I’ve been compiling the evidence of all this for almost a full year. The documentation to defend any future libel claims from Lincoln “it puts the lotion on” Shaw, Helen “Simone” Bailey, Mr. Carol & Mrs. Bill “would you fuck me?/i’d fuck me” Cosgrove, Andre Vaquez Moreno (age 64), Julie Van, and anyone at Citywide Properties in San Francisco regarding my public claims that they were involved in entrapping me in false imprisonment and spent decades bullying me which culminated in them murdering James while he’s riddled with cancer and has a fresh zipper up the back of his head, by them having me set up arrested sent to jail for five days while James went without food, water, meds, and was found face down on the living room floor, barely alive.
So sue me: I don’t have any money and could care less about it especially after this. Collectively money means nothing anymore as well. Everyone knows that.
And any libel suits will just help our new and inevitable IRL parallel and alternative underground economic art/books/comics/theatre/movies/fashion Post-Industrial Chitlin Circuit businesses and networks we’ve already begun with The Streisand Effect, so what do i care?
It’s the story of why San Francisco sucks and what inhumanity we’ve unleashed upon the world and I’m still here in Mordor presumably for a reason, I have kitties to care for and don’t wanna go to jail again for something my landlord makes up but I’ve gotta be ME if we’re gonna build any kind of underground to win against this shit and prevail in the long.
we artists are the unofficial legistlators of culture and I’ve been reading The Geneva Bible to re-set my soul … my raison d’être … as I face this kind of evil that made my mother so nauseously ill and her face go bloodless white as she tried to help me at first, this is the kind of evil that no one expects because… WHY? That’s what my friend Amy kept asking when I told her I found that the landlord, Lincoln Shaw, and the carpetbagging Cosgroves from Florida at Citywide Property, have completely wired this building with surveillance and have cameras facing every free corner invading our personal privacy—even pointing through my bedroom window— from surveillance cameras secretly installed in our neighbors’ trees.
this isn’t bullshit safety crap or even about money. it’s about the assholes of society running absolutely everything and having too much free time and nothing to do but cause the rest of us shmucks hell. it’s about control and boredom. terrorizing and breaking others’ spirit for sport, and trying to snuff out a way of life.
san francisco is a faded tattooed and leathery zip-up, human flesh, size 14 skin suit used to lure people who still crave The Taxidermied Dream.
it’s the canned hunt of lincoln shaw’s Lonely Diamond Heights Misery torturing us down here in The Burrito Flats. and since they can’t strap antlers to our heads, glue powder puffs to our asses and give us head starts as they right their arrows and aim for our blessed little hearts, creepy wussy pathetic bitches like the limp-dicked and lily-livered lincoln shaw and mrs bill cosgrove have surveilled ant farms in us, to distract them because they’re not getting any.
of anything. and we’ve gotta pay.
i knew simone bailey was a dangerous sadistic sociopath the way she detested her parents and only smiled when someone was in pain.
i expected carol cosgrove and julie van to thoroughly enjoy watching tenants panic as she and julie cackle and chug down gallons of hemoglobin and plasma from the tapped-out veins of their trapped and hopeless twenty-something autistic virgins. then in a blood-satiated frenzy, i also expect Carol Cosgrove and Julie Van to ruthlessly scissor each other as carol’s cuck of a wife, bill cosgrove, tentatively blows on their nipples as instructed, and like a good eunuch gently dabs at their sweaty, bitterly-lined foreheads with chamois made from the creamy velvet underbellies of tortured, slowly-slaughtered puppies…
i see it all in every open gash on my Beloved’s body…
…but i did not expect this kind stupid heartless cruelty from andre moreno, the blue-eyed filipino house nigger extraordinaire who proves house niggers can be as white as last thursday’s pissed-on snow with bright bloodshot-blue eyes. I liked him even though i knew what he was. In addition to being a generic step n’ fetchit house nigger, andre moreno was also a great craftsman who only ever did shit work on our apartments leaving wires exposed, glass shattered, and paint cracked wherever and whenever he could.
but on his own time, andre moreno would make beauty out of old rusty tools he’d find, and he’d hand carve these gorgeous majestic walking staffs with intricate lace-like carvings. He had to find just the right piece of wood. He had to feel it.
I saw The God in his eyes and shine light all around him whenever he proudly showed me photos on his camera of his latest works. i got tingles all from all his photos of his works, like when you watch Bob Ross paint on TV.
