I had a wonderful and kind invitation to my Tita Levy's house for Thanksgiving. I, sadly, did not make it there and slept most of the day instead. It has been happening a lot lately. I had thought it was because of my lack of food to eat which, of course, is always exacerbated by the testosterone that people still sneak into my room and inject me with. When you inject a natural woman with this much testosterone, it raises her metabolism AND moves her natural fat storage around to make her look pregnant... among many other things that are undeniable indicators.
Well, during that evening I made some major conclusions about the level of personal privacy and terror in the US these days. When was the last time anyone out there did NOT feel the burn of a camera on the skin?... particularly "security" cameras. Did nobody else remember how the Rodney King trials cemented the inability of any camera footage of any sort to be considered any sort of credible or conclusive evidence of anything? And now, all of these years later, with all of the special effects and photo-manipulative technology we have today, why would anybody believe any sort of supposed "camera-captured" image as anything but interesting to look at? We all know none of it has any credibility.
Anywho, the voices pumped into my ears told me Friday morning that I had again been attacked on Thursday night. For months now I have been regularly physically violated by what the voices in my head so eloquently call "ass restrictors." It basically means that for about three days after that particular rape my body is too locked down to allow anything to escape from my backside. It is highly uncomfortable, to use the art of understatement, and a blatant form of torture. I barely noticed this time, not just because of the frequency at which these attacks occur on my body, but because I barely have enough money to eat any food these days, anyway. That was Thursday night.
Friday, after sleeping in hours and hours later than usual due to the drug they inject me with in hopes of making me forget it happens, I actually went dancing that night. It is so difficult not to be my natural self. I, of course, did not sleep Friday night. That is what happens to most people after we are raped. It is a symptom of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Hmmm.... yes, Saturday night I went dancing, again. And I did actually sleep that night. Sunday I did not dance, but I did fortuitously run into Mr. Cuddlebunny at Specs.
Sunday night, again in my sleep, I was raped for the second time this last holiday weekend. I knew that the voices pumped into my head through nanotechnology were and still are not mine originally because of their ineloquence. For example, Monday morning they told me that the "ass restictor" was still in effect while I had been violently (to put it mildly) "ass raped" the night before. I, of course, did not sleep Monday night nor last night due to the Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I did notice this morning that the bruises are still on my left arm and that the reinfection of my face with whatever it is that fails to scar me anyway is already receding.
My rapist these last two times was not who it used to be. That was obvious not just due to the increased level of cruelty in the act nor because of the increased amount of remaining physical evidence. I will get to that reason for apparentness in a moment.
Monday night while out dancing (It is so difficult to deny who I really am.) I met a man named Tory. He was in town for complicated reasons and really wanted to take me back to his hotel room with him. I did not take the time to explain that recent rape victims are not often known to willingly participate in sex. I merely did my best to explain that I have never been that type of lady ever anyway. Not that such really is a type of lady, anyway.
Last night I went dancing AGAIN. Have I mentioned yet that I cannot be anyone but myself? I went back to Mojito, the same mostly Latin dance floor I had been on Friday and Monday nights as well. The Teague Trio was scheduled to play, but more and more local musicians kept popping by to play with them. I knew Joe, Teague, Brian, and Toby already. Jordan introduced himself to me, an I meant to introduce myself to the lady saxophonist Peggy who slipped away before I could. The bartender was a bit out of place. He kept talking to his friends over the beautiful music. Also, my newest rapist self-identified himself while I was there. I know his face now.
Among the oddest bits of all this, Teague kept making anal sex references all night. They were really rather insensitive to me, seeing as I am a recent violent "ass rape" victim. Seriously? A song about KY jelly used for anal sex? We all know my most recent rapist did not have that common courtesy for me. Also, we all know I have never made pornography... at least not willingly. So how would he know that such a song would help traumatize me? Besides, making unwilling pornography of someone is a further form of rape, and selling it for money (including any advertising or commercials) is forced prostitution. Hypothetically speaking, of course, if it were occurring regularly at the hands of a governing body or any other organization, it would make it many forms of war crime if there were a war and many forms of crimes against humanity if there were no war. We all know I don't get the news. Then again, we know that any and all forms of photo or video are noncredible, anyway.
The oddest tidbit of all this is how the voices pumped into my head keep saying "Colorado" now for no apparent reason. Huh? The government has no better place to spend all of its debt money?
At least, it has been verified by our government that I am still the only person who speaks only the truth about myself. That, at the very least, is comforting. I wish more things were.