Honesty Rant

Hello there, I pray that this reaches you in decent spirits today. I apologise for the six day hiatus, I hope that time spent away from you, my oh so precious White Voider, is minimised in the future.

          Now, what is there to say, apart an open display of honesty? I really am glad to be with you again, because I’ve just splurged all of my finances on a hedonistic bender! I feel abso-bloody-lutely rotten empty and hollow! As always, however, I’ll pull myself back into something that resembles a normal level of functioning. By the grace of God, understand…

          As is per usual when I am trying to bounce back from a spiritual clothesline (that stiff arm wrestling move), words are proving a struggle to come by. I just want to curl into a ball and pour my soul out in a tearful lament. But moping gets you nowhere. What does 50cent do, when times get hard for him? He doesn’t whinge and ball. He gets more G-Unit. When the going gets tough, and all that…

          I’m almost sure you’re not interested in all the saddening dreary dismal minutiae of a life not lived. You’re probably like me, someone who clings to the positive. I attend a weekly therapy group called Positive Thoughts each week. It’s led by a woman named Sue. She comes across as such a strong and happy woman that it is almost scary. I sure wouldn’t like to cross her. She has some very decent ground rules for the group which everyone respects. I know of other groups where people are playing on their mobile phones while people are talking.

          It is a small pipe dream of mine to perhaps run my own group one day, because I’ve been going along to them for so many years now. I think it would have to be based around psychosis. I’ve lined up the perfect partner to co-facilitate it with me. She’s only a young girl but she knows what she’s talking about and she has a heart of gold.

          We’d discuss fracturing of the mind and things like that, go all Mk-Ultra and Spirit Realm-y. If other young people attended with real problems it would be exceptionally therapeutic for all concerned. I know a guy named Duncan who suffers from Health Anxiety who started his own group off. He said it sank like a lead welly but at least he gave it a go.

          Duncan complains at lengths about things like moles and boils. Like me you might find this…what is the word here…irrelevant? Insignificant? I can’t quite think of the word I’m looking for. Anyway, to him, Health Anxiety means constantly overthinking about morbid thoughts relating to death. When he put it like that, I gained a newfound respect for his condition.

          G-Unit has no time for depression.

          To give Duncan credit, he always does something to act on any new fears which might arise, like booking online visits to health clinics after googling the ins-and-outs of what he’s worried about. That’s half of the problem, he admits. Usually, men don’t want to talk about any physical ailments they might be harbouring. When I got involved in a ruckus at my mate’s 18^th Birthday Party, my nose got broken. It has been partially crooked ever since, but I hardly ever even think about it, not even when I’m looking at it shaving in the mirror. We’ll talk about anything but the crux of the problem, as this blog demonstrates.

          I could go into the severe stresses of life I face on a daily basis, but I’m a man, and men don’t talk. Not unless they are lucky enough to have a personal online White Voider, who listens to everything they have to say. Yippee!

          My new literary recruit Amber (11 year old neighbour), is still pumping me for ideas. She wants something of merit to put on her future blog. I’ve suggested she get a picture of herself with her English teacher or something. I recommend she get herself into fishing so she can get herself a fishing photo too. They’re so mantelpiece-y, fishing photos. I have one myself, holding my first fish. A 12-pounder, I think. Maybe I’ll let you see it one day. x   

Amber's 1st Pamp

I don’t think you know but by now I’ve written about twenty three pamphlets (pamp) of fiction at around 20,000 words in length, novella. They’re little books which are stapled together instead of having a spine. They look great, handy-sized ( A5) and tidy.

 Yesterday my neighbour, 11 year old Amber (she calls her dad The Crumpet Manager), said she’d been writing, and she wanted to follow in my footsteps by producing her 1^st pamp. So far she’s got 12 pieces of flash fiction she started in school last year and she plans to release them in an anthology. We talked all day about pamp and I gave her all my insider tips and techniques. She later wrote all evening, doing 12 different character bios for her stories. She has agreed to be my recruit and I’ve agreed to be her mentor.

 Mostly we talked about the front and the back matter at the beginning and end of pamp. I think these two sections of a book are very important. If I’m skimming through and over books I have no intention of reading, I’ll always read the front and the back matter first, before any italics I can find. We talked about sleeve design, stickers, signing and numbering, 2^nd editions, illustrations, forewords, afterwords, and loads of interesting other stuff. It was a truly fantastic day being in such close contact with a young keen eager child who already is good with word. I gave her absolutely everything I had to know and didn’t hold back on a single thing. People were jealous of our conversation as we discussed pamp, pamp and pamp!