So I had mad respect for that. But I never expected he would shatter James and expose his wires or crack apart our fragile lives so …too easily too casually. It was so demonically ugly.
I did not know any true craftsman’s respect could be so… that shallow and meaningless. It’s beyond cynical. it’s like stabbing your works with a hatchet.
(shrug)
But apparently for such a habitual house nigger, it ain’t nothin’ but a thang. it was all habit for andre moreno to cower and fall in line like the pet dog he is. for as soon as citywide whistled, not only did he quit fetching the perfect sticks that he felt, he intuitively instinctively felt like fetching his soul to hand to the head demons automatically, with no thought of belittling himself as well as his entire lineage and progeny.
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“We sick, Boss?”
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I think you is because that’s just crazy to me. they all know i’m a cartoonist asshole and author. within a few months of my moving to san francisco in early 1994 kim corsaro gave me the full back page of The San Francisco Bay Times to do a cartoon on whatever i wanted. I got locally famous quickly for it and that’s how i got free porn rentals from Good Vibrations and perquisites at other venues around town.
i like that kind of local fame much better than i liked international micro fame from doing “Flaming Iguanas” wiht Simon & Schuster. i assumed too much of too many people; but it turns out i’ve also assumed too much of my local brothers and sisters here. am still working on seeing how far gone we are and what i can do with the ones who find their ways to me.
I loved doing drawing and writing out cartoons more than writing books, too. They were immediate.
Local assholes were a delicacy i had to lay out a trap of safety checks for myself, to keep me from indulging in smearing reputations for sport. be irresponsible with free speech and the power to shape stories and reputations, and it kicks back on you mad mad hard.
i’m still atoning for my own past evils so must needs be very careful.
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that’s why torturing us to the point of killing my beloved, and actually seeing reading re-living all the evidence is like strapping a package of open frankfurters to a tormenting toy poodle’s back and yelling “fetch!” to the trapped pit bull whose choke chains have finally rusted off to tiny piles of brown dust.
when we artists and writers are not relegated to being whores buckled down on our knees to sell personalized potholders on etsy and pick up our meagre percentage of funds by live-scanning our anuses to get the $3.62 deposited directly to our account, when we’re sharpened like pencils to stab at the temples of the status quo,
artists in play can make the current and ubiquitous san francisco sodomizing landlord sadism seem cute and fluffy because we artists can be horrible terrible merciless assholes like when we’re tricking our actresses into really and truly smashing their heads into dashboards of rickety careening cars because the concussion in her dying eyes is more believable than acting because at our worst we truly believe:
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Art is Long, Life is Short.
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we’re not so etsy potholder fluffy after all because there’s actually a lot of cruelty in that statement.
especially now that money, American life, and our Children’s Futures have been rendered meaningless, Artists are and will be clawing grasping begging for something on the tips of our souls bigger and more majestic than your little temporal little motherfuckin pissant sodomizing landlord “give me more shit!” egos as you all are just a bunch of bored desiccated old land-rich fucks lined outside the church of Costco before opening with cochlear implants even though you never listen with your gaping maws for endless shopping carts, when Love God and The Kids is the only thing keeping me… us… here.
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but don’t be afraid of us and get distracted by all the glitter. violence and pain makes most of us nauseous, weak, and i faint like a narcoleptic goat. we just wanna be left alone to start our own alternative parallel system as this all implodes; we’re not the ones waiting with the guillotines.
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andre moreno cashed in not even 30 pieces of copper as i watched him with my own eyes crowbar out simone bailey’s deadbolt lock from an old-growth redwood door frame and unbeknownst to me would later show the police the hardware in his hand and tell them that i kicked down helen simone bailey’s front door: “a $300 repair job.”
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That’s what cinched it and opened the trap door to all of this: $300 fucking dollars.
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it’s written clearly right there in the police report and I ended up in the fetal position… demon sick… nauseous with tremors and shakes for several days when I finally forced myself to read everything just a few months ago as I was compiling evidences and timelines.
it took a year because it’s very hard for me to not only look at this up close, how long it’s gone on, but how i didn’t notice. and it’s all here. it’s ugly.
but now that i see it, i have already long apprenticed at … living as myself free and loving James madly in spite of it.
high altitude training. / “A Boy Named Sue.”
however you wanna put it.
