tedium

tuesday 26 january 2016

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I’ve just been sifting through older posts in this blog, as I sometimes do to find information and find where I’ve put it. it’s tedious — I have little patience for such tasks, but it’s the only way to find out what I’ve already written about, and where it is.

this blog, more than any of my others, has always been a struggle. I began it in april 2008, nearly eight years ago, on soulcast rather than wordpress. when later I moved a lot of the original posts to this website, I didn’t get them all. never finished the job.

the struggle has always been the how. how do I write about the department of mental health, the landlady, the mafia-chick, matthew and his colleagues in a way that will be credible? knowing that I was not then nor have ever been delusional, I wanted to figure out a way to make the bizarre and sick story that I’d got stuck in believable. I don’t think delusionals worry about that sort of thing, if they bother to write things down. don’t think they worry about how to write their story, what moods to use, what words. don’t think they go over their writing again and again to change some words, change some emphasis, in the constant desire to get the bizarre and sick story believed.

it started with a lot of anger and sarcasm in 2008. at that time I thought that if my outrage was crystal clear, some of that same outrage at the way I was being treated by both the people chasing me and the people protecting me would rise up in a reader. later I changed my thinking, reasoning that my fierce anger at the federal people would probably only be construed as nutty. anger in general is usually seen as nutty. we live in a politically correct world of vanilla sensibilities in which anger is not welcome. so I went through many, many of the earliest sehnen posts and toned down my fury quite a bit. I didn’t want to eliminate it totally, because then, as now, I felt my anger was absolutely justified.

over the years I’ve added details I originally didn’t want to use: place names, street names, the undercover names of matthew and some of his pals, and so on. there was a certain amount of fear in the early months of writing these things. fear that some of the agents might get hurt if anyone read what I was saying (I was still quite sappy and stupid about my protectors back then), and fear of the feds themselves. if I said the wrong things, would they shut down my blog? a number of people were telling me this: that if the fbi didn’t like what I was saying, they would simply blotto my blog. they haven’t done so thus far. over time, a year or two, I realized that my blog is no threat to their protection operation: they know that very few people believe me, ipso facto, their doings are not threatened.

I have no clue how many of them even look at this blog, but I know of one. one who, I’m nearly certain, reads every word I ever write online, has been doing so since I began. after all, I was already in protection for about nine months when I began blogging, and didn’t know it yet. that one reads, and that one knows, and maybe it’s even because of that one that my blogs are for the most part left alone.

by 2011 I was trying hard to include ever more specifics in my posts, to the extent that I have them. telling myself to be very clear about what I know for certain, as opposed to what someone else told me, as opposed to what I have had an educated guess at. another tweaking designed, as always, to create as credible a narrative as I could.

nothing seems to help. if any readers do believe me, they certainly don’t leave comments saying so. they don’t share my outrage at this immorality, they don’t offer any kind of support. I think it’s possible that of the readers who do in fact believe me, many of them do what people I know personally have done: they decide that matthew lied to me. that way they don’t have to call me a delusional, but neither do they have to get up the courage to accept what I say as truth. they can skirt around all of that by saying that matthew lied, and I, poor sap, believed him. I’m not delusional, I’m just gullible and stupid. my own friend in eastern mass believes this. how can she tell me every now and then how sharp I am, how correctly I have assessed the human race, and then strongly imply at other times that I am ditzy enough to believe a whopper matthew told me long ago? I don’t understand how she can think me astute about people most of the time, but as concerns matthew’s words to me, I am a putz.

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I fought believing it myself early on. or part of me did. one part of me had no doubt at all that matthew was telling me the truth, but another part did not want to accept it: this cannot be true in my life. I’m not a criminal, and mostly it is traitorous criminals who end up in protection. the others are hapless witnesses, who saw or heard something that turned out to be dangerous for them. I’m not one of those either. so I have ended up in illegal, immoral protection that uses me as bait without my consent, and I’ve done so through a means I’ve never heard of before. I was lied about, and then my life was in danger. the fact that I’ve never heard of this particular road to federal protection before doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened to someone else somewhere; it only means I haven’t heard of it.

but it was all too bizarre, all too melodramatic and hollywood, all too restricted to the world of deranged thugs to be happening in my life. I kept trying to tell myself it wasn’t true. and then I’d go out my door. I’d see the various dirtbags and protectors around me, watch them do the code that was becoming ever easier for me to spot. to translate? no, I repeat that do not know what any of the code means (a delusional would. a delusional would have all the answers because they make them up). I only know when I’m hearing or seeing code. I’d go out my door — any door I was behind anywhere — and immediately the show would begin. my heart would sink, my brain would say jesus, it is true, and every day it became less and less possible to deny it.

when I was still naive, I thought I could run away from it. telling myself that it was probably just a small mob that was chasing me, completely disregarding the fact that they had come across a state line from connecticut to find me, I decided to leave. I started with the county. out of franklin county I went, into the county called hampshire. I was crushed when I arrived there and saw the circus waiting for me. crushed, but not yet deterred. I decided to leave the state. surely that would do the trick.

