the list until it becomes nothing but a bright, black and white blur. Among everything else she’s feeling, she’s lonely. The kind of loneliness that comes up around a person and builds walls between them and everyone else. The kind that sends her hand lying back whenever she tries to reach out. The kind that in the end, drives everyone else away anyway. No matter how badly she wants to-and needs to- make those calls. She can’t. She physically can’t. Even the thought of talking to anyone churns her stomach.

Well, there’s one exception. She looks at the screen, the name only there because Cady put it. She’s hated it ever since and contemplated deleting it so many times, but now it seems to be her only option.

God, she really is desperate.

She has the sense to send out a quick message first, just to be sure, and she spends about ten seconds in half-hopeful waiting. As she does, she strains to hear if anything is happening outside. Her parents must have gone off somewhere, out on a walk to try to clear their heads or off to talk to someone. Or they’re doing the opposite eavesdropping on her. Or they’re doing something she really doesn’t want to think about.

She mutters ‘ew’ to herself just as her phone buzzes into life, the name filling up the screen. She takes a second and watches it ring, questioning whether or not she should do it. She feels like somehow this is crossing a line, even if the only person she’s hurting is herself. When she was younger she swore she’d never do this again, never let loneliness drive her back to her.

But her younger self didn’t anticipate this, did she?

“Hey,” she says into the phone, her voice cracking as she speaks. “Hi, Regina.”

“Janis?” At least Regina is just as confused as she is. This has to be the first time in five years she's initiated contact. “Um… hi?”

“Are you like, cutting class right now?”

“Oh you have so much faith in me,” she sighs. “No. I had a free period so I was doing laps of the lacrosse field. What’s up? I mean this is-”

“Trust me, I know.” She swallows past the lump in her throat and feels her face crumple. “I just…. I needed someone but I didn’t want to talk to anyone I actually like right now.” She shrugs. “So here we are.”

“Here we are,” she replies. They fall silent and Regina’s breathing crackles on the speaker. She can almost picture her, standing in her sports stuff on the presumably empty field, face contorted in confusion and unsure of where to go.

Janis presses her hand into her knee and takes a deep breath. When she presses her hand to her cheek, she finds it icy and clammy. She pushes herself onto one knee and keeps her eye on the toilet, just in case.

“So what did you want to talk about?"

"I got-" She pauses, the words catching in her throat. It hurts to say those words. Like someone is pricking her tongue with a pin. But strangely, it’s also so relieving. Like she’s carried a weight on her back and it’s not taken off entirely, but it’s lessened. "Do me a favour and don't tell Cady about this, okay? Or anyone."

"Keeping secrets?" There's an accusatory undertone in her voice that for a moment brings Janis' old self back.

"Don't accuse me of shit," she snaps. "I've got enough to be dealing with without you being a bitch."

When she doesn't respond, Janis worries she may have hung up on her, and she thinks 'there goes whatever crumbs of a relationship we had'. But then she comes back, a small "sorry" in her ear and she can breathe.

"Thanks." She breathes out and lets her head fall against the wall. She sniffles and hopes Regina doesn't notice. It hurts, what she's about to say. Like someone is pricking her tongue with a pin. But strangely, it’s also so relieving. Like she’s carried a weight on her back and it’s not taken off entirely, but it’s lessened.

"I got my test results back today." She feels Regina sobering up on the other end and she bites back a wave of tears. "And they're not pretty."

#cadnis #cadnis ff #janis sarkisian #regina george #mean girls musical #mean girls broadway #mean girls fanfic #fic: heart of stone

[back-and-totheleft]

The turning of the worm also meant immersion in the new music, which Stone experienced as nothing short of salvation. "I had never heard Motown before then. Or Jefferson Airplane...I'll never forget being on the helicopters and singing the Airplane song, 'Comin' Back to Me.' I was in love with Gracie Slick...It was all part of the Zeitgeist. I was a Yale boy who heard soul music and smoked dope for the first time in his life." Stone firmly believed that he was able to emerge from Vietnam with his soul "intact" because of the black soldiers and potheads who turned him on. "The times in the field deadened me, but hanging out with them in the bunkers, doing dope and listening to that kind of music, restored me."

The turning of the worm also meant secrecy, hiding out underground from the lifers always eager to bust them. Stone started to change, talking the black argot, wearing Buddhist bracelets and long hair "as long as I could get it, and I was into 'hey, man,' and being cool."

The first thing a head had to learn in Vietnam was that you had to be extremely judicious about when and where you smoked. "The grass over there was whacko, mucho powerful," he explained. "It really hit you hard, so I tried to smoke it in the rear. I didn't do it much on patrol at all - though some guys did. It was dangerous because we'd be out at night and the smell was very strong. Not only would our own officers pick it up, but also it was a dead giveaway if the enemy picked it up. We didn't do it out in the bush unless we were in a very low security situation, like a forward base camp or something. I would never do it in a foxhole or out on a perimeter. You had to stay alert to everything. Smoking dope in those situations was a risky thing because you were also putting people whose lives depended on you at risk."

When two full regiments of Vietcong attacked Firebase Burt on January 1, 1968, Stone found himself part of a desperate counterattack to restore the perimeter of a company that had completely collapsed. "What made it worse was that we were somewhat stoned from getting high the night before," he admitted. "Sometimes you'd be wound so tight that the stuff would hit you even harder because it enabled you to really relax for a change. It was New Year's Eve and there was a cease-fire so we figured, what the hell, nobody would hit us then."

The pitched battle that lasted until daylight was a nightmare of explosions from mortars and RPGs, with vicious hand-to-hand combat and red tracer bullets whizzing from every direction, wounded men screaming, and dying and dead men everywhere. When they were overrun, an air strike was called in, and the planes laid bombs right on their positions. By the time it was over, Stone had been blown thirty feet through the air by a beehive round as he was running across a field, knocked out by the concussion of the blast. When he came to, he staggered back to his lines to witness the grim results of a the battle: 25 dead Americans in body bags and 175 wounded, 500 Vietcong corpses being bulldozed into a mass grave.

And then Stone started hearing about this thing called acid. "There was this feeling in the air about it. The black guys I was doing dope with were definitely not into it - it was a white man's thing. And then when the Doors' album came over, I just thought, My God, who are these guys? If they're making that kind of music, this is a breakthrough - what are they on? The guys said, 'Acid.' We just knew it was this thing you could get on the streets of Australia. I felt that if it was producing this kind of music, it would be good for me, too."

Sure enough, when Stone went on his five-day R&R in Australia, he got his hands on some LSD. "I was with a wonderful girl and a bunch of guys from Vietnam, and it was a crazy night on the beaches," he related. "Australia was so hedonistic; there were a lot of GIs there spending lots of money. We were like pirates. It was an awesome experience but not a deeply spiritual ones that first time. It was more about wow! - and hey! - and this is different! - and, my God, the dawn is pink!" Back in Vietnam, Stone would drop acid only once; by then, he had gotten busted a couple of times, and the lifer sergeants made him nervous. "I felt very threatened and parnoid because the lifers - they were always out to get you - so that was the only time...But I have to tell you that the night battles in Vietnam were hallucinogenic to me. To this day, I feel like I was on drugs during them, even though I know I wasn't."

Stone continued to smoke marijuana avidly for the rest of his tour. The paradox was that while smoking grass was sensitizing him and enhancing his experiences, he was becoming a battle-hardened veteran, numbed and increasingly inured to killing. He became sharply attuned to the environment, his senses so finely honed that he became like part of the jungle itself, so stealthy, in fact and so skilled at walking point that he was once able to walk right up to a deer without its knowing that he was there. It was all part of Stone's journey from a "cerebral product of the East Coast," as he put it, to a purely instinctual soldier whose entire universe became "the six inches in front of my face."

"How did marijuana change me or my view of what were were doing there? It's a good question. I tried to make the point in Platoon, where the character reevaluates himself and begins to find his own values as opposed to the values of the machine. If anything, marijuana pushed me in the direction of individualizing experience and putting more worth on my individual responsibility."

In Stone's experience, these differences between the individual and the machine, as personified by the heads versus the juicers, became most apparent during the pillaging and burning of hamlets. "A lot of people who were smoking were much more respectful of life and seemed less inclined to take life," he claimed. "The heads may have had a sense that the villagers might have been NVA or VC sympathizers, but we tended to respect them more and mistreat them less than the drinkers. It was a tremendous point of demarcation between the behavior of those who smoked and those who didn't."

By the time his tour was over, Stone had served in four units, sustained two wounds, and won a Bronze Star for bravery during a three-day battle at South China Beach in August 1968; he had also clashed repeatedly with the lifer sergeants and was busted several times. Just before returning to "the world," he learned that Elias had been killed in the A Shau Valley by an American grenade. Stone would always suspect that Elias had been fragged but would never learn the truth; the only certain thing about the death of Elias was that it broke his heart.