No. i will not let slimy creepy lowlife people like Lincoln Shaw, Carol and Bill Cosgrove and Little Liam Cosgrove, and Helen Simone Bailey, and Julie Van and of course house nigger Andre Moreno, i will not let them win.
The Story.
i cannot control the courts and have exceptionally little faith in The System, as The Law has only been manipulated gamed twisted and bent to pulverize and masticate us this whole time…
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but i do control The Story, for I write the corridos that will be sung for all time.
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On April 3, 1882, The Coward Robert Ford, shot Jesse James in the back of the head while he was adjusting a picture in his home.
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andre vaquez moreno’s great grandkids will now and forever hear about the great shame and evil they all did to my Beloved. it is low and sad for the father figure, andre vaquez moreno, to do this to his entire clan and family name for a cheap devil.
i can forgive but i also will hold all accountable in Mis Corridos.
that is my job.
evil’s weakness is that it cares about what others think of it in public. only. in private? fuck you. that’s why i write his name write his name, Andre Moreno, say his and their names to hold shame to him and each of them for selling their souls for nada and bring to light those accountable for ruining the whole world with small minded evil that then smears feces all over paradise after putting up yet another fucking parking lot.
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yes. James Swanson was A Good Man. A Very Good Man. I happen to know that He already forgave each of you immediately. / He was already and will forever be My Saint and i will tell His story with a much better ending that is actually A Renaissance suited to his Endcat Existence.
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this is existential stuff. story. i don’t like this current story. do any of you?
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San Francisco was paradise. / So ask not what San Francisco can do for you, but what can YOU do for San Francisco?
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Me? I can help bring its heart back. Use the blessings I’ve been given to build something back. Our home. That’s why I’m still here even as I’ve tried to flee Mordor for decades. But maybe this is ground zero for the push back on The Enclosure of the Human. elon musk is getting out of cars and asked the FCC if he can put a million satellites in the sky. a million.
i don’t know about you but if i can feel a camera i sure as hell can feel a million satellites. and they ALL wanna biometric the fuck out of us.
so no. if i have to take this story with me with me for all eternity, out of my grand love for James and my ability to write a new story, i will tell you OURS.
how fun it was here in the 1990s when i got here shortly after the earthquake.
these are the stories i must tell to blunt the horror of this $300 lie…
The fucking $300 amount is what doomed James to suffer and be found cut up because he fell to turn off the stove that’d been left on and the firemen yelled from the window, “hey James, turn off the stove!” and they left him, a 6’2” man whose brain still thought he was athletic and self sufficient, to stumble fall and crawl into the kitchen to turn off the gas stove. That he didn’t bust open his skull again on another fall is a miracle because he always tried to do everything without me and when my head was turned, he’d get up and just give out and drop or go like timber. I’d have to thrust myself in front of him when he’d almost fall down stairs.
from inside jail it’d take me hours each day to do wellness checks on James. Being surrounded by sheriffs is undermined by the reality of your dehumanized position as The Prisoner which extends to anyone associated with you dying at home.
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it’s bewildering but now i know what heterosexual men feel like in America these days.
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I’m grateful that James slipped back into Himself for a moment because he was in and out of a “Flowers for Algernon” reality as his brain tumors would swell. / he’d just had all these brutal side effects of his recent immunotherapy so I had to give him crushed ice cubes as he couldn’t even keep water down anymore. But he was coming back a little bit because I realized keeping him hydrated every fifteen minutes was working.
It’s a miracle he came back for a moment because the entire building could’ve burnt down.
That would be sooooo Lincoln Shaw and Citywide Property.
$300 and the hardware in Andre Moreno’s creepy little house nigger hands doomed my Beloved to end up in the ICU with bloody holes and bruises all over his body and he told me a few things that happened—he thought the firemen had failed their job by not coming inside. just yelling at him through the window and leaving him to fall and crawl into the kitchen to the stove. and he said simone had been in our apartment. i knew that because our neighbor, Rudy SanJuan told me she’d go in there while telling the firemen sent to rescue him, that it was locked. she told Rudy, “it’s starting to smell in there.”
James also said to me, “you sure are pretty,” and that wasn’t James. he said things like that with his eyes but hardly ever out loud, and that was just fine by me. He also said “Good-bye, Mikey,” to his beloved baby brother Mikey, whom he’d never see again, and that was pretty much it.
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$300 that was just a made up lie no one even got $300 except Lincoln Shaw’s lawyer, Dave Wasserman, who has a lidded basket he works out of here in San Francisco at 2960 Van Ness Avenue.