 I read her an old story called Nanny’s Cooker and she loved it. She’s promised me a copy of her 1^st pamp in return. I can’t wait to see how creative and talented she is.

Perturbator

 This is how I would like to be able to draw like.

The goal to aim for.

Still Dreaming!

The Latest Images I Have To Offer

 

Hello there. I hope you are viewing this artwork in a positive frame of mind today. I myself feel fresh and excited about posting it. Some of it I did just yesterday in a 2-hour class, deciding to try to be brave with the pens again. I was inspired in part by a schizophrenic artist by the name of Rosalie Schweiker who makes greetings cards. They are very pleasant and appealing but they didn’t knock my socks off in a jaw-dropping manner so I thought I would have a go myself. I’ve always postulated that I can’t draw for love nor money but I don’t let that fact stop me from having a stab at it. Nor should you, if you are artistically challenged like me. Just step into that courageous furnace and fashion out some fiery hot rods of original concept artwork. The rewards are great.

My goal on a few were to be as cheap, cheery and colourful as I could with the limited range of materials at my disposal. Others I wanted a bit more complex. Complexity is a big thing for me – I like my intricate doodles. None of this is anything like the grand scale work I would be capable of if I had my own studio, but again, I don’t let the lack of a studio prevent me from having a jolly old bash at producing something fun and entertaining.

I had a project including photography and canvasses which unfortunately didn’t come to pass because I lost all my canvasses when I cleared out all the possessions in my flat because I felt God telling me to do so. I don’t think he was the real God, just a spirit impersonating him, but his instruction worked. I emptied everything which wasn’t tied down and then had a disastrous flood from my washing machine just to make sure that whatever survived my initial clearance got ruined to boot. (I actually got sectioned for this flood, but that’s another story.) Anyway, the result was starting my materialistic life all over again. Not a bad thing if you’re part of a minimalistic religious sect, but not the best if you’re an original gangster who has a penchant for gold.

The project was basically a lot of abstract canvasses in acrylic paint with wordart in Scrabble letters stuck over the top. I was going to use these as backgrounds for toy models to pose in front of such as Ironman or whoever and take photographs. So essentially, instead of a Marvel hero poised in front of a sunset, they would be stood in front of one of my abstract wordart canvasses. The effect would have been awesome – please forgive me for not describing it too eloquently. Artwork tends to be like that (hard to describe). Just imagine putting a teddy bear in front of a painting and taking a picture of it and you are somewhere along the right track of where I was heading with the project. It was in the making for several years so very sad to see go, along with my university portfolios of course. I haven’t been to university but I was thinking about it.

The images here are in my rawest capability, without Photoshop. Without that program, I really am quite hapless as you can tell. I have got hopes of soon returning to Photoshop however, so these images will be a good start when I get going on it again. Any image can be vastly improved on Photoshop, I think it is a miraculous piece of technology. Messing around with the effects kit on some images or photographs is a rich and fruitful enterprise which ticks the time away in hurried enjoyable chunks.

With Art, I want to be reckless and heroic, like a child. No child is scared of drawing and nor should you be. Just accept that you aren’t the best but remember your passion for the subject and your determination to have your efforts visible and available for criticism. The only way to improve is to have a go.

Vaping

 The head of the NHS has deemed that the modern equivalent of the Pakistani corner shop stop hospitalizing our youngsters. Can we call them ‘paki’ shops anymore? Probably not. I wouldn’t want to, because they’re just honest business people clocking in for work every day. No need to insult them. What’s the main difference between a Turk and a Muslim by the way? Don’t worry, it isn’t a joke, it’s just that there are so many different nationalities of colour around my back yard these days that it becomes hard knowing how to refer to them each individually – the dirty ripping paki bast*rds.

Amanda Hitchmoore, chief executive, described the rising numbers of admissions as a ‘load of f**king bullsh*t’. She also attacked Best One Convenience Store on Station Road in Oldham for their overwhelming and ‘quite unnecessary’ over-the-top selection of vapes from most of the major companies, saying that it looked like a giant had eaten too many packets of Skittles and chucked up over the back wall. Is Skittles a flavour yet? If not, give it time. Bacon, Dill Pickle and Buttered Popcorn (related to Popcorn lung) are already on the menu. What recommendations might you have in your locker? Chicken & Waffles – already on the menu. Personally, I’d like to see a Sunday Brunch E-liquid appear. All the trimmings please but easy on the apple sauce, merci very much.