Re-entry into the world was a descent into disorientation. As soon as he was discharged, Stone copped acid and drifted down the coast of California - San Francisco, Santa Cruz, Los Angeles, all the way down to Tijuana - drifting in a psychedelic miasma. "I took major acid in the Santa Cruz area and just wandered around, lost on the planet, completely out of it. I was so number out by Vietnam and what had happened. You didn't want to mention that you were back from there - it really bummed people out. It was such a strange experience." [...] Oliver returned to New York to find an America that had been dramatically transformed from the one he left. His father was a conservative, and old, hidebound cold warrior. "He thought that we were doing the right thing over there - that it was just a 'police action' - I had just been through it and felt that a serious compromise of something American was going on, but I couldn't verbalize it. It was emotional, internal. I was brooding, and I wanted to really shock him." He accomplished that easily enough by slipping acid his father's Scotch one night. "I gave him a heavy dose, too, and he really tripped out. He went to a party and he was hanging from a tree, eating Oreos." Stone still laughs at the memory. "His universe had turned into insane...He was in Africa somewhere with black women and drums and drugs and shit. He was scared, but he was having a ball and suspected I had done it. He talked about it until the day he died." Stone eventually moved to the Village - "my first time on my own as a civilian. I was doing acid once a week, playing with a lot of things, a lot of fire." With his penchant for "stimulating contrasts," he liked to drop acid and ride the subways. "I always found acid to be extremely volatile. I would have all these separate moods I couldn't control. It was insane; sometimes I'd get very scared on it. I was very alone, with no one in my life, other than my parents, who meant anything in any deep way."

-Martin Torgoff, Can't Find My Way Home: America in the Great Stoned Age, A History of Illegal Drugs in America (2005) [x]

#oliver stone #the vietnam war #marijuana #acid #new year's battle of 1968 #music #civilians #platoon

[stone-man-warrior]

January 17: 2021: 11:52 am:

From Bing Internet Search Results:

“Air Jordan

American Brand

Air Jordan is an American brand of basketball shoes, athletic, casual, and style clothing produced by Nike. It was created for Hall of Fame basketball player and six-time NBA Finals MVP Michael Jordan. The original Air Jordan sneakers were produced exclusively for Michael Jordan in late 1984, and released to the public on April 1, 1985. The shoes were designed for Nike by Peter Moore, Tinker Hatfield, and Bruce Kilgore.“

Ok, professional basketball player invents shoes with air bubbles inside the soul.

The game of basketball was invented by a Canadian.

The Canadian’s take great pride in the fact that the game was invented by one of their countrymen.

The Canadians are all trained terror pirates, by order of the HMS Queen Elizabeth Windsor.

Elizabeth Windsor owns 90% of the land in Canada. Chances are high, the she is the LandLord of most Canadians.

All of the Canadian terror pirates use rectally holstered tanks of nitrous oxide as their primary weapon for pirating under British rule.

My guess is Mr. Jordan, and all of the professional basketball players, learn of the truth about what is explained above.

If so, with that knowledge, by default, comes the knowledge that the Christian religion is a lie, and is a basis only meant to serve the advance of the pirates.

With that knowledge comes the basis on which the Christian terror pirate ship is propelled, with use of captured children, “Jesus” all over the place.

Then, of course, the Christian pedophilia takes on a more clearly viewable darkness, ugly truth, the kind that no one is comfortable speaking of, even with(out) being silenced with physical harm... no one wants to address the Christians who rape the babies.

So, air bubbles in the souls of basketball shoes, when endorsed by a professional, take on new level of understanding potential, if only there were some people willing to watch the baby, not just keep an eye on the baby, watch the baby, always.

There are no such people though.

Do the math on this on your own, and, if you won‘t protect Micheal Jordan after I post this, be prepared to ship a sympathy card to his family when SAG sends the One Hour Martinizer and a extra large size body bag to his house as a result of what all of that means in the real world.

=========================================

12:22 pm:

If you do not find this offensive, there is something seriously wrong with your judgement, or, perhaps are naive, don‘t give a flying fuck, are Jesus... I suppose naive gets a pass, but we need to rebrand “naive” as “dangerously stupid, a threat to themselves and those around them”.

That is a full size crucifix, is not rosary beads.

There is only one use for that.

It’s a mast, waiting for Jesus to (be) found, to nail to the mast, to power the boat, and move the Christian pirate ship forward. Those who are nailed to the mast, are sails in the wind. Those who “Find Jesus”, or “Accept Jesus” are people who have agreed to go around looking for victims. The mast crucifix may or may not be a symbolic gesture, that man has one, it’s looks fully functional to me.

This happened at my home about seven years ago:

Some people came through the woods out the back yard of my home with an 8 year old boy nailed to a crucifix just like that one. The people were armed with staffs, gas, blades... strange looking weaponry.

The boy was dying on the crucifix as the group rushed my back door.

I grabbed my long bow, and ran upstairs, opened the window and sent some arrows into the group. They retreated back over the fence where (they) had carried that crucifix through the woods, at least from the nearby church about a half mile away.

The group came back with a ladder to the window upstairs later on. They were quiet this time. I saw the shadows of them at the window, ran upstairs, and one of them was already in the house, had pried the window open.

I tossed that one back outside, there was another on the ladder, who poked me in the mouth with a sword as I was pushing the ladder away from the house.

The ladder fell, the person on (it) was killed, fell on the sword that I was poked with. It was a woman, about 70 years old on the ladder who poked me with the sword, a neighbor.

I had a nasty wound in my mouth for a long time. “Skin Flap” on the roof of my mouth. It all healed, no signs of any injury since then.

I suspect that boy died. He was nailed with what looked like railroad spikes through his hands and feet. A man by the name of Don Wills and his wife were the leaders among a group of about ten Christian terror pirates who used the shock of seeing someone, a young boy, nailed to (a) cross, as way to weaken me before they killed me.

But I fight back.

I don‘t play fairy tale games with pirates.

===============================

1:08 pm:

This looks personal, directed at my house in retaliation for two people who were injured and/or killed at my front entry way on June 15 last year. One of them is suspected to have been Donald Trump, the other is suspected to have been Juseph Myers of 560 Jackpine. One lost a foot at the shin. the other was ran through with the same sword they brought in after kicking my front door open.

The two left, I shut the door, leaned against it in relief, and to keep the bastards from returning through the door since they had knocked out the jamb when the door was busted through. That is when 6 sheriff deputies came busting in, tackled me, twisted my leg, injured my knee, kneeled on my neck. hand cuffed me, and took me to the jail, where the following day, Lars Ulrich, Paul Reed Smith, John Mayer, and Zakk Wylde came into the jail with swords and rope to kill me inside the jail.

But I fight back. I don‘t play fairy tale games with rock stars at jail, and now all four are presumed dead as a result of that. (I saw someone who looks like Paul Reed Smith at the Walgreen‘s two weeks ago, he may not have died)

Beruse Sparacino was also killed in the jail that day by Zakk Wylde, who had a three blade sword they call a “Trident”.

The “G7 leaders″ = Gnosis Heaven Leaders = That group of dead rock stars, and others like them.

Cornish = My former spouse, who was with the group of rock stars that day at the jail.

Resort = My house

June Summit = Revenge

The BBC news selection of Johnson’s photo w/hand gesture seems to have double meaning, that means there are three ways to read the photo.

1 = Big Boobs = Federal Officers

2 = Rise up

3 = Make like a brazier, lift & separate = divide & conquer

=====

1:34 pm:

In conclusion assessment of the BBC Tweet, it seems appearant the recent pressure placed on Britain from this account has caused much heartache, loss of income, pressure from neighboring European countries on Britain, slowed the pirating, spoiled Brexit completely, and more, including massive devaluation of the Pound Sterling.

not bad for an old disabled guy with a hijacked internet connection, no help, and held captive in is house by surrounding Vatican terror pirates for the past ten years.

Plan: Maintain pressure on Britain, focus on I O Downing, find all of the House of Lords members and apply pressure there. Seek out the “Unicorns” such as Amazon, Tesla, Lyft, Uber, Google...

Google needs more creative means of pressure, it must be taken into custody of “The Free People of the World” and maintained.

Destroy Twitter.

That will do for the time being.

Request assistance from European nations who are the fodder of the Brexit Offensive.

Encourage the Scot’s and Irish to retaliate against Corona Virus bullshit.

USA Congressional pressure and exposure of the faslehood of their positions at House and Senate is necessary on a grandly embarrassing scale, of organized pedophilia beyond “Pizza Gate” and into the realm of millions of captive children held as sex slaves, then trained as terror soldiers.

Pressure on all fifty US Governor shills to resign.

Find and account for each and every Boeing airplane made since 1997. Search, inspect, look for stowing capability beyond the overhead compartment, and down into the area beneath the floors of the cabins.... all over and under, and inside every inch of every airplane. Use caution. Be prepared for Mustard Gas.

Pressure news media in creative ways.

Pressure SAG Card Holders of all kinds.

Body search every one of them, special attention to Musicians.

Bring Ian Anderson to my house.

