Jaunt-ass Aficionado News Fringes of Greater L.A.

For Aficionados.

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Spotlight on confessionals of victim profiling.

Solomon Leyva and David Yang, today, have both been of significant attrition and displeasure at me, claiming excretory and sexual functions as relevant. The decades' gone-on since knowing each other and hanging out seems inordinately of antisocial maniacism Dynamics, comparitively, considering that the abuses of the neighborhood are concomitant, and that no home or private familial existence is safe from being wrought in, with the chaff.

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Vintage found items off of the sidewalk, you can imagine.

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For “The People Concern / LAMP” People Who Are Left Out Of The Loop. (DTLA). An Email. Disclosed for:

[Okay, so I have met the ones I’ve sent the actual email to, plus Melissa and Lindsay, whom I don’t have contact information for / about. Someone mentioned that they were being left out of the email disclosure thing, whereas it pertains to them (yet perhaps)]

Auld Lang Syne. You know how that goes. Happy New Year. Hopefully this year finds you guys valid joggers, like myself 🤒😷 I swear, the guy behind me, here at the park, LItERALLy coughed. I was going to make a sarcastic emoji cough, and he validly coughed, IrL. iTF. I’m the literal quantum moment guy, please don’t take it lightly. Or do, whatever. It’s no special place in life for me,

But anyways, Roberto, I’d like for you to speak to the apartment people about my place losing power, little by little, once, and then, the other day, my next-to-the-closet power outlet went out, and that was my last bastion of validity at my place. I know (perhaps?) that you are close to these guys, being a native Spanish speaker, and please let me not slight you with my one-time infatuation with Lindsay, being that I hear that you’re also so and so infatuated with her, as well. I’ve validly had plenty of girlfriends, and enough to make enough people want to hunt me down in their spare psychic autonomy space, of which they’re directed to think hateful thoughts towards me. I’m a valid Christian, and I’m sure that I can, at some point, date outside of all genetic pools I’ve been imbued with / have been thrown into.

That’s me. Whatever, it’s unlikeable, validly. I found her attractive, that’s all.

But the real poop 💩 is that my power is out, at my place. All of it.

There’s a guy squatting next door, he’s a Spanish speaker. Far be it from me to disparage the worth of a valid Spanish speaker, or to stand in the way of a young, burgeoning romance, if it that it were. Lord knows that I’m not any time soon to be found to be the validly all-time proper Christian, when it comes down to drug use. That’s what the far-right Christian leaning “me” influences are telling me, up and down, to the “if Jay were to someday end up a valid actual Christian hero / church pastor, Bible Belt-sounding twang, and all.” Obviously, I’d like to see everybody accommodated with a good set of loves in their lifetimes that suits them, and I’ve had the “guy with the story” life that people want to torture me about. 🙄

The power thing. It’s disparaging.

The squatter neighbor. He’s a Spanish speaker, maybe he needs citizenship help? He needs something, and I’ve been plugging in an extension cord for him. My power is out, now. I tried to be nice for him, and now my power is out, He needs some kind of service, and I find him crafty enough to perhaps not want to leave his squat.

🐦🐦🐦

Next, I find my willingness to live my life completely, in the closet, 🧟‍♂️ to be an obvious deprecation of life “as it might be.” I didn’t grow up in the chicken coop so that I’d become “the pigeon guy,” strange as it is, though, I love pigeons, and I feed them. It’s my valid recreation.

Regardless of that, I am a human, there are remote “disturbances” of my psyche, unprecedented, and pre-violation “whatever” something about it, stating that I’m not “doing enough” for my neighbors, as far as a guy who cooks good food type of capability about myself is concerned. I get shit for it, and I’ve been digging out of the trash for food. It’s frowned upon.

I could literally whiteboard this stuff for you guys, but needless to say, I do to have the imagination to outperform the thinking “well enough” it took me to dig food out of the trash, for myself. They said that valid “people” ‘were hungry’ and I wasn’t doing enough. That was the community garbage food, of the trash, and I was taking more than my share, on this particular outing.

I got shit for it, in my head.