I went to new hampshire, to keene. if the circus was there waiting, as I now know it had to be, it was not obvious to me right away. it grew up around me as I hung out there on the main street, bloomed and grew larger like some macabre garden of fertile sociopaths. I sat there on that main street, hot and tired and homeless, and was crushed yet again: there was no running away from it; it would be waiting wherever I chose to go.

the plan was to sit there till night, then find some cops and ask if there was a shelter. I didn’t have to go looking for cops, by the way. they were cruising all around me for hours in their cop cars, back and forth, back and forth. anyway, the plan was altered when I became sick. apparently from something I’d eaten earlier in the day, food allergies rearing up in their distressing way. I got very sick. and when I was so sick I couldn’t stand up anymore for the weakness, when I sat down on cement and collapsed against the brick wall of a cumberland farms, the police came to me. three agents got there first, quietly guarding me out there, very close, parking their motorcycles in a row in front of me, creating a sort of wall between me and the street. the store manager had called the cops. he thought I either had alcohol poisoning or was repeatedly shooting drugs in his bathroom.

the moral: there was no running away. it was most likely not a tiny mob. I could not get away from it, not in the living state, anyway. I entered a deeper level of despair that night. the feeling of being trapped magnified remarkably. the feelings of being powerless to do myself any good. without a badge number, without a document or two, I could never sue the feds and get them to stop this undercover torture, to talk to me openly and keep me informed of what was happening in my now very insane life.

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sehnen means longing. when I chose that blog name I was longing for news of my animals, for a home, for the department of mental health to do right by me. only three months into the writing, matthew told me about the other business going on in my life, and more longings were born. the longing for people to believe me, the longing to find some lawyer or journalist who would try to help me confront my protectors, the longing for these mob people to be given the message that I’d never done anything to them. the longing for matthew to stop participating in this scheme — a scheme that maybe he himself had designed, for all I know — to protect me and use me as juicy bait at the same time.

what does longing become when it lasts, unsatisfied, for years? I ask myself that periodically. does the longing for fulfillment of a need become a great hard scab after years of denial? does it become a malignant tumor? in my case, it has certainly become an ever-growing contempt for the human race. but what else has it become? it doesn’t feel the yearning way it did when it was young. it’s much different.

but it is still there in some metamorphosed shape. the longing for belief, the longing for proof, the longing for a way to get the feds to stop all the cloak-and-dagger theatricals and treat me like a person.

and I sort of lied. there was one indeed one smidgen of code that I translated: when a male agent takes off a grey shirt right in front of me, it means I’m leaving town. I did a lot of town-leaving back when I was homeless. anyway, this bit of code was by far the easiest, and the only one I ever thought I’d figured out.

lontano dagli occhi d’amore

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the man with the white hair

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2016 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

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smile

friday 22 january 2016

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smile for the camera, matthew. smile that enormous, engaging smile that I know you can do. or smile one of your many other smiles. smile and I’ll take your picture.

 

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that was yesterday. but he did not smile. nor did he look sullen, or put on the idiot face, or look away. he just sat there on the sidewalk looking straight at my phone while I took his picture.

I didn’t get close, due to my aversion to being close to him at all, and so in order to discern his face I have to edit. but even the edit doesn’t show his face well, because I wouldn’t go very near. now that I’ve done it, it astounds me that I’ve never done it before. years ago I took photos of a couple of my other protectors, but never him.

and this all came about because my friend wanted to go agent-watching. we’ve done it a couple of times in recent weeks. we park on main street in front of the health food store, sit there with our coffee and cigarettes, waiting for undercover goons to show up and do code. my friend likes me to point out the goons and show her when they’re doing code. I state as I have stated before in this blog, I do not know what the code means. I only know when I’m seeing code. I have, after all, had it shoved down my throat for seven and a half years.

my friend was well rewarded yesterday, as matthew was already on the scene when we arrived. we got to see him do antics with other protectors, and perhaps with one thug too. I saw him twice do a hand-signal I’ve never seen until yesterday. and so, sitting there with the boss-protector already ensconced on the sidewalk, I suddenly got the idea to take a picture of the man himself.

my friend questions me a great deal about everything that has transpired between me and the protectors, and me and the thugs. in the course of her interrogation yesterday, an event came to mind that I haven’t thought about in several years. my friend found this vignette so entertaining that she was laughing and smiling. matthew over on the sidewalk could hear, I think, just about every word. so the story goes as follows:

in july of 2008, the busiest month ever for my protectors, I think, greenfield was having some kind of a two or three-day sidewalk festival going on. mob people from connecticut came to scope me out, and scope they did. unabashedly in their very shiny black cars. it was a very draining couple of days. on one of the days, matthew apparently wanted me to stay at the health food store for a while so goons could do their business without me trotting off, and to achieve this he put upon the sidewalk a very cute, very young man who was playing the guitar and singing beatles songs. knowing that I am old and like beatles songs, matthew had chosen his material well. the young man said his name was tucker. I stayed there with tucker and his friend for over an hour, chatting between songs, playing the comic to make tucker laugh, and occasionally dropping money into his guitar case. a jovial time was had by all. or at least that was what the three of us pretended.

