The
Bum
Classification,
CHAPTER
00028
I
went shopping today for the first of my monthly shops for November
food. Each month, I try to do my big shop early, my smallest one in
the middle for small staple type items like salt or pepper or roach
motels or hot chocolate bags. At the near end, I do my smaller shop
than the biggest one, but more than just staple items. I try to spend
around my budget of 15o, then 100, then 50, maximum. If I go under or
over, in my initial times, I have more or less to work with at the
later ones. I was right on budget for today, if I had used my food
card for my tiny little helper-amount, but I plan on using that on my
final third late in the month. I checked my bank balance to be sure
all is where it is supposed to be, before hitting the Publix, over ay
my local TD-Bank Branch on Ohio Avenue, across from my Walgreen
Pharmacy local branch. Tomorrow, when I go to my nut job clinic for
my monthly therapy talk and eval, I will pick up my monthly
anti-anxiety meds that I am prescribed, my Buspar and my Ativan
generic prescriptions. Also, I will pick up some water retention and
lowering blood pressure meds, tomorrow, while out at the clinic, and
then when I return back to town, to my local Walgreen Pharmacy. Try
and keep tabs on me as much as you can, Sheriff Mascara, kind sir.
Thank you.
While
at my bank, a nasty enemy Milituforce middle aged couple around forty
give or take a few years, came in and the dude cut in front of me and
went straight to the teller, ahead of me in the normal line area. His
wife had to be as tall if not taller than Paula King, around close to
six and a half feet or so. But I ignored these nasty people, and the
teller told him that I was ahead. I am a loyal TD Bank customer, and
always am given courtesy and respect there. I always loved Commerce
Bank and now the TD, since the late first decade merging. You go TD,
you rock, YO!!!!
None
of you can begin to fathom the wild ride I am having, as I travel
endlessly in hyperspace, watching those dam black tops ahead of me in
the heat, look all wet, when really, they're dry, in or out of the
morning light! The problem is that I have never admitted to my blog
audience, one giant huge dam thing, and you know what, you won't dam
ass believe me anyway, but it is time to let this giant clawing
scratching evil deadly cat, OUT OF ITS BAG, and so, I WILL. You too
are having a pretty wild ride, but you choose to only hear the sounds
at the narrow middle end of the spectrum of all of it. It is like you
and me listening to a super stereo set, like my system back up in
Joysey, where the amplifier had a full range without any drop off in
decibels, from 5 hertz to 80,000 hertz, and my audio monitors were
fixed to receive most of that full range, without drop off. But if
you only have the ability to hear the normal adult frequency range,
at least for men, as women have better hearing overall averaged out,
than men do within thirty years of age difference; but let's say
averaged to both of the genders, at age thirty with a tolerance range
of a decade, and make it 40 hertz to 13,500 hertz. That same stereo
is going to sound much greater for the young girls with a full 20
hertz to 20,000 hertz hearing range, and much less great, to those
who may be somewhat older and deafer, and hear only 90 hertz to 7,500
hertz. And how about the dogs that hear on average from 15 hertz to
22,500 hertz? Now instead of sound frequency, what if we just measure
life reception in points, of these same numbers. If I am tuned to
pick up things from the full five to eighty thousand life-points of
reception, this is why my blogs appear to be as if I am either a
total fruit loops nut job crazy case, or else, living the wildest
craziest life imaginable. Hey disbelieve this all you want to, but
you have all gone LIFE-BLIND, when you no longer are a child, and
decided to grow up and join the Mackey-McDowell team from Cooley
Wormhole Hall. You call this maturing and becoming an adult. Putting
away the childish things and behaviors. I am all for that. As our
frontal brain temporal lobes mature and form and we are fully frown,
our brain instrument literally makes these automatic adjustments so
that we can then find it easier to behave better, and not stamp our
feet and cry at a store if they don't have favorite ice cream in
stock, as we might have done at 3 or even 6, or even 9, Mister Tesla
Callio Magicdigits! Still, you can behave like ladies and gentlemen,
and even conform to the sociological norms that adulthood requires,
without disconnecting ourselves from our true inner-soul child
selves, that to quote Jenny Ghost Whispering Crossing Over Hewett,
“stops us from being able to talk to children from heaven in
Quakertown, Pennsylvania, back in 1962”. Well, actually, I
paraphrased what she would say on her great hit TV-SHOW, and just
added in replacement words that would take her idea of truth here,
and fit my own personal life's experiences, into the equation, so to
speak.
All
of this and way more, is all producing lots of mirages for all the
entities that become existent, within these ten dimensions, or the
two-way fifth dimensional hyperspace systems, dreamed down off of the
PLANK ASTRAL, which is dreamed off of the great
singularity-void-infinity. The ten dimensions of String Theory, and
even Quantum-Dynamics in general, are always better understood, by
those like the character in her great TV-SHOW, and myself, an da rare
few others, who still choose to fake it a bit in th e adult world,
and remain in the magical realm of childhood, with or without fucking
Geico insurance Company, and preferably WITHOUT, forever. In truth,
none of us are getting a second older, and time is nothing more than
another mirage along life's great highway of hot black top tar road
ways. Hay, if this was 2010, and I was still working up at the
Harvest Food Outreach Center at 25th Street and Orange
Avenue, I might come home one day and retrieve a message from Sheriff
Ken Mascara's hotel (County Lock-Up) from BOO! My best to my
'wonderful; daughter, bud, and stay out of the Mascara Motel, YO!
END
TRANSMISSION.
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