Take all of the Virgin Atlantic Holdings into custody, inspect, change name to:

“Old Maid Holdings”

Close all Walmart’s permanently.

Acquire Kroger Foods, break-up into parts, auction parts to free people.

It gets complicated after that.

Have to find a way to reduce US “Departments” to much smaller, more manageable size, easy to regulate and monitor, no more duplicate departments. The right hand must always know what the left hand is doing, and vice-verse.

Massive global public education campaign to tell of the Christian lie, by telling the truth:

Christianity started 2021 years ago, when some asshole by the name of Marcus wanted to sleep with this other guys Ol’ Lady, Jesus’ Ol’ Lady. We don‘t even know her name, and Marcus turned her into a Whore, and lies were told, to get more men to come to sleep the with Whore, so that other Christian Pirates could Rush them in the hay stack, where they were having sex, to kill the men. We only know that she became “The Russian Mother of all Hoaxes”.

They stole time, to control time better, by putting two extra months on the calendar, which used to be ten months, about 36 days in each month.

They changed all of that, and put the extra months on the wrong end of the calendar year... should have been put at the beginning of time, not the end of time if they wanted the equinox to count, and make spring a thing for planting, and autumn a colorful special time of year for harvesting.

Since that time, they have told the lie, about Jesus and God. The truth is that Jesus is you, and me, and we are to be used up, used all up in every way, in order to get control of the world, they lure us to church to lie to us about Jesus, and they feed us little tiny clues about the truth, that Jesus is a sail catching wind to move the Christian pirated ship forward, by collecting all of the Jesus’, and nailing them to the mast of the ship, to move the boat forward, while using the Jesus’ as bait, to catch more Jesus’. We learn the truth on our own, with the clues they feed us. Then, once we know, and are soooo scared, that is when they give us one chance, to “Accept Jesus”, and continue to help to move the Christian pirate ship forward, by “Finding Jesus” where every we are able to see a victim who is ripe to become a sail on a pirate ship, to move the boat forward. And that is why there is a “God”, in order to provide that there is an all powerful being that will kill you, unless you accept Jesus’, to go find more Jesus’, with the “Fear of God” in your own, personal sail, to move your own personal boat forward, while searching for more Jesus’. Each pirate family is expected to capture and keep at least one “Person Jesus” for training as a disposable terror soldier, to do the dangerous pirate work, so that none of the pirate family boats will suffer a personal loss, it’s only Jesus who is killed, or hurt, so, the mother ship can stay afloat better, when the crew is in good spirits, and no family members are hurt or killed while the Christian Pirates are searching for Land, Riches, Slaves, and Power... the treasures of the world.

That is the kind of campaign that is necessary to educate the free people who remain free, so that do not become a sail on a pirate ship.

Personal Jesus is a slave child in training as a disposable terror soldier, for those hard to reach places.

The Pope’s flying V guitar rig is a two channel, 100 watt, tube driven amplifier. It’s cuts through stacks of Marshall’s, leaves them as chum for catching more Jesus’.

Clean Channel:

(summer)

Dirty, high gain channel:

Personal Jesus:

(winter)

{1-18-2021: 11:22 am: Don‘t pass judgement on the man by the name of Marilyn Manson until you have seen an interview or two, then, as I did, you may come away smarter than you were before you watched the interview, and, as I did, you may also see that Donald Trump, Joe Biden, or any of the candidates could never survive a debate against Marilyn Manson. Maybe Barack Obama could give Mr. Manson some competition at a presidential debate, maybe)

There are two more additional channels, Crunch, and duplicate Clean, for dialing in custom cleanliness with two faces, Comedy and Tragedy on prime time TV, are optional. Are the “Equinox” additions to the calendar, for planting on a Spring day, and harvesting when it’s nice and colorful outside in Autumn (fall).

Clean.

Duplicate Clean.

Crunch.

High Gain.

Tons of effects for custom tailoring are available.

=====================================

3:12 pm:

I am going go ahead and say that the person who is seemingly named Marilyn Manson, is a victim of Christian Slave upbringing, and is trying to get some attention to the ideas expressed here on this tumblr post.

======================================

3:21 pm:

Skip a head to the 1:25 minute mark here, but do study this whole short video as a Christian Cult Ceremonial Event:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ygXKUkutGEo&t=85s

Speculation is dark, and is complicated to fully explain. There are more complete explanations of Christian goals of surgically alterred slave population, ergonomically designed humans, for moving the pirate ship forward on this account elsewhere, is extremely dangerous knowledge to posses, use caution when sharing information about “Partners”, “Companions”, “Side-Kicks”.

The speculation is that the gavel was presented to Ms. Pelosi as a test. I speculate that she had ordered a custom made, surgical altered slave being, a US Citizen Kidnapped Victim at some point about five years prior to recieving the gavel. The “test” is her public reaction to the gavel, knowing that it represents a notice that “Her partner is ready for pick-up”. So, the idea for the test, is for all involved to feel confident that she is ready to really accept a human surgically altered slave child. Her reaction to the gavel as the reality sets in at a public event, will be what is used for a decision by the “Choir Masters” for a go ahead, or a refusal to deliver based on how she reacts in public to the gavel a symbolic slave child, surgically altered, personal Jesus.

Only is speculation.

The existence of the surgically altered custom ordered slave victims is not speculation. Is fact. Is dangerous to know about. Be careful.

There is a custom human order sheet, I have seen them. Anything from specific arm and leg amputation length, to replacement of hands and feet, and in which particular direction, frontwards, backwards, left on right, right on left hands and feet, can be ordered, as well as optional equipment. I have seen a “partner” who was completely surgically covered in breasts... about 72 of them is my guess, large and small.

Hands attached at the shoulder are called “flippers”, and are specified on a Partner ordering sheet.

The purpose for the existence of “Partners”, is for experimental considerations.

Government officials, movie and TV stars, producers, musicians, SAG... are offered a chance to order a human configured the way they want it, it takes many years for delivery of the finished product.

That way, the surgeons who do the forced surgeries, are able to experiment, to see what works, and what does not work. The rock stars and movie stars can get very creative with a human Partner order sheet, and the surgeons are challenged that way, to come up with ways that a human can be altered as is necessary or desired, in effort to prepare the surgeon’s knowledge, and advance the skills, and provide necessary technology as demands for special circumstance are encountered on the order sheets.

I speculate that Ms. Pelosi was granted acceptance, barely, of her Partner.

She would need to show to the “Choir Masters” that she is equipped with a suitable place for her partner to reside, and a plan to hide the Partner in emergency, with extreme concealment methods.

You won‘t learn this kind of real terrorism from news media, they are the people who supply the raw materials for “Partner Production“.

Some things to consider for doing your own research:

Look around where you are at the people in your town, at the Walmart for instance. Make some assessments of the people’s body shapes. The SDA terror soldiers use fruit and vegetables to say a body shape:

Pear shape

Apple shape

Carrot shape

String Bean shape people.

There are “Specimens” discussions.

A very strong and healthy male is often a “V” shape.

Such as US Military are, or were.

The Partner surgeries are so brutal, that only the strongest, most healthy individuals are able to live through them.

So, when making your “people of Walmart” assessment, ask yourself, the same as the Christian terror pirates do, “Are there any V shapes here?”. Then decide, are there?

Lots of apples, pears, some carrots, string beans... I don’t see anymore V shape at my local Walmart any more.

now you understand.

Only the healthiest, strongest are going to survive the experimental surgeries.

At Oregon Health Science University in Portland Oregon, there is a “Dornbecker Children’s Hospital”, a “Shriner’s Hospital”, and a “Veterans Administration Hospital”.

nine floors beneath the VA Hospital, are healing experimental surgical US Military.... been there healing one after the other for more than twenty years.

There is no one watching the baby.

The baby is on fire.

The same conditions are suspected nation wide.

Loma Linda Hospital University may be a place where the surgeons are trained. Please be careful when going to speak with Dr. Wolf Kirsch there. He is a Brain and Spinal surgeon, said to be second best in the world, only outdone by a colleague in New York somewhere, as of 1995 or so, as the story is told.

And that is what happened to many of the US Military and national guard service men and women.

V shape is a specimen grade. High grade.

You can find many references to V Shaped Recovery on Twitter, where this news is common knowledge. The only ones who do not know these kinds of truths is the US national security fools, who insist on being fooled all of the time and refuse to do their own research, while allowing that the Christian terror pirates do the research for them. In this way, the US Security personnel, are weaponized against the people they are sworn to protect from terrorists.

There is no more US national guard. They were all killed more than twenty years ago on the entire west coast of USA. Some may be in Hollywood, in a basement, as a partner for a rock star somewhere, or, I am certain there are partners at the White House. There has to be to fulfill Trinity rules.

“Welcome to Jamaica, Have a nice day”

===============================

4:10 pm

If I were President of USA, I could stop 90% of all of the terrorism on earth permanently, while restoring freedom, strengthening families, and small business, and I would find a way to provide real, quality health care, and education for the citizens.

The problems I would face are two major ones. The news media and entertainment industry are one big fucking problem.