Speaking at an NHS expo in sunny Manchester, she said there were far too many admissions for vaping-induced f**ked-up lungs in patients forming the age range of Ibiza Club 18-30. There were fourteen sh*tloads in June, up by 70.526 percentages, which she maintains is far too many. The most common condition is ‘wet lung’, where your lungs get sopping wet and water starts filling up your mouth, hindering speech, eating and drinking. It can be known to cause panic in the individual. This is succeeded by ‘wet brain’, where E-liquid starts dribbling from your nose and one cannot think clearly. Who needs mind control when the youth of today, far be it from riding bicycles and climbing trees, are inducing ‘wet brain’ upon themselves for the princely price of £5.99. When I was a youngster I bombed acid and played Call Of Duty, and that wasn’t even the weekend. Forget the asthma.

Her remarks come after the Royal College of Paediatrics & Child Health warned that all our kids will be dead by the turn of the next Harvest Moon, adding that nobody knows anything about the chemicals therein them.

Vape takes you away from the ciggie: But what takes you away from the vape? Deep.

A spokesperson said: “This is all cobblers, they’re safe. We’re just making too much money coz it’s a brill invention and every brethren is insane jealous. What’s cooler than a bright electric fag with a light on it? They only taste like hot hoover bag dust at the bottom, and none that I know of have ever exploded in my head. I feel like a dragon when I’m exhaling my ELF bars. And all the fancy packaging and colour is nothing but sexy. If you don’t like it, go and smoke a tarry cancer stick. Those cheap ones from under the counter should see you off in a couple of months. I’m living. I’m vaping. I’m happy.”

 

 © The Anonymous Journalist 2023

Garden Batter

 

Police have banged to rights a crazed loon who battered a young boy in Devon. Joseph Love, 54, was a recluse who never left his home, the kind of person who kept his giro payment dates post-it noted on the fridge. Incidentally, he is in receipt of Employment Support Allowance and has been for well over a decade, since he lost his job as professional paint drying watcher (this is a real vacancy which supervises painted rooms). He had a stained duvet nailed to the inside of his front living room window. Although it’s hard to believe, he has a previous conviction for suffocating rabbits in a DVD player loading tray. Not to mention his conviction for causing actual bodily harm by throwing biscuits. The judge described Love’s heart as a ‘holed out star’.

            The young boy was in tears when he was getting battered by Love, reported to have happened because the boy’s football smashed the window in question. Roland Maran was only 15 years old at the time of beating.

            Love has a habit of battering young boys. He escaped court on a technicality last time after someone retrieving a ball from his garden crushed his flowers. He lives on a corner house by a park and sees a lot of ‘ball activity’.

            The first victim got leathered, wasted and pasted before he got battered. His dad, who hadn’t been tall enough to lean over the fence and witness proceedings, shouted above the howls of pain: “Take your stinking paws off of my son!” The lad had been so traumatised that he developed a speech impediment, started wetting his own undies, refused to answer his phone, and didn’t want to play out anymore. The father insists it has ruined his son’s childhood, and that he can give evidence of past history against Love for Mr. Maran Senior.

            Love’s strange wife was charged with complicity for holding down the young boy as Love battered him. She possessed a cricket bat and a sharpened iron file. It is noted that Lizabeth Love (without the E) often laid booby traps in the garden for kids who were looking for balls to fall prey to. One neighbour said that one night, glinting in the moonlight, she perceived a giant man-sized mousetrap, a lasso hanging from a tree, and a hole in the earth covered up with tarpaulin.

The couple have both been detained in the same mixed prison. Lizabeth has gone on record saying that she is ‘ecstatic’ at this close connection to her husband, saying that now she doesn’t have to write long distance letters to communicate with the felon.

“I might even bump into him in the chapel,” she adds. “Then we will be free to talk as man and wife without getting persecuted by the British press for doing nothing more than reacting to horrible little nippers who keep trespassing on our property. They don’t listen to conventional means and there’s only one way to deal with them: Batter, batter, and batter.”