Needless to say, perhaps I should validly imagine a life, outside of the closet, in which I can legitimately provide cooked meals for myself, it’s “not a stand-off” with “whoever” “remotely,” and I have a valid reason to speak well for you guys, “remotely,” as far as your concomitant daily morale. It’s that serious, as far as my ego-universe dailies go, and I’m a guy that’s getting “all kinds of literal ‘hoo-haw’ about you guys at the office,” and it took me nearly 2 years to get housed. You would possibly tell me “stfu” “remotely,” or silently, about it, but some of you, okay, all of you, would legimately acknowledge the fact that I’d turned sour on you guys, as service providers, be it that what it may, to use some language “from the old country,” as it were. 💁🏻‍♂️

The point is, is that you guys validly hid your 🧟‍♂️ name placard and location stuff in the lobby, and it’s a bit wtf. 🧐🙎🏼‍♀️🙎🏻‍♀️

Normally, I’d literally talk like this in person, you guys know me, but I did write it down this time, and these are valid complaints.

Mainly, that my power is out.

Next, the squatter, Spanish speaker neighbor.

Third, I’m not the all-assgape TV Broadcast Live via satellite, summer’s eve, now for guys, poster boy.

Fourth, don’t ever just not acknowledge people in a valid communication and call it Alcoholics Anonymous. Scientology will recall you as the valid catalyst for a madman’s random violence. That guy gets 30 days in the psych ward, many cases. I’ve been that guy. Shitty as it is, I’ve pinpointed some people in the periphery about you guys as “those people.”

Fifth, it’s awkward AF, (supposedly), but if I’m not a person with valid complaints, then I’ll go back to my closet and sleep without power, and plug in to spots in downtown Los Angeles; meanwhile, the pigeon daily carnival circus for children gets put to the side, for unknown generations of “already-breeding pigeons,” I’ve established, over the past year, and more.

Conceivably, I’ll sit and charge my device and write litanies about how pigeons don’t get fed well enough, to begin with. They’re hungry AF when I find them, to be sure, and:

Big one,

I’m the literal ethical mortality staunch guy (at this point in time). I don’t as much as use the bus line, or metro, without a valid fare. There is literally not a single person I find who commonly frequents my walking path, such as I do. Are they all literally ethical, moral, completely law-abiding individuals? I simply off-hand doubt it.

That’s gotta count for something, and then I’m the guy who brings up Scientology.

Morals and ethics are supposed to count for something. You guys possibly heard some crazy strange shit about me. My power is out, first thing, though.

4, 3, 2, method. It’s a valid mnemonics device.

Regardless of that, I’m going to come in, tomorrow, to discuss how I can get my power back on, and I’m literally impartial as to who helps me.

Thanks,

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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The underground catacombs of DTLA are a mythical specimen of a urban fables’ lore. I first learned of the underground network of subterranean passageways as a craigslist software installation services salesman, during my time spent living in a high rise loft in downtown LA, as well, of all things.

Here, a tale unfolded, in early to mid - November of 2017. This well-worn slouch in the tiled-sidewalk is not simply a sign of the street traffic times, from then until now; it is as well a trifle morsel of tall tales urbanature accommodifice. My client, at the time, who visited me at my loft location in downtown LA told me of some of the rich little-known things about town, which would be of novel interest for conversations’ sake. The underground network of beneath-the-sidewalk mazes, which are alluded to, in slight form, in the presence of here-and-there glass tiles of sidewalk, strewn about various spots in major central DTLA. I knew them well; the man was a mature man in his mid-to-late professional career age, and he was a photographer and or writer of some notable repute. I took him seriously.

Such marvels of urban little-be-spoken of lore are far and few between, although in my alma mater of University of Riverside, California, I heard what was purportedly a much more common topic of lore about town that a person might hear, as a well-living doing-it-up couple (part-of, parenthetical) that I was, as a patron of the Mission Inn. Apparently, the original owner of the Mission Inn, Henry Miller, had a wife who was allergic to bright sunlight, due to rare affliction. In order for her to get about and around town, to necessary places, Mr. Miller had this series of underground catacombs built to accommodate his wife’s affliction and to bestow upon her freedom of traveling leisure.

Here, in the modern day survey about town, in early to mid November, 2017, I found myself inordinately cold, on my bottom half, yet, in various locales only, which is very obviously strange, from the perspective of a DTLA local bum of many localities, therein, as anyone who notably follows my tracks would attest to, undoubtedly.

Cold, unseasonably so, yet only in certain acute areas of downtown LA? Accompanied with the trifling trollature of recent days past (as it’s merely mid-late November 2017, as I’m writing this). What would portend to some less-than-noble intuitive sense about people and motives towards a standard jaunt bum of civic center DTLA, at and around this time of year?