The other problem, is that I would have absolutely no military to protect USA.

The government would be all rearranged, somehow differently, much smaller. There would be some argument about some things I would try to accomplish, such as making the electric power a national system, not a private system, power would be subsidized with some kind of way to provide free power up to some limitations, and then, you could pay for extra if you need it.

There would be argument about elimination and outlaw of Blue Tooth technology.

There would be cellular phones that work to reach the people you need to reach, privately.

911 Emergency Phone would be taken out to sea, and dropped overboard, in favor of more diverse ways of reaching some help.

I could see where something like this tumblr social media could be expanded, made to actually work, and used also as a emergency report portal. It’s not like terrorists would spam the place if it was truly secure and get away with it.

Money. It needs to be truly defined. The money is only as good, as the place that issues it is strong and productive. I see the money does seem to be worth much as it stands, and the transactions are in astronomical figures from WH news about spending. Some there would be some kind of measure that works better, based on manufacture, and productivity of the nation as unit. I see news where the fast food workers are wanting to form a union and are demanding $15 hourly. I am sorry, but that is not going to fly. Fast Food is not a career choice. It’s a place to learn how to be productive, then move on.

I would encourage diesel power, discourage electric power personal transportation.

There would be some kind of form to fill out to come to USA, something better than a wall on one side and wide open on the other has to be done.

The way USA is positioned among itself, is a situation that is a result of more than fifty years of organized division tactics, all of them successful. The states are too divided, they need some glue. A more united, United States is something that needs to happen, is complex, many invisible problems exist, nothing can be done until all is seen more clearly.

Make Twitter go away. That is the very first step to solving the worlds problems.

There would be a effort to encourage engineering as a career choice, some school refocusing away from “Ivy League” and towards a mechanical, structural, tangible student body, more doctors, more smart people. USA is purposefully producing stupid people, actually are victims of the Christian/Britain “British Still” education tactics. It’s not like the people are choosing to be less than what they are capable of, it’s that they are not encouraged to believe they are capable. So, I recommend big changes in education, lots of access, lots of encouragement to be what you and who you want to be, when you want to be it.

That Marylin Manson video shows the outcome of British Still education. The whole Transgender subject is another way of saying “British Still”, there is very little information available anywhere to learn about what the British Still is. Look at a video by XTC here:

The Nigel’s are being educated with upside down and reversed backwards education. They are the children of murdered US Citizens, and from other places around the world.

Seriously, from a young age, the children are taught that “up” is “down“. “yes” means “no”, airplanes are boats. The ocean is a lake, and other dangerous learning, where in an emergency, a question like “do you need help?” is answered with “no”. But that person is a slave, needs help.

“Please Drop the Gun!“

“no” Ivanka reaches to put the gun down. Gets shot.

British Still.

It’s beyond what I can effectively explain.

For considering the XTC video, be open minded, place Ivanka Trump in the Nigel position at age 5, and keep educating her with specially designed learning, complex beyond comprehension learning, then, when she’s fully cooked, turn Ivanka loose. Point her towards Washington DC, and offer lots of support services for her and her handlers. Do that with ten thousand maniacs.

You can see that problems can occur such that reasoning is out the window for understanding what is happening. It’s as if the people are speaking Mandarin English, and you only speak English, it works enough to pass through while saying hello, and some pleasantries about the weather, and that’s the extent of the conversation possibilities. Ivanka Nigel would need to move on after passing by an English only speaking person, with some pleasantries as she goes by, so no one will notice that the language and behavior are custom tailored with a British Still. The handlers help to get her into the desired positions for reaching specific goals.

Two Ivanka Nigel’s can have a personal conversation in a public place about mass murder and all that will be overheard is talk of large pop-corn w/buttery sauce and a movie size ju-ju bee’s.

I don‘t understand it, I know that the “Partners” are educated bassackwards. Up is down, yes is no... and more.

See that the XTC video was filmed in 1979, and there are Three Dee computer augmenting glasses in the video.

Practical use of a Nigel when performed by global pirates with experience and a proven success rate and tactics, goes like this:

Ivanka is disposable. Many Ivanka’s were trained, there is an endless supply of Ivanka’s.

Terror army needs to get inside of the Kremlin. They stage Ivanka out front, arrange a Universal Studios style demonstration is happening, down the street a mile or two. Ivanka is not on camera, they are all down the street. She is out front of the Kremlin, told to pull out a gun, is fooled by her handlers, speaks backwards, and is there, The door opens, and the shot is fired by Kremlin security, and in all of the confusion there is enough nitrous oxide coming down wind from the demonstration that the Kremlin security makes some mistakes. The door is open, and the terrorists can go inside in the confusion and gas fog. Maybe it does nor (not) work the first time, so, they perfect their ways, maybe vehicles are used in some way on the next try, but Ivanka Nigel is a backwards speaking person who is set up to fall, in order to get inside one way or another way. She is disposable, a Christian Sacrificial Lamb. There are thousands more in the Still being cooked and prepared for the next course of the meal, where the food is the goal. They are pirates. The ones who do the teaching of the Ivanka’s are not like regular people.

SAG does variations of that same basic idea, “Save the Princess” would be “Hot Chick With a Puppy”. Could be Ivanka is the offender, or, is the Princess, either way, the gun is the Puppy, and on more important goals, a sacrifice is present to take the fall, make giant distraction long enough to reach the goal, in a fog of invisible nitrous gas.

Addition of Medazolam (Versed) gas to the nitrous makes unavailable unbelievable  circumstance. A situation of Perfect Storm is present with that mixture, The Versed prevents any one nearby from remembering what they saw at an event, even the offenders are not able to remember that they killed anyone. If they are caught and questioned, it’s not possible for those people to say details of what happened.

The name of the drug is suspicious. “Versed” has a “Vatican Choir Texture” to it, and the generic Medazolam, has a built in sacrificial “lam”. Research of it’s origin is warranted.

The use for Medazolam, will be explained by a surgeon or anesthesiologist as:

“Sometimes, we need to wake the patient during the midst of the surgical procedure to ask them if they are able to move their limbs, so that we know that the connections at the nerves are correct. We really don‘t want for the patient to suffer of nightmares associated with having been awakened during the procedure, so, we take the precaution and go ahead and administer a moderate dose of Medazolam to prevent unpleasant dreams post surgery”

==================================================

7:17 pm:

This post started in a tumblr text box just like the one shown below:

 7:27 pm:

Tumblr is presenting me with two different kinds of text box to write in, that one above is very difficult to obtain, takes special skills and determination to get a text box like that one above.

This one below with colorful icons, on the other hand, is very simple to get. I can write in a text box like the one below from many ways of different places within Tumblr where the one below is available, is cheap, is easy, like a Russian Whore, they are everywhere, you cannot get away from them, but that one above is almost impossible to get. This post with the Air Jordan at the top part, and the Medazolam Bullshit Ivanka Russian British Still Whore Princess at the bottom is somehow being throttled, made very difficult to obtain, is almost Unobtainium and is the kind I started with on this post, which will not recreate by copy & paste to try to make assessment of why there are two kinds of text box experiment.

I tried to recreate this post in the colorful kind of text box just now, and found that it is not possible to copy and paste the contents from this tumblr entry into a text box with colorful icons.

I did not try that in the reverse though, I need to start a post in the colorful kind of text box, and see if it will copy and paste into a text box that has only the gray color icons and fewer control features later on.

========================================

9:36 pm:

Let’s go back to applying pressure, where to apply it, and what brand of pressure to put on Joe Biden.

Ok, here’s the scoop:

You could go with Time Warp Terror, pressure Biden and Harris both about time and a lot space between the time. Any way to emphasis that it’s no longer a secret that Beta Twitter included the entire Democrat debates with all of the players, all of the exact same footage presented in 2008 and was filmed way before that.

Harris, Warren, Sanders, O’Rourke, Bloomberg and all of the others too.

Pressure Biden about Mike Bloomberg is Ronnie James Dio, because Ronnie James Dio portrayed Micheal Bloomberg for the phony debates.

Also, Kamala Harris’s daughter may have been the “Homeliest Walmart Terror Representative” that I was saying was in the men’s underwear department doing the Dickie’s Longjohn Shuffle, but I am not certain, it could have been Harrison Ford’s daughter, and I misunderstood was I was told about how she introduced herself there at the Fruit of the Loom’s department. So, the information I have is that at the Walmart the other day, either Kamala Harris’ Daughter or Harrison Ford’s Daughter was at the Walmart to kill me.

But there is more. The gal at the banana department said she was Lars Ulrich’s Daughter, as you may recall, he was killed in defense at the Josephine County Jail on June 16, 2020 along with John Mayer, Zakk Wylde, and perhaps Paul Reed Smith who it turns out maybe was only injured, healed, and then came back to take another wack at me at the Walgreen’s last two weeks ago or so. If it could be shown that Kamala Harris’ Daughter was the one in the Fruit of the Looms Department, then, we could really do some Chinese Laundry the American way, where the Chinese people are happy to do the laundry as long as they get paid for the work they do at the Chinese Laundry, It’s all One Hour Martinizing now, and that simply is not working.