Dave Wasserman’s the one who was coiled up on call, in a nest of questionably greasy ethics slippery morals and slimy legal tactics, waiting to use the false arrest that Andre Moreno helped facilitate with tenant Helen Simone Bailey, so that she could get an emergency restraining order against me, which would then legitimize the immediate eviction of half-dead James and myself.
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This is a perfect time to remind you to stop twitching and don’t fear the term “house nigger”… fear what the term means and what it implies.
In case you’ve forgotten i aim to remind you why even using the euphemism “the ‘N’ word” is infinitely much more dangerous to all of us as a society a people to all of humanity.
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as Kris Kovick used to say: euphemism itself is the dirtiest word because it encompasses ALL dirty words.
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Appropriately, this all started on the Ides of March. on a friday morning. Kat Walker used to send me postcards warning me about The Ides of March. i thought it was one of those thespian jokes, like how they’re superstitious about saying “the scottish play” instead of calling it “Macbeth.”
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so I get out of jail late monday just before midnight and i’m phoneless, braless, in flip flops, and locked out of the main front door. Sheafs of orders and evictions are plastered to my own front door with blue painter’s tape for easy removability.
Simone calls the police on me because i’m home.
Since all street crime is legal in san francisco, the mission police have nothing to do and decide to stick around, pounding on my door into the wee hours of the morning as i sob and pick at the disaster of my apartment. while looking for missing cats i assume are dead, i rant at them that i used to wave at them on the streets, thank them for their service, say “be okay out there!,” and champion them when everyone in san francisco hated them and wanted them fired. but now I will never ever open the door to the police ever again as long as i live.
Mr Wassssssserman and Sociopathic Sssssimone were slavish littttttle sssserpents:
for tuesday morning first thing out the door on my way to the hospital, a process server spastically lunges up to me and throws a stack of folded papers on the ground near my feet like a paper boy and screams, “you’ve been served!” in an overly-excited high-pitched faggy voice, and runs away with his arms and legs flailing like a little girl.
don’t kid yourself: here in Upside Down Land where legislated niceness is genocidal cruelty, this is what passes for a straight man in san francisco (i.e., lincoln shaw and bill cosgrove). the actual truly gay men are the only beefy, fatherly, helpful, strong, kind, caretaking and manly men in town who can actually stand women because they’ve given up on trying to fuck us after feminism taught us real true emancipation from the patriarchy is to have onlyfans sites and host sunday salon gangbangs on tinder.
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you’d be surprised how many gay men there are who’re actually heterosexual now and it’s the san fran straight guys like lincoln shaw and bill cosgrove who wanna grow up to be little girls.
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i have completely given up thinking i know absolutely anything at all. it’s not humility; it’s reality. i concede i’m likely full of shit even here and will continue to be until i die. / i’m doing the best i can, people.
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i could give a rat’s ass about being served and ignore all the bullshit printed on Mr Dave Wasserman’s Office Depot® Multi-Use, 24-pound Darkness as it blows into the gutter. I think i see the fragment of a dried glue snakeskin flutter and get stuck in the crease of a cast aside milky condom on the asphalt as i limp off to SF General where James is barely alive in the ICU… so far gone i’ll never get to speak to Him again.
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“We sick, Boss?”
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$300 fucking dollars and what did house nigger Andre Moreno get? Nothing. Nada. He’s still “working.” Not retired on an island drinking mai tais and watching pinoy porn on his phone. He was just pledging his fealty to the devil for free. They all and each and everyone got Nothing. Even creepy lily-livered limp-dicked Lincoln Shaw and i can assure you that Dave Wasserman’s $300 was spent before he had to live-scan his own anus to get the remaining sofa change posted to his account.
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On April 3, 1882, The Coward Robert Ford, shot Jesse James in the back of the head while he was adjusting a picture in his home.
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This is San Francisco now. Full of punk ass bitch cowards and assholes and they put studs on Dolores and ruin Everything.
A $300 lie. for this…
We San Franciscans have had to watch with bile of disgust and shame rising up in our throats as The San Francisco Police Force spent The Chesa Boudin Years and Beyond letting every asshole steal $950 or less worth of crap, while we’re waiting in line like chumps paying full retail plus 10% tax on cheap overpriced Chinese junk, as the San Francisco police would hold open the doors and move out of the way so these dimestore thugs could fit their huge duffel bags of stolen loot through, and i get 5 days because andre moreno crowbars out a lock he says it’ll cost $300 to fix.