Make him cold, unseasonably so, with rebuke towards his following status updates feed, provisional entries alluding to the use of cold elemental freeze counter-intelligence presence aversion tactics, perhaps of various plausible sources, such as the construction of the metro stations underground, in neighboring blocks, which would justify a deep-freeze microclimate during rock-drilling subterranean excavations, the placement of Jay’s (my) power supply and internet access as a trite morsel of contention among a conjecturably existing demographic of naysayers, in material substantiated form, as of late, in the personage of Peter Ehrlich, whom I recently punched, due to various inordinate substantiations, vis a vis, and as well, behind closed doors.

I had had enough of it, in other words. To say the least.

The vengeful rebuke would be a BID patrol / street services counter-intelligence row against me, for penance, for folklore, for reigning in a new generation of street services people, perhaps. All perhaps, such substantive conjecturalizations as I might “new, more bold and assertive stance,” essentially pawning us both off as standard white guy depravity standard wash-ups, the both of us, as figured (imaginably), upon the fuck my life wherewithal of a remote viewer observer authority position personnel figure, whom obviously exists.

Obviously?

A topic of staunch contention, among naysayers to the paranoid schizophrenic demographic. The whos and whats and whys of the situations parlayed by the sufferer of the (here, circumstantially) common affliction often (glazed eyes over) listening fare of many a psychiatric professional 👂, whether it be official or unofficially so.

Our stories are unbelievable, in the sense that the circumstances portrayed to the listener, at ✋, of a many, by-and-large sort, as it were, in my experience, anyhow, are simply too far-fetched to be imaginable, emotable, empathetically resonant upon a sympathetic 👂. They simply cannot take it in, and at that, take it seriously, of all things.

But here, on this morning, a daylight of little 💤, leading up to there being, as I had inevitably found myself, I found the ground to be inordinately caved in, towards the gutter, from the street, from the sidewalk, from both ends.

The folklore that conjecture stated itself as (in my head) narrated a story of “how my dad used to 💤 here,” as a real bum of Los Angeles, of varying degrees of truth and repute. “They used to do the same to him,” as far as it goes; the deep-freeze subterranean conjectural point.

Is Jay as dumb as rocks and non-local to the degree of not having a whim about him as far as subterranean catacombs, beneath the streets of DTLA, about town?

No. I’m not a people’s rights representative, truthfully, unduly so. I definitely have my eye on unrighteous developments of gangrene or cold-weather inflammation, as it were, for the erstwhile “unfortunate guy” (or girl, as it were), subjected, thereby, to the whims of a shitsicle ditz BID patrol, or 🚴 patrol, (purportedly, all of it) manned by a second-glance needed homosexual-leaning demographic, as was portrayed unto me; meanwhile, I totally did LA dream boy demographic corporate suite style relationships, as far as professional and romantic goes. I’m hardly capable of being corrupted by whimsical dick fare of guys who would “do that,” that being so many a dick thing.

I get little snack for it, fluff, turf, and meander, about town, is standard fare, for my sort.

Some guys “don’t get it,” and they’re murderously vengeful, at least attemptedly so, in the material substantiation of such cold lore fables, as so.

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Harvey Weinstein, in defense of.