Either way about Ms. Harris’ Daughter, the big ammunition is with the Time Warp Terror Pressure Campaign, and some sugar on that with Mike Bloomberg and Ronnie James Dio are the same guy, and that is FM at the Inauguration live broadcast presentation on major network TV news programs, and the Syndicated ones too.

That banana girl got hurt real bad as I recall when either a sword, or an arrow came through he [the] produce department there nearby where the Honey Dew Mellons are at, at the Walmart that day, so the pressure is that if Ms. Harris’ Daughter was the Fruit of the Loom girl, then that means she was like, a plan B, for trying to kill me there, and was working along with Lars Ulrich’s Daughter.

Maybe some autographed Bongo’s, from Jamaica, says Babaloo on them, and a signature on there from some special drummer, maybe Phil Collins would sign some Jamaican Bongo’s, Cuban one’s would be even better for live TV. Make them “Extra Lars Size” with a camel painted on them, and a small gift from Nepal Gift shop as “Welcome to Jamaica, have a nice day” Presidential gift, and a lollipop.

Pressure does not have to be expensive.

The pressure would not be complete without something for Boris Johnson, or, House of Lords members, or all of them. I am thinking about a replica of the Queen’s Hat, she is dead you know, to start with. A autographed picture from Mitt Romney could go a long way. Maybe some Khashoggies printed like Euro’s could help... $3 ones... if those were signed by some European leaders, that is some magic that will surely save the nhs, from themselves.

Modi needs some pressure too, don’t forget about the Indians. Some Cheeseburgers, lots of Cheeseburgers to India, and a compass.

I think it would appropriate to supply some commemorative sympathy cards for the Republican Congress. Outgoing sympathy of some kind, and also for the department heads, Ben Carson, Alex Azar, Elaine Chao...all of the usual suspects could use some extra sympathy as their leader steps away from the alter. I am thinking in terms of a Where’s Waldo theme... something fun that everyone can enjoy.

We should pay close attention to who went to Obrador’s inauguration in Mexico, and compare which of them attends the Biden inauguration, I think that is interesting statistical information, could be useful.

Maybe Justin Trudeau will attend, who knows? Anything could happen.

One thing is for sure, the Bergoglio cannot be there, he was killed at the Grants Pass Walmart when he walked into a giant guillotine at the front entrance there last month. He is part of a terror cell called “The Green’s of Old Three Ply”. The name comes from Gibson Guitars, the old style pick guards are made of three ply plastic. For real... “Green‘s of Old Three Ply” is Vatican Choir top high command terror Christian pirate captain level. Top level Green Jello terror cell.

They use this Aerosmith song as a theme song:

You have to change the lyrics to this for Gnosis Rules:

“♫♪ Green‘s of old three ply ♫♪”

(my account is hijacked again)

=========================================

1-18-2021: 1:05 am:

Local Update:

A walk to the mail boxes was cold.

It’s 31 degrees, and is very dark out there.

There was nothing in the mailbox again.

I have received very little mail this month, I can only recall one piece of advertising mail for a automotive warranty protection program insurance this month in the mail so far. There has been none of the usual mail in the USPS mailbox with my address on it. Usually, there is a typical mail sort of formula that is used by the mail carriers of “The Stork” terror cell. I am not a terror soldier, so I only know what is considered normal, and what is not normal, but there is more to the mail than that. normal is three pieces of mail, two letter size, and one larger 5 x 7 ish that makes it so you have to fold that one piece of mail to put it in your pocket, otherwise those letter size fit in a pocket. I am sure that plan is to make it such that I will not put the mail in my pocket, but instead will hold the mail in my hand, and in that way, my hands are not free to defend myself on the walk back to the house. The terror bastards really do get that detailed. I always fold that odd piece of mail while at the mail box, to put all of it in my pocket to keep my hands free for the sword fight on the way back to the house. Even if i get magazine size thing, or phone book, that goes in the pants to keep my hands free for defending, There is no other way to survive a walk to the mailbox on Jackpine Drive. So, three pieces, in a two + one arrangement is typical. Wednesdays used to be coupon mailer days, but that is hit or miss of late, inconsistent Wednesday mail. There is a newsprint advertising mailer called “Sneak Peak”, is bad news in every way. It’s extension of the Grants Pass Chamber of Commerce, where all of the advertisers local terror cells who belong to the Chamber of Commerce, and to Club Northwest Gym. Merchant Mailer I think is the name of another newsprint style multi-fold advertising mailer. I used to use them to get (the) wood stove burning, back in the day when i could stay outside long enough to cut some firewood without being shot at by the neighbors. The Sneak Peak’s usually arrive once per month, maybe the Merchant Mailer is a quarterly, it does not arrive every month, is hit or miss, seems inconsistent.

I have a implanted microphone transmitter in my jaw, I can’t turn it off, it’s been broadcasting every sound my body makes since 2011, so, if I say the words “Sneak Peak” while at the mailbox when I get one of those, it’s really bad for me, the terror bastards record every word I say over at the Offensive Monroe Surveillance Travel Trailer, so, I have to refrain from mumbling out loud about everything. It all gets used for fooling federal fools who insist on being fooled all of the time, and refuse to do their own research, by trusting the local authorities, who are all terror soldiers, and are fooling the federal fools, all of the time. The recordings of my voice talking to my cat have been entertaining the federal fools for about ten years. They listen to my coughing fits from the poison gasses, and are told I have COVID 19, and the fools believe everything they are told, as they are watching reruns of The Golden Girls on the syndicated channels.

Other than that, the noisy water well pump at Monroe’s turned on as I passed by that camera that is pointing at my driveway, as it has been doing when I step over that way for about two years. They usually hide the camera, but now it’s sitting on top of the log about five feet away from the fence, and can only see my driveway. They have a pond there that could be nice to look at on camera, but they choose to be Offensive terror bastards instead.

Earlier short walks outside were such that I did not feel it was safe to go to the mailbox, the Monroe’s were using a series of bright lights turning on and off to signal other terror soldier who was hiding in the pole barn, either launched away of nitrous ignition, or it was a gunshot spark that I saw there at about a little after dark. I did not hear any noise, just saw a quick flash after those other bright signaling electric lights in a chicken coup were used to signal that other terror bastard, that I was on a walk outside, and in range.

They read every word I write, so the challenge is that they make the situation so confusing that it cannot be described in a satisfactory way necessary to express the exact kind of threatening activity. Ten different kinds of electric lights, all inside of chicken coups, pole barn, shed, trailer, other stuff all flashing on and off as I take a walk to get my mail, and then there is a gunshot of light also in the mix sometimes, and/or nitrous gas ignition, as i am being poisoned and primed for some other asshole to run me over on a shark maneuver at the mailbox. It’s been some time since there was a shark maneuver, about one week, when Wesely Crowel swerved towards me to run me down at the culvert railing. he and the mail carrier were working with, Chartrands, a Bekins moving truck, Sparacino’s and Monroe’s that day, with Safari terror and African Lions on the loose.

But that’s just a Monday, could happen on a Wednesday, it’s all the same, for twenty years and no one will send any help.

Train came by at 12:03 am. Federal fools will be told I mentioned that for selling some cocaine.

There were no airplane flyovers today to my recollection.

That’s all. Dark and cold with strange mail conditions.

[09nerorelatable]

Roman Catholic sign of the cross is upside down, done with five fingers instead of three, is done from left to right instead of right to left, etc. (basically inviting demons). Antichrist's Third Temple will have 8 chambers: a chamber per main religion; antichrist will be crowned in this temple; during crowning, he won't read the "belief prayer" correctly (rejecting Christ and acknowledging himself); when he will take his gloves off to make sign of the cross incorrectly (just for show), many people will see his big nails and will reject him; Patriarch (who will be crowning him) will say that this is the antichrist; antichrist will kill him. Also, antichrist will kill those priests who disagree with him at the 8th "wolf" Council; others will worship him when a bird dies at his feet. Roman Catholics, Satanists, and Buddhists use the same mudras; if you see these mudras on an icon, then it's not Orthodox icon; Orthodox icon has IC XC symbol (Jesus Christ). Roman Catholics pay drunks and prostitutes to pose for icons; passions of drunks and prostitutes transfer to those who pray to these images. Normal Orthodox icons are inspired by the Holy Spirit. Gaad in Ruski = Satan; hence, Americans = blasphemers because they always say: "Oh, my god!". Santa (word for Saint in Satanic languages) = Satan; hence, Spanish + Italian + Portuguese = blasphemers. Anathema to Satanic languages; triple anathema. Learn Church Slavonic; no curses in it; curses = prayer to Satan. All religions except Orthodoxy worship Satan. On bread for communion: IC XC NIKA (Jesus Christ Conquers) plus cross = Orthodox; hexagram plus Dusha Maya = antichrist. Jews and Muslims pray head down (either standing, bowing, or kneeling); this is Satanic prayer. Orthodox look into the eyes of icon; energy goes their way; they get healed; head and shoulders come together to reject Satan slowly and then fast to normal showing allegiance to Christ and not the devil. Hands cannot be on groin or behind back; either put them crossing each other on chest (right over left) or just by your sides. Legs together so that a demon doesn't run underneath your legs. Clergy who will not "put Buddhist icons and serve antichrist's blood" will be killed; only 7 churches will be left as Pelageya of Ryazan predicted. In 2006 and at other meetings, fake patriarchs and bishops signed a bunch of documents betraying Orthodoxy by saying that all religions worship the same Supreme Being; triple anathema; don't let heretics tell you what to do. America will be last country to switch to Euro. Three big earthquakes will shake the three superpowers; 1st big earthquake in Russia; 2nd (bigger one) in China; 3rd (biggest of the three) will be in America. NATO will nuke Ukraine to blame Russia for it; then NATO will nuke Russia from Scandinavia. China will attack Russia; but will not get past Ural Mountains; bio-genetic weapon will be used against Chinese soldiers (they will run back to China and hide in closets in fear) and weather weapon will freeze Siberia to - 200 Celcius; stadium-size chunks of unmeltable ice will fall from the lower sky (because when rockets go into higher sky they bring this ice down to lower sky). Russia will destroy Turkey and America. China will have a hole across the whole country to the abyss (because of another super weapon used to stop Chinese aggression); radiation from this hole will be massive; Chinese will try to keep quiet about it; a lot of people will fall into this hole.