Length of detention: 2 years 6 months

© The Anonymous Journalist 2023

Lippy

 Skelmersdale-based Jan Balonky’s lippy pout is unmissable. She practises pouting every single day without fail, usually while the rice and vegetables are cooking. At its heaviest weight, her acid filler was about the same weight as her downstairs bottomless rejuvenated clunge (vagina). She said, “At one point I couldn’t stop injecting botox into my boater.” (Boat race – face…cockney rhyming slang.) And she adds, “I just love the feeling of making my cake hole bigger. It’s the first thing I notice about a person. I show it off by sitting next to the workies on their lunch break by the scaffolding and sucking on a Rowntrees’ lollipop stick. I judge the day’s success by how many whistles I get. I do have other assets, such as boob implants, but that’s another story.”

            One recent survey done at ten to five on a Friday afternoon by half a dozen anti-surgery university graduates declared that all enhancement procedures from apprentice scheme cowboy practitioners should only be labelled as deformed bullshit.

            Jan Balonky started dissolving her massive laughing tackle at home using a DIY BOGOF product from Wilko’s. She claimed it was easier to use than the higher-priced alternative in Superdrug. Still, she claims that 70.5% of the solution is cheap quality garbage manufactured in Bangladeshi, and that she tops it up with a her own concoction of coconut oil and honey which she buys from the Asda up road. Once, when she was off her head on benzos, she inserted a male steroid she purchased from the local hard-knock gym. She said it stung for two days solid and she couldn’t eat crisps or other foodstuff with sharp edges because of ulcers.

            Every time she performs treatment on herself, she calls it a ‘lip challenge’. Usually, there is at least half a bottle of wine involved. Jan used to have a cocaine addiction when she was a footballer’s wife but beat her demons when her partner, who she names ‘Goldenballs’, got ‘relegated’ to the ‘reserves’ and split from her. He was generally a bad influence who failed to share her passion with lip enhancement. Plus he couldn’t even have a shandy because of team commitments. Jan comments that the surgeries and alcoholism go hand-in-hand although she never has more than two bottles of wine on one occasion, only except when she’s bonding with her local jigsaw club and they turn it into an all-day party.

            Ever a glutton for punishment, Jan sucks on boiled eggs and batteries to bruise the area before posting photographic evidence in the form of close-up selfies online to millions of followers. One of the most common thread of enquiry is what would a blow-job feel like from her. She said further details of anything resembling a sexual nature can be discovered through her private webcast, where she peels bananas sexually, licks on lolly ices, and gets double-anally penetrated by a couple of horny big buck black dudes (only 30 pounds a month).

            Her favourite shade of lipstick is maroon.

            (That’s mine too.)

© The Anonymous Journalist 2023

Thank you

 

It looks like I am finally attracting some visitor numbers to my blog, after noticing a definite spike in the tally. I’ve never paid much attention to visitor numbers; I’m not interested in the demographics of the people who might be reading. I’m sure there’s a way to do it, like Google, who know everything about everyone, but that’s not for me.

I don’t know the first thing about you, reading this. You could be anyone or anything. Moreover, I’ve no wish to know the first or second or even last thing. The only thing I care about is readership. To writers, that’s as important as the noughts in their bank account. Or so I’ve heard.

I’ve lived in the shadows for years and years, all of my life. The only thing that can jockey with a regularly read blog is a publication I had in a magazine in my late twenties. That had a 'circa' of 750. I’m not sure if the magazine went into 750 institutions or there were only actually 750 copies of the magazine going into less institutions. In any case, I was chuffed, and manifestly proud of the story. Being reasonably appeased with having gutted out yet another story is one thing, but being manifestly proud is another.

The last thing I want to do at the moment is share some fiction with anyone who might be roused by what I suddenly have to say. Some people think that it’s made-up baloney, and not intellectual. Hear, hear – everyone’s entitled to an opinion, even though I disagree wholeheartedly. I think its sheer magic, what you can do with it.

I’m deciding whether to finish my latest book, HEADSWAP, or keep it going. Plenty of existential transgression and head-hopping contained within, although I am getting bored of typing it up. Typing up cursive is slow. I’m trying to look at the page, the screen and the keyboard all at the same time. It detracts from your focus. Typing this, straight out of the head, is no problem.