I totally dragged a dude who was like doing "Jay," as a du Jour, or had happened was, as supposed to common identity fare of post-identity slug, shown up as a white guy, totally asking for it, and I gave him a jaunt-official welcoming swagg sack of shitsicles in the making; fashion week, who knew? - I took him for. But no, ostensibly, he totally did shit, but as the washed up fucking beach cruiser en DTLA all fresco, no pigeons in sight after some other shit development ; purportedly on the shady side of the building; not like I laid claim to the entire row of pigeons, du Jour. The du Jour fare was just like that, today, like life goes on, shitsicles on mute, and asspad adult diapers of some abdullah ass shite bum ionic periphery detox presence, and then ostensibly totally sourdough fare about, like they do me like I'm beyond tabloid publication human rights cause, yet the pigeons thing of the dejeuner ayudadoficionado my-yah-Tay fucking pinche hooker shit going down, to come; as totally homosexuals-beyond-era, bums, rather; one on bike. He did valid shit fare, like an alcoholic, mightly just did beer, like whoa. Fucking jaunt moves like hoe, be what? That's some "nah, fucking hoes be like" unheard-of reputation, in a post did "me" validly enough to have become a Christian man, by this time in our lives, but corporate fucking jaunt supporter lean in that schwite, like he's a child's cartoon whatever schwite, wtf. Going down in Chinatown, with my perimeter, like that totally alternate universe development landed on fuccoboylific butta-fueoh”coh, “out of nowhere,” again, “might as well,” like he pre-noon post-“beyond” moments, breakfast lite, on some standard bum shite whiff of white guys doing no doh boy Schwite, just fuckboytasstic, nuts like validly on broadcast “chess-tee raspy” shite, lately, the bum standard continental fare. This one came with a valid non homo development streak, as American as a “befitted also”-Trump supporter. He was with it, showing up, but nah, okay? Though. Bums “shitsicles as-is” door drops (washed-up) outside my planned-out “suppos-ed otherwise thing,” yet the "so du Jour" shit about pigeons row line up, while bums be like "what," jilted-moves against pigeons hate crimes, so blatantly beyond sexually offensive, like life, in general, but whatever shit, not today, not even suppositions slightly shown up like pushed-ass wink fartmark on asspad du Jour, since the no breakfast policy, k. Then, such Christian lifestyle diametrically oppositional, yet histrionic, yet he did me so "bum" features, yet; actuality, did, but no recruit for institute of of fashion leisure athletic technical, titties, cute, (last one would be alumni, “Fonda Cock Asstitute post-doctorate shit-"let's," get shitless beforehand Institution, somehow development also happen in going down would have been way stauncher, like magic pop art magnetics jaunt word starker than contended, sort of post-meditation era jaunt fuckboy assrag archival meta-material, museum gallery grade just cuz, cuh be like cuhz, on some vintage cabinetry roll-out, underneath mattress, floorboards be like, hidden, ideally; Harvey Weinstein "instead, valid, on some old shit, but yesterday, so master class. The day went on, regardless of that fact that didn't happen.

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About Jay Ammon and the US Parliament search result listing.

I commonly run into the persona identity of a remote individual I used to know (as a rhetorical “someone,” not necessarily a specific person as a singular person. It’s many various people):

This person asks me, “why is Jay Ammon so trite common in my head, with fuckall bullshit happening to him, constantly, with stalkers and all? I do the same peasant-fed shit that he does, and I wipe my ass all by myself! Why don’t I get this sort of notoriety?”

All of this can be traced back to the first guy who molested me, many of you know him, as such. He’s a rife one. Popular, no doubt. At least among the

Okay, never mind. I’ll leave his specifics unspoken. That’s a bit aggressive, I’d say.

It goes back to 2008, if you do a simple google search for Jay Ammon US Parliament, which he supported and did some grass roots work within, as “who knows what for, and why,” as my current disposition.

No.

I had met a huge swath of people in what I would call “generally Los Angeles,” during the course of my tech career on craigslist.

The significant thing about that is, that the people I used to know, from high school, currently blame me for all sorts of stuff, while hateful things get broadcast at me, with me very little the dumb, unknowing, confounded one. I’m not left out of the picture when it comes to remote sensing technology, and I’m way beyond the paranoia scandal stuff.

It’s real. I do my best to inform people that their behavior around me is significantly du jour for forensic evaluation.

People are largely completely satisfied with it, while the commoner peasant “hoe” of a person

They really would like me to do the more depraved and grandiose thing.

Anyways, the members of parliament are supposed to represent the concerns of the population which they represent, and the person of the top lines quotable is commonly the most imaginably depraved subject in society who wants to sequester the pick of the ladies I’ve met, through my work career on craigslist.

It’s depraved. It’s commonly why I stifle in growth and achievement in life. My parents take methamphetamine all their lives, and never told me about it. Everyone’s taking a space that used to be allotted for me, and they do complicit aggression deals against my autonomy and rightful place in society, for the story of “some guy who did something great,” and got shit on, by everyone.

You’d think that a person deserves digital communications that can be perused at leisure, rather than having a life be sequestered for the sake of

“Good!” Good! That’s what I hear my mother’s voice saying.

She raised me well enough, obviously.

That’s the ugly of it.

The other side of things is that a country that actually uses, in fact and in deed, the parliamentary system, is home to a fascinating media outlet (currently, or in the past, and in intervals - strictly statistically speaking, that is) in the guardian.co.uk website.

The articles they publish, at times, strongly correlate with the goings-on of my life and happenings around me, in concurrent timing, of all things,

It’s a pretty redeeming, virtuous thing that boosts my self-esteem, and I appreciate the influx of high culture, for sure.