Scientists don't see dinosaurs because of radiation. Only Eurasia and Alaska (both without coasts) will remain after demons blow up Antarctica (which surrounds the flat earth) and Greenland melts. Move to Ural Mountains or inland Alaska. Sionists wanted war between Russia and Germany from June 11th to October 11th on their holidays because (666 times 3)+(6 times 3) = 2016 (in their twisted logic).

Tube people = demons. Clones = demons. Human costumes that demons wear = demons. Dinosaurs and 666ed people have triple stranded DNA; normal person can't swallow 666ed food (designed for 666ed people). Demons live inside clones. Bacteriologist Alexandre Yersin (who discovered Bubonic plague) is depicted on the Shroud of Turin. There is another shroud (Shroud of Milan) on which blasphemer Yosef (who was crucified on a pole in 1066 AD) is depicted. Menachem Mendel Schneerson, Lenin (el=deity in Hebrew, nine = no in German; so, when chanted repeatedly is blasphemy against the Creator), and Yosef were possessed by Azazel; now, Rico Cortes is possessed by Azazel.

WW3 happens; 7% of people will be left; after people are tired of war, they will elect the antichrist as one world leader; don't vote. ISIS stands for Israeli Secret Intelligence Service. Next false flag: Statue of Liberty in order to attack Iran; one big shake, one giant step forward, one giant collapse. Move away from coasts as nukes will go off in the ocean (at where tectonic plates meet; result: megatsunamis 1km high).

Wear natural clothing so that if a bomb goes off it won't stick to the body as fast as synthetic clothes. All metal will be burned for fuel; so, save knives, crowbars, shovels, wood-burning stoves, etc. Also, save cloth/fabric/textile to cover the wounds and diseases.

Eat natural food because nanochips, cells of aborted fetuses, bug DNA, and other poisons are in food that is commonly sold; reject vaccines, medical care, medicine, etc. because nanochips are administered thru IVs, implants, fillings, etc. If 1000-1500 nanochips are in your right hand, then you can't make proper Orthodox sign of the cross with the right hand; last mercy for you then will be to cut the hand off.

Seraphim of Sarov and Sergiy of Radonezh will be resurrected after WW3 for a short time; Seraphim of Sarov will show the new Ruski Tsar who will fight the antichrist for about 2 years and 8 months. Those who go see Seraphim of Sarov will be healed of their infirmities/illnesses/sicknesses/ diseases; if you want to see him then, hurry because he won't stay longer than a few weeks.

Earth is flat; stands on 3 pillars (the Most Holy Trinity); pillars stand on water at zero Kelvin. Zodiac is planetary prison of demons; don't believe in horoscopes or you'll exhibit the traits of the trapped demons. Most thoughts and dreams are from demons; demons never do good. Sleep fully clothed; pray the Jesus prayer. Pray to your guardian angel to have normal sleep.

Humans were created about 7525 years ago. Ruski Orthodox Christian Vyacheslav Krasheninnikov was the last prophet before Enoch and Elijah return to preach against the antichrist.

Birds participate in time creation. It's a sin to kill birds. Dinosaurs live under our level. They will get out through sinkholes and lakes. To kill them, go for their nerves. Save the birds; but kill the dinosaurs. First dinosaur will come out of Volga River in Russia.

Demons grow human skin (from a sample taken during abduction) and put it on so as to look like us. Demons will invite people to be healed inside their UFOs; those who go will be like zombies after. Gov't provides demons with diamonds and allows demons to abduct people. If you're being abducted, slowly pray the Jesus prayer.

Don't panic. Demons use diamonds and souls to power their UFO craft. The bigger the diamond, the more it lasts. Demons have 4 UFO bases: 1)Moon 2)Inside fake mountain Kailash in Tibet 3)In lake Baikal in Russia 4)In Atlantis which is underneath the Mariana Trench in Pacific Ocean. There are no aliens. Nobody lives on other planets.

Airplanes that go down are hit by demons because they need the airspace to fight Jesus. Antichrist is pale with red eyes. He's possessed by Satan since he's 12 years old. He flies very fast; deceived people will say that "Christ is here; Christ is there". Sometimes, he wears blue robe over left shoulder while red robe is underneath. He wears gloves to hide long nails. He's surrounded by demons who appear as angels of light. Antichrist will trick people to believe that he can do mountain moving and resurrection (using holograms); fire from the sky is easy (considering the gases from pollution in the atmosphere).

Don't go into a UFO to be healed by demons. Green 666 is given by isotope rays on wrist or forehead when people stretch hands to receive small plastic grey card with no name on it (World Passport). Police will microchip and isotope ray people on the highways. Microchipped people will be influenced by computers to take grey plastic card; but when they do, 666 is given. Food stores will isotope ray people too. Antichrist will also release prisoners to mark people. Reject 666 at all cost because it leads to permanent hell.

If you're about to be marked, pray the Jesus prayer. Hide with Orthodox Christians to escape 666; leave all electronics behind so that antichrist's minions can't track you. Burn documents because they're from Satan. Give to charity in the name of Archangel Michael; he rescues people from temporary hell twice a year (or brings them up a level, that is, to a level with less punishment; eventually, people are freed). Feed the pigeons; when pigeons bow down, people are saved from temporary hell. Forgive me.

#fujoshi #fujoshi positivity #terf #terf safe #terf positivity #killing stalking #pro killing stalking #anti anti #shaladin #maxvid #diojona #pro incest #Reylo

[albinzadamski]

Self Care in Action

I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Kailua, Hawaii, feeling the serenity that comes from spending several hours each day walking on the beach. I booked this trip on impulse just a week before I arrived. I chose a solo getaway to Hawaii because this place has amazing healing properties.

Regular readers know I had a rough summer, I lost my best friend to cancer, and the last month has been unexpectedly difficult for me. Just the mention of her name makes me choke up. The grief that comes from losing someone you love in such a traumatic way is crippling. The combination of mental exhaustion from her caretaking and the grief of her loss welled up to a point where I was having difficulty getting out of bed in the morning.

I decided to show myself some love and give myself the gift of Hawaii for a week. And I couldn’t pass up a last minute airfare deal :) All these hours I’ve spent alone on the beach left to think and reflect reminded me how important it is to actively engage in self care. The term “self care” is one we hear a lot these days. It’s not just about taking care of ourselves physically, but mentally as well.

I was having a conversation with a mom friend the other day. She was having intense anxiety because she was  being pulled in too many directions. This is so common among women, we tend to say yes to everything because we want to please others and then end up suffering as a result. We go through this internal debate: am I being selfish by saying no to ____, or should I just suck it up and keep giving more of myself?

But in reality, we must say no to anything that throws us off balance, takes away from our priorities, or endangers our mental stability. We need to have the courage to make changes in our lives where things aren’t working even if it causes disappointment or temporary pain. We must establish healthy boundaries by blocking out the things that we don’t want to do just because others have their expectations of us. We cannot survive or thrive in a long term state of anxiety or stress or depression. Our body, our heart, and our soul need rest to replenish.

Self love in action is placing yourself in a healthy environment where you thrive and grow, and removing yourself from energy draining environments that are defeating. Maybe this means breaking up with a toxic relationship or leaving a stressful job. Even social media can destroy our joy when we get caught up watch everyone else’s highlight reel instead of feeling gratitude for the blessings in our lives.

Instead of playing the comparison game, change the yardstick of the measurement of your success. Live your life on your terms without care or concern for anyone else’s definition of success, and ignore any judgment you receive for your choices.