I’m struggling today. I just wanted to say thanks for reading, it means a mighty lot. You’ve granted me an extra motivation to drag myself to the library and use their computers. I’d be lost without it. I went to a poetry gig they hold here once a month, but numbers had dropped since the last time I went and the content wasn’t really stimulating enough. No offence, it’s just that the women there are mostly older, spitting about tulips and daisies in fanciful weather (done extremely well, it has to be said), while I’m fresh outta Compton and wanna rap about paranoid 32-legged monsters in the Seventh Circle. Just a pinch of difference there. Still, it was nice to show my face.

I left after ten minutes. If I can’t maintain a hunger for the spoken word, what chance has anything else got? Household chores, for example? I feel for those with ADHD. It must be terribly hard to hold a persuasion for anything at all. If you have it, then I insist you allow me to buy you a drink while you tell me all about it, only if you want to of course. After 5 minutes, I’m bored of everything, apart from sex. Don’t worry, I’m not about to expose my sex life here! You’d similarly be bored in minutes. That’s all it lasts.

Be back bigger and better soon. Really have got a hurting, wounded, lonely soul at the moment. In a few days I’ll be right as rain and enjoying talking with you again. Don’t worry if you’re a stranger, I’ll always think the best of you. It’s better this way. Writing is a psychic link. Think yourself lucky it’s one-sided, and you can now be you, and remain you, watching me go. Love, A x

Fapping, Origins

How much more have I got to talk about here on the blog? Well, I’ve got to get FAPPING out of my system. FAPPING is MASTURBATION and it’s bloody well embarrassing. That’s why I’ve got to get it out of my system. Because it doesn’t really belong in the life of a true original G (gangster), does it? Or does it? This is the type of question which arises immediately after bringing the subject up. How many more whopping questions will follow?

I need my matey Subject A for this one. He’s been around every block there is (even Jenny L’s) and he’s also DEAD DEAD HONEST to boot, much more DEAD DEAD HONEST than I’ll ever be. He can talk about anything to anyone. The guy has no shame.

“I never met a soul who wants to be a public fapper. Every dog is ashamed of it lad. I was chewed up by guilt for years over my fapping. I started out my first ever fap when I found a naughty playing card. It was the ❺ of clubs and it had a Chinese woman dribbling you know what down her chin with a big willy resting on her lips. I took it to the safety of a school roof next to the chimney (I sprained my ankle on the way back down) and fapped to it. Awesome, at the time, as a young boy who had never seen images.”

Can you still buy those porno playing crads? I wouldn’t mind a packet for the next poker session with the lads. Subject A’s second fap was a little less obvious.

“My second ever fap, and this is far harder to admit than that ❺ of clubs Chinese broad, was to Jamie Lee Curtis, the American actor. It was the bit in True Lies (1994) when she was posing in a very tight black dress with heels on. I fapped, coz I recall this very lucidly, for around a full 45 minutes. That seemed a long time back then, until I set my record fapping time at 54 hours many years later in adulthood.”

Hold up – You pulled the head of it for 54 hours solid? Straight up? Pardon me, but that’s bullshit.

“You might think so. I wish it was. But I’m just describing the facts. There was a whole lifetime of mechanical gears in operation to arrive at 54 hours though. That kind of thing doesn’t just happen overnight. I had learned behaviours entrenched deep within the members of my psyche – that’s the only and best way I know how to put it.”

What was your third fap to? Confess to piebald77 or die!

“That one’s easy. It was to a real hardcore pornographic film. My mate put it on (it belonged to his parents) one day in his house after we’d all gotten in from a night out. I’d just been battered and mugged by a couple of hooligans while almost out for the count on 60% proof rum, so I accepted the film differently because I was in a sensitive condition and in desperate need of a spiritual cocktail, if you will, to make me feel better about myself again. That explicit sexual imagery was like warm cockles on my soul, it made me not give a total sh*t about getting battered or mugged. The world could batter me and mug me all it wanted so long as I had a movie like this to watch. I’d take that deal any time of the day.”

What was it called, this movie?

“It was a rip-off of Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange (1971), entitled A Clockwork Orgy. The blonde bimbo, Olivia, was stunning, with a giant set of implanted knockers and a really cruel expression on her red lips, as she took willy and sucked willy and got spurted on by willy and all that. The money shot actually blew my socks off at the time. The idea of discharging a heavenly spritz over a bare naked woman was something new, fresh, titillating and powerful. The male actor must have been drinking liquidated egg whites for a week.”