Regardless of that, it makes for garbage first-date conversation.

Regardless of my dating no how, no way, currently, I find that just about everyone I know is dry as a bone. Not the

Okay. That would have been depraved.

They always publish depraved persona news in the articles put out by the Guardian. Check them out, if you haven’t done so, lately. It’s (typically) fine journalism. What might come of the site, for me having stated this fact, may be up for debate, I’m inclined to believe. Based on statistics.

Jay Ammon is currently a homeless man who gets picked on and bullied by people who used to know him. As such, he’s commonly sick of the sociopaths and sexually depraved. If you’re reading this, you’re probably able to read at the level of a junior high schooler, admittedly. That’s all I’ll offer, for now.

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Low-Frequency Events of Aesthetic Interest, for the Purpose of Applying Musical Representation, Thereof.

- Composite statistical environment of a scene, tuned to harmonies, independent of time meter. The aesthetic is the ambient "still-life" relaxation of the natural flow of subjects happening from a vantage point on an urban locality street.

Subway underground, from one side to the other. Cars stopping at a stoplight. People walking by. Pigeons in front of me, pecking for food.

- The transition from narcolepsy to unconsciousness. Acute incident, thereof. Lightheadedness, stoppage of blood flow.

- Statistical graph representation of an ambient setting versus and anxiety-inducing setting. Tally the numbers. Establish ratios of occurrences over time, and include acute incidences.

- Amplitude peaks present during localized plurisubharmonic seismic activity, such as nearby subway station and tunnel construction a few blocks away, from bunker hill / Grand, in DTLA. Atmospheric and barometric effects of the cooling implementations in effect to counter the heat profiles generated underground, ostensibly by blasts or large drills, whatever it might be.

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[donmihalych]

tinyBuild on Twitter

“How do you like these #HelloNeighbor plushies?”

Little Big Neighbor

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FBI dump of Irish Trite, today, on Colorado Blvd, Pasadena, whereas my library books were stolen, the night previous. Maybe it was the Tom Morello bike riding past guy who talked himself up in front of me, before he passes me by, I was done, was the ostensible content of speech.

He looks like a shoulder length standard stoner Mexican, or perhaps some sort of white guy bike dude. He rode by twice.

Here's what I offered the FBI:

I was blatantly stalked, yesterday, ostensibly by a church group; Dennis Bachman is correlated, visually, as Craig McGrath shows up, perhaps at the bar at the del Mar Pasadena metro station, along with Andrew Neri, I believe. Craig was harassing me about raping women I might meet, in the future, contentions about how I've been, whereas he's invisible to me on Facebook. He ostensibly leads some efforts of "Jay" related harassment on Twitter, perhaps under his then wife's account, Carey. She had been signified to me as feeling as if she was a prisoner, in the life he had provided for her. JR McGrath DEFINITELY walked directly past me, as I was sitting on a park bench across from del Mar station. He looked back at me as I said his name, JR. He is distinctively bald headed.craig McGrath was the most intentionally trite offensive piece of shit, yet again, about some bullshit. There was mention of ostensible child molestation happening in his upbringing. Today, I returned to Pasadena to retrace my steps; perhaps have a shit at "maybe I need to rethink my depravity standards and personal security profile out in public, on sundays; the McGrath's were railed in the morning as notably silence now. Then, British parliament ostensible personas elaborated on a string of relevant recent journalism and news articles from the Guardian UK, which I posted a string of, for commemoration. I didn't realize my books were gone until I reached my sleep spot at 110 Grand, out front. Intelligence personnel substantiated reasonably trite notions as to "the books will be returned, if you pray, perhaps." Slights at my attempts to conform to a strict and significant Christian persona. Today, I returned to Pasadena, I had some trash breakfast at the park, and I did colorado Blvd the same way I left, the previous night. All the way to the Apple store, where I was doing facebook and Tumblr posts. I was obviously targeted and followed, lead like a sleight-minded just desserts were reasonably on the table. I had a brain flicker, uncharacteristic, the first night, then I got off on the wrong spot to do Apple Store Pasadena. Today, Colorado Blvd was characteristically strange and unique, in the uncommon people that were strongly represented. A young man, Irish, waved a very friendly offering and smile. I tried to do Starbucks to pee; the barista's modus operandi was totally disregard and buy something, then you get the number. New development as of within a couple or so weeks. 1318 Elgenia, west Covina is the McGrath's last known residence. The father displays ostensible relics of racism, visually obvious.

