SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0333
SUPPLEMENTAL ENTRY
START BLOG:
My dirt bag piece of shit neighbor next door is PERSECUTING AND HARASSING ME. All day long and every day again. He waits for me to pass his door when I come home tired from work, and as soon as I get inside my apartment, BOOM, a million watts of sub-woofers strike my poor pathetic walls. He started attacking me this morning. I live with total sick demonic whack jobs, and am looking to get out of here as soon as possible, and my letter to the Attorney General is now in the mail, because laws are broken, my lease promises me some degree of living in my apartment. This death siege on me is unrelenting, it never stops, and it is worse than any mother fucking thing I have ever seen in my entire mother fucking cunt eating cock chewing fucking ass life.
Very soon, I promise this world one thing. Huge fantastic covered lids will be blown off of Atlantic City and its multiple gigantic cover ups and corruptions. Only what has been done to me will be discussed, I do not care one bit if somebody is not trying to wipe me out. Speaking of wiping out, until the world is struck with huge devastating destructive damage via Magnesonic, this will go on and on without any fucking let up. All it takes is for me to go somewhere in a parallel universe, come back here, and then electronically recreate that item. Last April, many of you know that I took a song that was sung to me in a parallel universe, discussed often in my summer time of 2008 blogs back in New Jersey; and went to a studio in PSLFLUSAESMWG, and had it done as close to the way I remembered it from this powerful 1997 “DREAM”. Dreaming is no more than the natural exploration of the parallel universes of 5th dimensional hyperspace. Even though I sampled my own voice and had the machine sing the song, since the CHEMTRAILS wiped out my singing voice completely, which in my case is a favor to the world but that's neither hair nor there, huh DAG, but even with this not being exactly the way it was in the 'dream', doing it as close to the way it was done in the dream, and using the world of electronics, since electrons are 5th dimensional subatomic particles totally not understood in 2101, I was able to cause a terrible outbreak of American twisters, plus a lot of other monster ass weather all over the place. This backed shit off for me enough to get me out of the hoods of 26th Street, and into the hoods of Lowlifeville of 7th Avenue. Anmyone with no consideration about annoying their neighbors, is low life, and it has nothing whatsoever to do with race, color, religion, national origin, gender, age, or any other categorical possibility. Soon, I may do the unthinkable, and have Scylla sing LOVE IS FOR CARPENTERs, digitally of course and sampled of course, 1980 all over again, right time traveling copyright Office, well you always wanted to know TRUMP if I could get my kid at age sixteen, and bring her to your rotten Plaza Casino back in 'oh-nine. With a little increase in speed, voices go to the ages that they were when we were younger, because the human larynx slows down from the second we are born all throughout our lives, and all voices slowly deepen. I do not know if I want to go that far, but if I do, and post it onto my U-T Account, the world most likely will go to at least having many many 1980 Mount Saint Helen reenactments. Don't be too quick to think this is all a fucking joke folks. Just get Steve Hawking a chance to examine my words carefully, and then you'll get your socks, shoes, and all the gold in fort Knox, blown up your ass holes, YO. Later on, I'll tell huge shit about how to become a major player in the worlds of the exploratron. For right now, GOOGLE up GAWNUM, GOOGLE up FASCITAR, and if you are reading this in 2089 or further out via lunar satellite time delay attachment field systems, tune back into 2007 internet and GOOGLE up the www.morianity-foundation.com/ website. Do not look for me any longer where I work at the harvest folks, it has all been sanitized over since I shot off my mouth.
This fucking cunt world is really asking for shit, from here all the way to the Grant avenue exit on 95, right Jessica, my beautiful boss?
YES COLAMAN. A MORON INDEED DOES KNOW THE END.
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