Today I just wanted to share some words of encouragement to be your own best friend. Make the choice to put self care into action. Especially as we enter another busy holiday season, remember to be kind to yourself.

Take a long walk with your favorite playlist. Take yourself out to lunch. Go get a pedicure or go to the movies. Or if you’re like me, book an impulsive trip to getaway for a few days. :)  Like they remind us on the airplane, put your oxygen mask on yourself first before you help others. Step away from your busy life and give yourself a break to refocus on what’s important to you. Be brave enough to say no to anything that causes you stress, and the courage to say yes to the things that fulfill you.

Sending much aloha.

xo, Kate

from Home Decor Collection https://centsationalstyle.com/2018/10/self-care-in-action/

[a-wolf-among-men]

hows the mun doing?

How am I doing right now? 

Roman Catholic sign of the cross is upside down, done with five fingers instead of three, is done from left to right instead of right to left, etc. (basically inviting demons). Antichrist’s Third Temple will have 8 chambers: a chamber per main religion; antichrist will be crowned in this temple; during crowning, he won’t read the “belief prayer” correctly (rejecting Christ and acknowledging himself); when he will take his gloves off to make sign of the cross incorrectly (just for show), many people will see his big nails and will reject him; Patriarch (who will be crowning him) will say that this is the antichrist; antichrist will kill him. Also, antichrist will kill those priests who disagree with him at the 8th “wolf” Council; others will worship him when a bird dies at his feet. Roman Catholics, Satanists, and Buddhists use the same mudras; if you see these mudras on an icon, then it’s not Orthodox icon; Orthodox icon has IC XC symbol (Jesus Christ). Roman Catholics pay drunks and prostitutes to pose for icons; passions of drunks and prostitutes transfer to those who pray to these images. Normal Orthodox icons are inspired by the Holy Spirit. Gaad in Ruski = Satan; hence, Americans = blasphemers because they always say: “Oh, my god!”. Santa (word for Saint in Satanic languages) = Satan; hence, Spanish + Italian + Portuguese = blasphemers. Anathema to Satanic languages; triple anathema. Learn Church Slavonic; no curses in it; curses = prayer to Satan. All religions except Orthodoxy worship Satan. On bread for communion: IC XC NIKA (Jesus Christ Conquers) plus cross = Orthodox; hexagram plus Dusha Maya = antichrist. Jews and Muslims pray head down (either standing, bowing, or kneeling); this is Satanic prayer. Orthodox look into the eyes of icon; energy goes their way; they get healed; head and shoulders come together to reject Satan slowly and then fast to normal showing allegiance to Christ and not the devil. Hands cannot be on groin or behind back; either put them crossing each other on chest (right over left) or just by your sides. Legs together so that a demon doesn’t run underneath your legs. Clergy who will not “put Buddhist icons and serve antichrist’s blood” will be killed; only 7 churches will be left as Pelageya of Ryazan predicted. In 2006 and at other meetings, fake patriarchs and bishops signed a bunch of documents betraying Orthodoxy by saying that all religions worship the same Supreme Being; triple anathema; don’t let heretics tell you what to do. America will be last country to switch to Euro. Three big earthquakes will shake the three superpowers; 1st big earthquake in Russia; 2nd (bigger one) in China; 3rd (biggest of the three) will be in America. NATO will nuke Ukraine to blame Russia for it; then NATO will nuke Russia from Scandinavia. China will attack Russia; but will not get past Ural Mountains; bio-genetic weapon will be used against Chinese soldiers (they will run back to China and hide in closets in fear) and weather weapon will freeze Siberia to - 200 Celcius; stadium-size chunks of unmeltable ice will fall from the lower sky (because when rockets go into higher sky they bring this ice down to lower sky). Russia will destroy Turkey and America. China will have a hole across the whole country to the abyss (because of another super weapon used to stop Chinese aggression); radiation from this hole will be massive; Chinese will try to keep quiet about it; a lot of people will fall into this hole. Scientists don’t see dinosaurs because of radiation. Only Eurasia and Alaska (both without coasts) will remain after demons blow up Antarctica (which surrounds the flat earth) and Greenland melts. Move to Ural Mountains or inland Alaska. Sionists wanted war between Russia and Germany from June 11th to October 11th on their holidays because (666 times 3)+(6 times 3) = 2016 (in their twisted logic). Tube people = demons. Clones = demons. Human costumes that demons wear = demons. Dinosaurs and 666ed people have triple stranded DNA; normal person can’t swallow 666ed food (designed for 666ed people). Demons live inside clones. Bacteriologist Alexandre Yersin (who discovered Bubonic plague) is depicted on the Shroud of Turin. There is another shroud (Shroud of Milan) on which blasphemer Yosef (who was crucified on a pole in 1066 AD) is depicted. Menachem Mendel Schneerson, Lenin (el=deity in Hebrew, nine = no in German; so, when chanted repeatedly is blasphemy against the Creator), and Yosef were possessed by Azazel; now, Rico Cortes is possessed by Azazel. WW3 happens; 7% of people will be left; after people are tired of war, they will elect the antichrist as one world leader; don’t vote. ISIS stands for Israeli Secret Intelligence Service. Next false flag: Statue of Liberty in order to attack Iran; one big shake, one giant step forward, one giant collapse. Move away from coasts as nukes will go off in the ocean (at where tectonic plates meet; result: megatsunamis 1km high). Wear natural clothing so that if a bomb goes off it won’t stick to the body as fast as synthetic clothes. All metal will be burned for fuel; so, save knives, crowbars, shovels, wood-burning stoves, etc. Also, save cloth/fabric/textile to cover the wounds and diseases. Eat natural food because nanochips, cells of aborted fetuses, bug DNA, and other poisons are in food that is commonly sold; reject vaccines, medical care, medicine, etc. because nanochips are administered thru IVs, implants, fillings, etc. If 1000-1500 nanochips are in your right hand, then you can’t make proper Orthodox sign of the cross with the right hand; last mercy for you then will be to cut the hand off. Seraphim of Sarov and Sergiy of Radonezh will be resurrected after WW3 for a short time; Seraphim of Sarov will show the new Ruski Tsar who will fight the antichrist for about 2 years and 8 months. Those who go see Seraphim of Sarov will be healed of their infirmities/illnesses/sicknesses/ diseases; if you want to see him then, hurry because he won’t stay longer than a few weeks. Earth is flat; stands on 3 pillars (the Most Holy Trinity); pillars stand on water at zero Kelvin. Zodiac is planetary prison of demons; don’t believe in horoscopes or you’ll exhibit the traits of the trapped demons. Most thoughts and dreams are from demons; demons never do good. Sleep fully clothed; pray the Jesus prayer. Pray to your guardian angel to have normal sleep. Humans were created about 7525 years ago. Ruski Orthodox Christian Vyacheslav Krasheninnikov was the last prophet before Enoch and Elijah return to preach against the antichrist. Birds participate in time creation. It’s a sin to kill birds. Dinosaurs live under our level. They will get out through sinkholes and lakes. To kill them, go for their nerves. Save the birds; but kill the dinosaurs. First dinosaur will come out of Volga River in Russia. Demons grow human skin (from a sample taken during abduction) and put it on so as to look like us. Demons will invite people to be healed inside their UFOs; those who go will be like zombies after. Gov’t provides demons with diamonds and allows demons to abduct people. If you’re being abducted, slowly pray the Jesus prayer.Don’t panic. Demons use diamonds and souls to power their UFO craft. The bigger the diamond, the more it lasts. Demons have 4 UFO bases: 1)Moon 2)Inside fake mountain Kailash in Tibet 3)In lake Baikal in Russia 4)In Atlantis which is underneath the Mariana Trench in Pacific Ocean. There are no aliens. Nobody lives on other planets. Airplanes that go down are hit by demons because they need the airspace to fight Jesus. Antichrist is pale with red eyes. He’s possessed by Satan since he’s 12 years old. He flies very fast; deceived people will say that “Christ is here; Christ is there”. Sometimes, he wears blue robe over left shoulder while red robe is underneath. He wears gloves to hide long nails. He’s surrounded by demons who appear as angels of light. Antichrist will trick people to believe that he can do mountain moving and resurrection (using holograms); fire from the sky is easy (considering the gases from pollution in the atmosphere). Don’t go into a UFO to be healed by demons. Green 666 is given by isotope rays on wrist or forehead when people stretch hands to receive small plastic grey card with no name on it (World Passport). Police will microchip and isotope ray people on the highways. Microchipped people will be influenced by computers to take grey plastic card; but when they do, 666 is given. Food stores will isotope ray people too. Antichrist will also release prisoners to mark people. Reject 666 at all cost because it leads to permanent hell. If you’re about to be marked, pray the Jesus prayer. Hide with Orthodox Christians to escape 666; leave all electronics behind so that antichrist’s minions can’t track you. Give to charity in the name of Archangel Michael; he rescues people from temporary hell twice a year (or brings them up a level, that is, to a level with less punishment; eventually, people are freed). Feed the pigeons; when pigeons bow down, people are saved from temporary hell. Forgive me.