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Apparently, the movement happened, shit stalls were occupied, so primitive-man ages fare about how jaunted the shitness “reality, though,” waiting-line boycott; to, and in spite of standard shit-bearing guys: bums, no less, yet such staunch inequality push against civil rights and common fare of having jaunt-ass shit done to the shit-loiterer, in our most heroic inaginations. Yet, suddenly, they disappeared, as al fresco Dubai, out of nowhere, as they came. The ostensible jig of the moment is opioids; I suppose it’s valid. Accommodating a needle user is like asking for the borderline shit to bubble up, from underneath, yet this wasn’t ex-girlfriend territory. Real dudes, with standard shitness profiles were feeling the pinch against the ostensibly du jour fare, amongst society, more reasonably so, I’d say. Supposedly, some guy I met recently, who contends about abstractions and tangents that vaguely resemble critical theory and aesthetics classic golden age rhetoric, so 729 dot whatever, or 714 dot something section of the library. I totally did that jaunt, just skimming the surface, though. The also-rans of the washed-up academic fare demographics; ostensibly,we were the fuckboytastic-est cog in the wheel, as far as drug use / sobriety standard base line goes, amongst peers, and or faculty. Music, fine arts? Well enough? Valid bounds, yet this guy, something. Supposedly he’s older, “and now.” Me, I just comment on the folklore, and latch on to trite little fickle jigs about a writing gig, since craigslist, (lately), is so beyond golden age ice-age freeze, on valid responses; it’s really that bad. Over here, in CA, LA, at least. DTLA. And then a staunch movement towards non-shitsicles about the bowls gets bold and expansive; it’s common enough for a standard bathroom shit patron, as-is, as if standard wasn’t a toilet thing, valid, somehow. Obviously, it’s a tired subject, enough, for fluff about rounds some ostensibly “complaint” disposition about unskilled “workers,” or “whatever,” as “shooting up” people, so fuckboy leisurely. The radioactive decay profile development of a wash-up, from recently nearby, or did they jaunt, to contend, perhaps? Standard people take 2 shits by the time someone glosses over substantiation to the effect, thereof. Of shitsicles, already; standard ass people, of various ilk, contend that the bathroom is for excrement. Shooting up dope, fixing up, fuck yeah, shoes-off type of shit is so ostensibly “okay, I can see that; totally,” kind of appearance amongst the public. Sitting there, like the story’s just enveloping the subject, so to-order, pwned, on his own jaunt, type of thing, is just improper; how could “just sitting there, and staring” develop into “how my shit’s security” and “I profile guys that look like that; it’s shitty, it’s blatant, it’s ostensibly a hate crime in the making.” Ostensibly, standard ass dudes of that sort of ilk assume no less than fuckboyabilityness jaunt, on some sitting there, and waiting, shit, is reasonably the way to work the way in to becoming a grand park local, with actual bums doing du jour, so already, had happened to have been filled, position. Yet, there’s seats, still, they imaginably contend. Bring the sober-living home group lunch jaunt out on the green lawn, on the shit fare, on the ostensible human space that this one feels. * fills Somehow, dudes like that are so particle beam accelerator, on over to me, since I’m targeted, and I have to see that guy as that person, rather than a guy like me, who’s content to eat garbage, proper, and do recyclables collecting, about town. Jaunting against the standard-ass guy, shitsicles, in the bowl, in-and-out, kinda guy? Pretty fucking other side of the park, kinda thing. The petty theft ostensible nuclear radiation profile, so “we get it; we ‘care,’ but the novelty is so subjective and we hate that.” As strangely as they showed up, prolifically, beyond explanation, why question? Such trite showing up, anonymous; perhaps. Needle users do weird shit like that, in any capacity, to spite standards, like it’s their prime. Ostensibly, standard dudes don’t have a want, or a need, to do that. We rely on our Christian upbringing, so annoyingly trite, about it, but it validly, supposedly, stops real bums of nearby to assert themselves. The syntax on that last sentence is so never me. Would they appreciate it if standard dudes just up and decided that they had to use the ladies room, instead? So trite caveman statistical plot point instance event original wheel maker attitude about it; yet patience is what we whet this country on; real bible stuff, so they don’t do folklore about Jesus Christ, du jour. Ostensibly, perhaps someone tells this sort about a spot like tumblr, where blogging runs like shitsicles on a jaunt ass wash up, in the laundromat, needs some a la carte social compassion; I just don’t really do shitsicles like that, not even imaginably memorably so. On one hand, the more patience I have, the more the folklore presents itself as a rich tapestry of “hey, but remember? Aficionado ass shit, about it. The shit-taking.” Kind of stuff that gay dudes used to show up in my head, like “butt plugs in, butt plugs out. Butt plugs in, butt plugs out.” It conceivably did not reach absolutely everyone in the demographic. Jaunt ass people who just sit there, conceivably appeared from out of nowhere, never to be identifiably witnessed, as “the guy who seriously shit like that, but flushing... never.” Healthy people ostensibly radiate the wtf is this, now, non-standard bums, contending that cal trans hadn’t been maintaining qc standards, about how accommodations, now; just shown up. But, as the one dude, who totally did Harvard, now he’s here, a line producer; a bum, would speak, in refrain, “we don’t wanna fight about their “already there” position, in society: ostensibly, as applies to legitimate homosexuals, meanwhile, this guy does so Arkansas southern accommodations, hearken back, kinda thing. Back then, shits weren’t so contentious. These guys, reasonably, simply do not answer to anyone. Bold as fuck. The longer they squat, the more radiation wavelength transformations jaunt through their ostensible “all-over;” conceivably, the light of ages past shines throughout them, and they become cavemen. A guy like me will run, just off-hand, based on a slight suggestion, just to offset the quantum valid co-occurring shitnessless trite fate about how the stalls are occupied; it’s an ostensible quiet protest against feminism, or femininity. Folklore tangential quantum physics lifetimes had been accommodated, for the fact that our schedules had crossed; this one, he doesn’t run, ever. Reasonably, the radioactive profiles of such contentious otherwise people-as-fare is the necessary accommodation, depravity standards alleviation, off an ostensibly otherwise okay guy, yet the meeting never happens. It’s trite, but not appearing as a valid squat staunch shitter, (sometimes, though. [only]) is pretty new, bold, and assertive stance. Like they’re out to get the guy who did that shit, actually wrote about it; the dalliances, du jour. Reasonably, we make the news, we cover the story, we cover the relativity thing; “this guy ostensibly does UK like pigeons, du jour.” Similarly, sourdough boy conventions start to establish themselves, completely aside from organic methods and principles. Standard ass guys don’t like being thrown by the wayside, for the sake of homosexuality assertions, rumors, unheard, and, reliably, enough, “this guy is fucking gay” kinda shit about how jaunt it would be, to rob this guy of his mobile devices, otherwise, trite ass shit. Somebody does shit like that. Standard people think that they’re the guy who looks like he’d do some unimaginable shit, like that; they do that shit.