This is the Real San Francisco now:
it’s telling us all to put the lotion on while it’s dancing around in a dry flaking leathery size 14 human skin suit dancing to “Goodbye Horses” by Q Lazzarus and seducing itself in the ouroboro mirror, “would you fuck me?…I’d fuck me.”
where is our fucking humanity?
when i saw for the first time the very definintion of “fire ice blue” in Officer Kappler’s eyes as he whirled me around to zip tie me, i knew they weren’t getting cut back off over any logic soul heart or humanity.
i was entrapped by some kind of… brutal psychopathically genocidal and very much suicidal Ideology i still don’t understand.
we were mosquitoes.
andre “sambo” moreno always was Citywide’s bent over step n’ fetchit, but he said James was A Good Man and then andre moreno hunches down and does that to him when James is half dead.
with R-E-S-P-E-C-T like that, no thank you. / but i’ve got my work cut out for me.
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On April 3, 1882, The Coward Robert Ford, shot Jesse James in the back of the head while he was adjusting a picture in his home.
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I found this surveillance camera outside in the neighbor’s backyard, tucked in a tree, pointing right up at me. Citywide had it put in while I was out having breakfast and the video installers were watching my every move on their iphones and lurking and hiding so they could TRESPASS and go into the neighbor’s backyard (the painters told me) and install this camera pointed up at me.
my santa rosa friend Amy asked “why? but WHY?” and then she had an existential break and had to get off the phone. that’s not even the half of it:
i whittled 1800 pages down to 750 then now down to about 325.
I got a call from the lady at the rent board just now. she said, “wow… it really looks like you put a lot of thought and work into this. it’s well organized!”
as an author i accidentally save EVERYTHING.
i unearthed the entire story of my time here in san francisco.
i also have a new 23 year old baby beloved. he asked to move in with me. he’ll probably never admit this, even to himself, but i think he wants to protect me. James was like his older brother and when James died he said, “because you belonged to James, I will help you as long as you live.”
so i’ve inherited a total beloved. he just got his EMT license and is applying to the fire department.
he wants to help in this new underground. he and the other 23 year old angel men who’ve taken over simone’s evil place and made it sweet and fresh like flowers, it’s like in spite of everything, we’re gonna make it.
they’re my legs and my arms. God really does provide, doesn’t He? i can’t deny it because i’m about out of rent money and i haven’t even yet met Jim Moore who’s seeding the ENDCAT MegaZINES i’ll also be starting. The regular paper ENDCAT MegaZINES will be the repository for ALL these running San Francisco stories i’ve just unearthed from all that Lincoln has done. from there they’ll be doled out to different projects like books, clothing, art, designs, comics, theatre, concepts, shows, movies… whatever comes our way or we make our way.
by the other way: this is how you turn a Fuck Around and Find Out into a good thing and not a waste of time. why I’m listening to Naomi Wolf’s Geneva Bible readings on her substack and trying to move stories ways ideas back to the original inspiration for America and try to do my part to right us back to all that is so amazing open accepting and weird about this country.
so my new son enables me to not worry about getting a distracting job as i can just start to WRITE, which i intend to do after taking a short break and stretching into the sun again.
so this is how i know i’m back. because of ENERGY. money can’t buy energy. and when i got jittery excited by covering some camera in the neighbor’s yard pointing up at me when others here would just suffer it, i cannot one cannot buy that ENERGY.
i was beaten down because i didn’t want to be surprised by cops and some accusation i don’t know about again and get taken to jail for 5 days while the kitties starve and get freaked out and hide for days.
now that my son will be here i can be me.
you know how i know the camera was there? because when i saw this camera first thing in the morning at 7am when i went out to say hello to my birds, i know every twig and leaf and no shiny plastic camera has a place there… (plus you can FEEL it. that’s why ubiquitous surveillance kills all of life spontaneity and kills opportunities to embarrass yourself which is necessary for new thought ideas and ways)…
i was so angry at the intrusion on my holy time, i wanted to immediately throw a tshirt over it from where i was. but instead I smoked some weed to calm down enough to take clear photos with my shaking-with-rage-hands before i promptly went downstairs and climbed the neighbor’s fence to push this mysterious spy camera on me, down out of the branches, and cover the lens with duct tape.