Have to check it out. I know a site that does retro vids. We’ll leave it there because I need to do something else. Come back in a few days if you want, coz I know you got lots to say about what you call your ‘Life In Porn’. You up for it?

“All day. I’d just like to express, before I go, my sincere compassion to anyone going through this fapping guilt business. It’s a nightmare, but I can help.”

 

White Void; Back In The Day

Image: The legend that is Victoria Climbie.

The wonderful thing about blogging (or White Voiding) is that one can sit down at the ‘personal PC computer cryptic workstation’ and just peruse: What the dickens am I gunna write today? What is there to write about? Or not write about? Nothing. There’s nothing to not write about. Apart from politics, religion, and science. You want to read something boring, go and check out The Financial Times, The Independent, or The Daily Mail. You want to read something free and off the hook (can I describe myself that way?), then stick around here.

            The White Void on 'the cryptic' (PC) is not any longer actually a white void, because I change the colour of the screen whenever I type on Microsoft Word these days (still on Word, I know). It’s a cool feature, a great compliment to the brightness/contrast controls. Between them, you can get the screen glowing with just the right amount of ‘starkiness’ in a colour scheme of your preferred choice. Excellent late at night when the lights are down. Right now I’ve got the screen in a popular shade of charcoal grey (not that it matters), but you have to be careful, because, depending on the heaviness of the colour of the screen, it can make the flashing cursor difficult or impossible to see. Not that any of this matters. I’m just saying. About the White Void. On paper, White Void is White Void, because I don’t know any writers who print on coloured paper. I have wrote on teabag-stained paper though before, I hasten to admit. Isn’t it great, that teabag-staining trick? Probably the best cheap gimmick in art that I know of.

Do you know what I’m on about, or do I have to explain it? Just in case you’re thick, all you do is stain a piece of paper with a half-damp used teabag to create an old timeworn yellow effect. I do it all the time (going one step further to carefully burn the edges of the paper with a lighter to up the overall crispy blackened-edge worse for wear look – what’s that White Void you’re on about?).

Is that enough about the White Void? It’s never enough about the White Void. It’s like totally interesting, dude. Like how you dip your feet in, fall into it, then batter it. ATM (at the moment), I’m fairing terrifically well against this charcoal grey affair. Again, not that it matters. I’m just writing without a cause. A rebel without a gauze.

Do you remember gauzes? Way back when, doing a bit of weed? The very first store-bought cannabis pipe under the bridge maybe, or next to the bins, or behind the shed? Those days were good. The taste of the resin was timeless. The fact that it got you off your head was secondary, it was just the cool chic thing to do back then. Now it would affect me differently; I’d be too paranoid to enjoy the benefits (if there are any, apart from hearing music better). Perhaps you’re a blazer who loves his chong, and I say fair play to you. Wouldn’t it be nice for you to try my drug of choice for a bit, while I try yours? Cocaine, if you must know. Loads of drug rehab and therapy, it’s an awful long story…I even wrote a poem about it…

Since I left school from the age of 16 to early twenties I did nothing but blaze, buying ounces of resin (it was mostly resin back then) with my giro once every two weeks and still having a tenner left by the time the next one landed. It was a tight budget I was on but I was splendid with it because weed was the only thing in need. I longed for nothing else but pot which was always available and affordable. It was enough for me back then; there was no predilection for pills, pastes and powders – you know, all that heavy junk which really undoes you in the end.

I used to watch pornography while stoned, always fumbling a spliff and the remote control with my spare hand. At one point in my youth I was watching it on multiple screens, on a 'video player and a DVD' hooked up at the same time. Maybe, as time goes on, I’ll be brave enough to write about pornography here at piebald77; I’m currently blueprinting the best way forward in divulging all of my personal life online. Should I stick my balls on?

I HAVE to deal with crap. Best place is here. And nobody’s reading, so there’s no embarrassment. Even if they are, I don’t mind. It’s not as if someone is going to approach me in real life on the street and say, “Oi Mr Donny, about your bollocks on the blog last week…” Even if they did, I’d batter them. So stay tuned for some very personal content coming here in the foreseeable. I don’t care for personal shit. When you’ve lost all your privacy, you tend not to. But anyway, take care of yourself until the next time. I really mean that. You can never be too careful. And stop stroking vicious dogs.