[vernal-acrobat]

This is some photography reference material I've been collecting towards establishing some real-world examples of wavelength particles, radiation damage to physical objects, projection, light wave frequencies associated with various optical perspectives, and I've also collected some RGB and HSV values off of an iPhone 7 plus photo of a photo. It's a quick fix to get approximate values, that's enough of what I'd like to work with, at the moment.

[ivytea]

something like fate

[vernal-acrobat]

This is a pretty jaunt illustration, I must say. The Borzoi, the Soviet Communism flavor of the large portrait; I imagine that I jaunt like this guy does, via satellite circa 1970's, as a standard communist guy, with the material comforts, much more fulfilled than, say, a homeless guy's accommodations. (I'm homeless, btw, that's why I mention it). I've definitely been in wood moulding and full-on wood studies, pretty simular to this, although not nearly as grandiose. Ostensibly, this is the man who is a piece of some peoples' heads, as a piss-drip incursion of international intelligence divergence, into the Soviet way of life, to tie over the true aficionados of how it should have / could be; materially speaking. Aesthetically considerable, as well. The guy is definitely doing his thing; it's so divergent from a Los Angeles bum's lifestyle, currently, and hey, everybody wants to do Russia like I did Brentwood, that one day, then I condensed it into a 55 minute speech via iOS text-to-speech. I was definitely jaunting fairly similarly to this one, well enough; the narrative tapestry was pretty ornate and classically fuckboytastic, all fresco (obv; I'm homeless). Actually, I threw some young narcoleptic local folklore allegory in that speech, as well. It wasn't all one continuous day. Maybe not, though. Well enough. Well, it happened, and then, the text-to-speech made it happen so effortlessly, all over again (I played classical piano, growing up), pretty reliably fuckboytastic circa shitless assured, when I jaunt on sidewalks leading to the place where I buy dope. Nearly triple flusher, standard, yet omg My Russian wife hates excrement jokes and references, but my old friend from high school was all about the shitness. I like the daily grind, due jour pick up okey doke, standard white guy, for a moment. I used to do so LA dream boy, "rather" (version) of this depiction; but that failed big time, over 5 years ago, and I lost the Russian wife, to boot, at that. Over here in LA, we can jaunt that way, beyond socialism, beyond fuckboy, beyond jaunting on hoes, because there's gonna be a tranny that shows up, who's not nearly in the wrong place to see about fuckboytastic shitness, the 4th. Triple flusher, totally accommodated, way back, now I'm jaunting.