I felt jittery and not beaten down and afraid anymore. i see what’s going on and how pathetic this all is but how right i was when i figured mr carol cosgrove pegged and impregnated her wife, bill cosgrove, to make their kreepy karpetbagger kid, little liam cosgrove.
This is my little devouring sister shit i never saw because i was too busy loving and living life or running for my own. but now i see the game. it is not harmless. i do no one any good by ignoring it or giving way to make others feel okay.
i must mock it bring its evil to light because lincoln shaw tries to play a man on tv but is a complete fucking pussy punk ass bitch and cunt spitting pained strained and long since drained drops of old urine at us from on high at his buzzard perch on 135 mountain spring ave.
no dice.
no. we’re gonna have fun now. i’ve got stories. documented stories.
our next stories i am ready to start writing now that i have a main draft of a libel defense, from which i will see what other cases i can peel off the source.
the rent reduction is bigger than any the supervisor at the rent board had ever seen, as they’re usually around 50 pages, and that is me ruthlessly editing out my completely and utterly useless horrified indignant emotional fluff. I found that supervisor at the Rent Board refreshingly human full of heart and fascinating.
i’m learning how to organize how to think how to face this evil and to show it to light while covering my ass.
this may be jumbled. i blew all my German side’s organization on the Lopez vs Lincoln Shaw Rent Board Petition. it’s tight.
i can use what i learned from my Secret Attorney Angel Man as we navigate the new world because he teaches me how they THINK. he hasn’t told me “why” but even he doesn’t know. that’s why he’s helping me on the low even though there’s a very dangerous conflict of interest.
i will protect him. i just want some of you following in my general direction to know that They show up: Angels everywhere. James was one. So are We.
We are beautiful when we wanna be. We go ghetto so fast now and get hella ugly. attitude=ugly. / chill = makes you look young. vanity makes me like this. truth! and hedonism. being an asshole doesn’t feel good. it’s like being infested with angry writhing hot pepper maggots.
i’m back. because even Miss Kamala Lopez apparently felt my jittery relief and excitement as i merely put tape on the lens. she felt the electrical charge of life and i’m back… all the way down in LA and thought about me.
Now the rent board will go through it and we’ll fix whatever i need to fix for its proper submission to the landlord and bigger-boss Rent Board people.
it’s off!
My Secret Attorney Angel looked over my papers early on and strongly advised me not to settle. They’ll wanna settle he said; up until Thursday I’d also really really wanted to settle and be done with all this. I was in the middle of actively trying to convince my Secret Angel Attorney Man figure out how to avoid the Rent Board and settle and do this our way because we were grown folks for pete’s sake—-weren’t we?— let’s be adults and negotiate amongst each other for a better world than any “system” can envision!
James was an engineer-mind through and through, and taught this emotional freaky leo girl the total logic of being chill and figuring out a new way that makes sense and is beneficial for both of us. we have to get rid of the victim/persecutor stories. nowhere for either to go. besides once he paid attention and sometimes agreed with MY logic, i stopped needing to be so twitchy emotional and defensive. it was like, “okay. that’s interesting.” the disagreements were the best and longest conversations i have new questions about even after death. what a man. i was so lucky.
i never knew to even ask for him! that’s the best when that happens in life. it’s that walking on water in faith story.
Back to the reality of negotiating with avowed dedicated assholes who don’t won’t can’t see you as human or your life valuable: I’d just listened to Naomi Wolf talk about the 10 Plagues and i knew that Pharaoh was gonna choose Death.
i say listen but i read ahead in my own Geneva Bible first, then along with her reading, because learning the font and reading the Olde English makes my toes curl with the happiness of some kind of ancestral recognition “oh this makes a lot of sense why don’t we use a tilde instead of an ‘m’ or ‘n’ to shorten a word!” and knowing).
And then when I saw that camera in my neighbor’s tree pointing up at me, i said to my Secret Angel Attorney, “okay, you’re right. the Rent Board it shall be and no settling.”
How do you prevail against THAT? i am! i am! i already have…
Scotlyn this is also for you. And Jim Moore, thanks for being willing to have my financial back even though i told you that would mean i’d failed and that in this lifetime i wasn’t successful in proving energy ideas love and creativity is the rock paper scissors answer that beats cash money on the barrel head every time.
it’s a fight for our humanity in a world that strives to turn us into whores.
ENDCAT No. 1 coming right up…
x