Yeah I’m just working on replies thanks for asking ^^

#ooc #DON'T WORRY IM DOING FINE ITS JSUT A COPY PASTA #I CAN'T BELIEVE MY FRIEND READ THROUGH LAL OF IT AFTER ISENT IT TO HI MTHO

[curveballsandfriends-blog]

Sri Lanka 27th

‘Get out. You need to get out now.’

Rewind.

You know how in American teenage movies the popular girl runs towards the swimming pool, does an Olympic-worthy jump, and looks incredibly cool? Tried that.

Insert close friend getting married in Sri Lanka. Insert delirium of getting to our destination after countless hours of travel. Insert 27th birthday. Insert pride of having a new slimmer body. Insert swimming pool.

“Remove shoes. Run towards your the pool. Do your best dive...

Crack. Blinding pain. I’ve just hit my head...What was that sound? Why is the water so high?

Why won’t the surface come closer to me?

...Get out. You need to get out now.

Arms obey. Legs do something.

No answer.

This is bad. This is really bad. You can’t die like this, I mean, surely you can do better than this? If you are going to go so young it’d have to be something big. Really big and dramatic. Fuck the 27 club.

No answer.

Why can’t my arms and legs move, the surface is just there? Help.

No answer.

Don’t do this to your family... Mom won’t survive this, you know she won’t...

Right arm is moving. Harder.

GASP.

Where is everyone gone? They must have served up my birthday cake.

Let’s be sensible about this. I’m five hours away from medical attention in the middle of a third world country... Let’s ignore this happened. Don’t tell anyone. Maybe I just pinched a nerve?

“Tristan will you give me a massage?”

This is better... but not helping. Maybe if I go to my room and stretch out... My luggage is so heavy. Can’t lift it and... what’s that tingle in my left hand?

“Guys can someone please help me get this upstairs? Thank you so so much.”

Stretch. Hurt. Tequila shot. Head spinning.

8 AM: I’m sweating...faint? Vomit? The world is spinning. I can’t hold onto that wall.

Knock knock.

“I think I hurt myself last night. I’m so sorry... but I think I need to get to a doctor.”

On the road we go. The first doctor -an hour out of the resort- takes my blood pressure: “Here’s some sports gel and don't forget to take the paracetamol.”

Surely that can't be it. My airplane neck cushion on the bumpy way back isn’t up to the job. I call my the surgeon brother. No answer.

Brother: “Is it urgent?”

“Yes. I think I broke my neck.”

Brother: “What are your symptoms?”

“You’re not going to tell the parents right? This is covered by doctor patient confidentiality?”

Brother: “Yes. What’s going on?”

“I’m in pain. I can’t feel three fingers in my left hand. I have no strength in my left arm and I’m dizzy.”

Brother: “Can you still walk...(and other questions)...You need a CT scan. Brain and spine. NOW... If you want to keep walking or stay alive you need to get to it and call me after.”

Three clinics later, an unsuccessful call to my insurance (can you give me the name of a hospital? we’ll call you back never) and a three hour cab ride I find the only clinic outside of Colombo that has a  CT scan.

The groom is with me. I told him ‘it’s nothing’. He is telling me I will be fine. We are both scared out of our minds...I didn't have to tell him my brother’s diagnosis, a friend of his told him what it could be.

The waiting room is bare. The nurses are dressed like i a fifties movies. I’m in my plastic chair waiting to see a doctor. The walls’ paint is chipping off. A child next to me is bloodied and looking like he is on the verge of collapsing. I pray.

Hospitals are a funny thing. You want everyone to get better, but you don't want to see other people in pain. You want everyone to get out healthy.. and yet you don’t want to wait for medical attention. Strange places... But I’m digressing.

After an argument with the doctor and an offer to be admitted to the clinic I wrangle my way to a CT scan on the spot. The bride is here and strikes my hair. I haven’t cried yet, but this is the moment of truth isn’t it?

The wait is interminable. They moved me to a wheel chair. Hours go by.

We get some initial results “It’s ok -one of her vertebrae isn’t aligned in her spine anymore but it shouldn't require surgery.” I breathe again. Visions of me spending my life in a wheelchair fade away but the doctor still has to see me.

The hospital keeps filling up. In Sri Lanka the doctors work in the public system in the morning and then private in the afternoon. Long gone the empty waiting room. My friend’s step mom is looking after me and having to push the wheelchair through the crowds -bribing the nurses to let me in with the doctors. Thank God she is here... but I still feel very alone and completely out of control. This is my fight and yet I have no strength. Tears start spilling.I want to run. Far and fast away.

Cue in extra X-ray after two other triage consults. Introducing the local rheumatologist: “You spine is broken -your neck is broken. We can't do your surgery here, we don’t have the material. The best we can do is ambulance you to Colombo.”

“Can I fly?”

“You can take one flight. Choose wisely, you need surgery and your fracture is unstable so you won't tolerate too much movement.”

“12 hours ok?”

“One flight.”

Two trips to the overflowing pharmacy (with matching increasingly invasive neck braces) and an illegal cigarette on the parking lot of the clinic we drive back to the resort...two hours of bumpy roads...pain...but wait I’m supposed to co-officiate the wedding in 24 hours...SHIT.

“You can’t sleep in a bed, you have to sleep in a chair... the doctor said... You have to be near the exit of the resort, we can't take the responsibility of having you being in the villa with us.You can't get ready with us tomorrow either and I don’t know who can help you get ready...” opening statement from my soon to be married friend.

“You can get the neckbrace off for an hour to officiate the wedding you’ve come so far...” (mom-in-law)

“How dare you be so selfish” (other bridesmaid)

I need to go home.

My bank account is in overdraft, my credit card is now too... my health insurance is asking me for a medical file which takes a week to get together for a medical evacuation...

I’m scared.

Apparently the longer I stay injured the more likely I am to never walk again...

I called my parents earlier and got their credit cards’ number...they just think I am trying to go shopping. That’s what I said anyways.

My friends type in the information for me on the airline’s website. I’m clutching onto my passport.

My brother calls back.

“Don’t sleep. You might break your neck even with a brace. Stay awake, til you go, have someone look over you.”

I’m terrified. It’s ironic to think I have had self harming thoughts before but now that I find myself in real danger it’s crystal clear I want to stay alive and be healthy just if I have the opportunity to be so.

Can’t sleep. Can’t move. Can't stop thinking. Have to get back to England.

Get inside that car. Drive away. Get to the airport.

The driver is caring and gentle but he can’t help the roads in Sri Lanka...We are in this for five hours.

I can't take it anymore.

“Please take me back to the clinic.”

I’m can’t stop crying, the pain is unbearable. I can feel his heart swelling for me with compassion...He barely speaks English but I tell him I’m broken...as we get to the hospital he talks to them for me.

The ambulance will take an hour minimum. The pain is unbearable. Flight is leaving soon... Back in that wheelchair, back in that clinic.

What do I do? There’s still enough time to catch the flight. I trust his driving and his car better than the ambulance - a vestige from the sixties.

My driver has that little bit more soul. He cares. He tells me he can get me to my flight. We get back on the road. My brother is calling me every hour to check I am still alive -although he tells me it’s just a ‘little check in’. Bump upon bump. Keep pushing through. We are getting closer. Will they let me on the flight?

I have a 7pm off-book appointment at the hospital through the driver's sister in law -for the only MRI in the country- in case I can't make it on the flight. I feel so incredibly grateful for the people around me. I feel a little less alone. Facing death I was surrounded with the ones I love... What got me out of the pool was thinking of my family. What’s keeping me alive now are just those people, and some new people who life was brilliant enough to put on my path.

Airport. I try to keep standing after walking 200 meters.

“May I please have a wheelchair?”

12 hours to go. Til safety... Grind teeth. Look normal, You are so close...you need to get on that flight.

LONDON. Gatwick airport.

No ambulance is coming to take me to the nearest hospital. The NHS paramedic gets me an Addison Lee. He drives like a maniac.

“Sir please can you slow down? I’m injured badly, my neck is broken.”

“I’m an Addison Lee, not an ambulance.”

I get to that hospital at 1 am. They can’t transfer me to a trauma center for hours and certainly not in an ambulance til triage in 4 hours... Time is running out. I get myself on an uber with a kind driver who offers me water and drives as carefully as humanly possible.

As soon as I get to the hospital I know. I know I’m not going to die.  A neurosurgeon in my cubicle within minutes.

“Mom, Dad. I’m not in Sri Lanka anymore. I’ve had a little accident. All is fine but I’m back in London in the hospital and they are taking good care of me.”

The screams coming from the beds next to me in the ward, the surgery... it doesn't matter anymore.

My other brother is coming over from Paris this afternoon. My friends are visiting. My reason to fight was next to me. We are going to be ok.

It’s easier to leave people than be left.

But it’s a two way road.

It’s so much easier to love than be loved but somehow it’s their love that keeps me alive and fighting.