* similar (I've totally been in the multiwich universe style of nomenclature; although I'm not sure simular was ever valid, to begin with, but I do transcribe what the attractive personalities start off round, when they happen to not be speaking out against my well-being, and stability).

[vernal-acrobat]

Hollllllyy fuckin shit... I'm totally on a turn down for what? paranoia folklore mental jamblock relentless propaganda and suggestions to the effect that I've somehow contracted a full grown adult roach in my ass, since I was sleeping in an area that featured frequent roaches and night crawlers; come to find out that polls and conjugal agreements in large-scale media had totally confuxtibilated a "shit-this, 2 x stauncher, jaunt-ass bum!" style scenario; obviously: hemorrhoids fuckung hurt, and then they grow bigger? Of course I'm gonna be susceptible to believing the "cockroach was placed in your ass while you were sleeping" rhetoric. It totally almost seems (from a mirror perspective), that there is an accountably visible adult cockroach right by my rectum (luckily its not a shitblocker hemorrhoid), and he's been burrowing through my body, he made it through everything else, and he's getting by like an outrigger performance features-"survivalist, within the ass, of all things. Considering burrowing out of my live exodermal layer of buttcheek. Pangs of stinging radiation pain swell up, here and there, like fire, itself. Holllllyyyy shit. It fucking hurts. But then, what does this kind of poll and article accompaniment signify for my public relations developments, as of late? Turns out, they're calling a variant of autism pervasive development disorder. I guess that's an ostensible posterboy limit barrier reach that's been established. Ostensibly, I'm personable and likeable, but not in a widespread public embrace of goodwill and acknowledgement. The local celebrity washup, so about town, such as to be visible, and a timely anecdote of modern day fable, in that satellite communications easily broadcast my plight to the demographic that "knows me." It's a slight accommodation and societal concession of "love him anyways" for a guy who was the slightly-off guy to begin with, since he was a child. Since then? Don't mention the LA dream boy lifestyle of riches and decadence; that would be trite. The new thing is the cockroach in my ass.

[vernal-acrobat]

A curious piece of manufacture for some obscure or arcane "originally intended" affections. What could it possibly entail? On the surface, the truly relatable aspects of the aficionado status of this object are the squiggly lines, cleanly-executed repetition, mastery over form. Small circles, flattened out, as it were (or might have been), in a completely even array of about 8 inches in length. It's not flimsy like solder; not light like a paperclip, but I'm thinking, "maybe so many paperclip ends would be weighty like this." (It's hard schlong swinger flexible, for reference). Yet it's not a 180° reversal shape pattern, as a paperclip; rather, a safety pin roundabout formation, a "spiral that would never be," yet it became what it was supposed it could do, if spiral was the thing that drove this particular development. Yet, even more interestingly, the ends are topped off with unmatched safety pin tip tops, of a shiny gold color, rather than standard cold steel. Somehow hinting at the safety pin original intention. Is it so base, that we could call it a Freudian sexual innuendo of a post-"fuckme," okay, parenthetical asterisk semiotically jilted fishbowl world of young adult breeding behavior? Perhaps... it's unknown how (depraved sexual concession confession) (suggested). I'm not so mindless off the finery establishment that I'm going for, here, though. No dilettante flourish in execution, if I can help it, at all. In the end, it's essentially "safety pin roundabouts," flattened out and repeated over and over in manufacturing, uncut, to the length of about 8 inches, with safety pin tips on either end, of unmatched vintage. For aficionados. Obv.

[feministism]

[vernal-acrobat]

This is the type of stuff that substantiates my rants and complaints that I have, when I go in for social work assistance with mental health and housing issues.