Episode Details

Evidently the motorcycles begin to now attack when I am at rest , on line, and not recording.

However, once I begin recording, they stop.

This has only been since I've been intentionally collecting recordings and data to add to my report to the NYPD and any applicable law enforcement agencies, as this continual threat seems to be politically motivated—and motorcycles, mopeds, and other motorized vehicles being used as a form of psychological terrorism as a direct threat to public health and safety. Terror stalking.

Gang stalking.

This may be a politicized attempt to promote or enforce gentrification or other political agendas.

Living//Loving life on a server,

Doesn't it seem wonderful?

Let's face it—

It's Fast Friday and I'm not going to be

Bouncing off the walls, or anything—

But I might be prone to a lot of

Critical thinking,

And though it's an expensive maneuver,

And risky expenditure,

The fact of the matter is—

I haven't really been doing anything.

I've been not complacent,

But stagnant—

So perhaps maybe this little detour

Will be just the thing I need

To erase some of the damage that's been done

To my psyche—

Sitting in this terribly loud apartment

In Brooklyn

Trying to find peace

And make music;

When the answer all along is that

I need to increase my visibility

In order to find what's needed;

The fact is—

Knowing where to go

Or what to do

Or who to meet

Is not going to come in isolation—

No, not at all.

It would come from a neatly designed

—whatever, I just got bored.

Perhaps if I study hard enough,

One day, I could complete my studies somewhere

Like Harvard,

Or Columbia—

But first,

I'll need a new diploma in my actual name.

You see, nobody's giving any kind of real fuck about my music.

I can't keep throwing money at it thinking that the way to success is going to be making enough money, to spend enough money, to hopefully buy the attention of the robotic masses, and eventually maybe even a club owner or festival promoter

Who might be looking to put me on.

Don't get me wrong— my music is good.

But we live in a computer, and let's also realize:

That with the noise in this building,

And the overall head trip of counting up my pennies for every little thing I need,

I'm starting to get physically ill,

Just sitting here, understanding that

To look the part, one must prioritize

An expensive beauty regimen—

Which either would leave me at the mercy of some man,

Willing to do these things for me,

Or that I might earn this myself…

As you see,

I've chosen the latter route—

The more challenging, perhaps,

However,

Leaving my celibacy intact,

And granted, otherwise uninterested

In the males at my level of circumstance

For any purposes beyond entertainment—

—seek no other actual companionship at all.

I like myself,

I love myself—

And though feeling uglier and uglier

The more I stare into the face of my telephone screen—

I am wonderfully beautiful all on my own.

—but—

The masses expect a spectacle,

And so,

It becomes part of my job, as an entertainer,

Part of my repertoire—

—have mercy—

(I'm going to choose to ignore that, sort of)

To do at least what has become expected of me as a woman—

To be “pretty” —

And though the makeup and hair and nails

Might be fake,

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