the next time I went to matthew’s, I was pleasant. well I don’t know why you wanted me to stay at green fields market (and he did not tell me why), but you chose tucker well. music I like being played and sung by a very cute, personable young man. tucker was adorable, I say. absolutely adorable. I could just eat him up. I would love to have a life-size, wind-up tucker in my livingroom so that I could flick the switch and listen to him whenever I wanted. can you get me one of those, matthew, a fake tucker? he’s so adorable.

matthew, who had been beaming while I praised him for his cleverness, is by the end of my shtik looking down into his lap most sullenly, saying in a pout-voice: he’s not that cute.

my friend got a real laugh out of this story. I’m sure you will not, as it’s probably one of those you-had-to-be-there kind of things. I wonder what matthew thought of it, sitting there on the sidewalk listening. matthew lacoy, the second half of which name is phony. another that could perhaps be put in its place is miller.

matthew miller?

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read:  who was that guy

 

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2016 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

 

the badge

friday 22 january 2016

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recently I was telling my friend about the one and only time since this whole mess began in 2007 that I have ever seen a federal badge. the subject came up because she’d been looking at federal badges on youtube.

it’s in my journals somewhere, and maybe I’ve even written about it before in this blog. but since I lack the ambition to go digging through blogs and journals, I’ll just write it here.

my journal would tell me the day, date and time that this particular federal show was staged. all I can say now at a three-year remove is that it was in 2012, in the fall, on a nice day. I was on my back porch, which faced a large alley that runs between third street and fourth in the hellhole I call turners trolls.

sitting there smoking on a very nice day, and down the alley comes walking a middle-aged man I’ve never seen before. this in itself is bizarre, because I sat smoking on those stairs countless times, and knew every face, every body, every voice that ever came down that alley day or night. turners is a small place, and the very center of town, where this happened, even smaller. if you pay attention, as I have been forced to do by the situation I’m in, you notice immediately the face that is new, the face that doesn’t belong.

so down the alley strolls the face that doesn’t fit, into my yard, and right over to me smoking there on my back stairs. he walks over to me so purposefully, so intentionally, never casting his face around to see if there’s someone else he can talk to, that I can only conclude, both then and now, that I was his destination in the first place. that it was me and no one else he was gunning for, so to speak.

he asks me about the vacant house next to mine, which is for sale by the bank that foreclosed on it. but as his questions continue, he reveals that it isn’t really the house he cares about, but the man from whom the bank took it back.

at some point during this discourse he tells me his name, despite the fact that I haven’t asked and I don’t give a damn what his name is. I think he even shook my hand. and after he gets done with his unwanted name, he says he’s with the department of justice, and I become internally frozen. a fed, I’m thinking. this guy is actually saying out loud to me, the little piece of mob bait, that he’s a fed. this scene is already so otherworldly that I’m now stunned, and then he makes it worse: I’m required by law to tell you that I’m armed, and with that he opens his tan corduroy jacket to show me his badge on his chest and his gun in its holster.

being stunned, as an aside, is something that the feds constantly use against me. they know that some people with asperger’s get stunned and locked up very easily by the behavior of neurotypicals, and the feds take mean advantage of this tendency of mine to freeze as often as they see an opportunity to do it.

my head, mostly frozen, is asking a million questions: is this guy who came down the alley to find me and is showing me his gun going to arrest me for something? is this the day the feds finally come into my home, give me some documents, and tell me badge and gun and all that yes, I am their piece of bait, and yes, they have been protecting me undercover all this time and now that’s going to change? now they’re going to treat me like a person?

the things I want and need, the things I’ve waited for for years, do not happen. yet again. he does not come upstairs with me, give me documents, tell me that yes, I have been in undercover protection all this long time, but from now on things will be different. the protection will throw off its covers, I will be kept informed of what’s going on, and my needs and wishes as a human being will be considered.

he asks me to show him where the man who owned the empty house lives, and I take him there. it’s just down the alley. after we say our good-byes, he walks into the backyard and up to the first floor door. but I have told him that the man lives on the second floor.

I watch him from behind a dumpster. he never goes to the second floor. he looks around for me, doesn’t seem to know I’m still looming, and walks away into fourth street from the side yard.

truth:

DOJ agents do not walk down alleys in dinky little places like turners trolls, in broad daylight, carrying guns and pretending to look for deadbeat landlords. they do not, and I will never accept that they do. such a thing would only occur if they were pulling some kind of a stunt, protective or otherwise, on their own private piece of mafia bait, who happens to live in little turners. such a thing would only occur, here in tiny turners, if a stunt were being pulled on me.

questions:

why does a law enforcement person show me his gun and badge if he is not going to arrest me? okay, maybe he’s questioning me about someone who has committed a federal crime. but why do I have to see the gun for that? wouldn’t the badge suffice? I was answering his questions anyway, without all that, so why the drama? the man he was asking about is someone I loathe, someone from whom I tried three times to rent one lousy apartment in 2011, and who is certifiably insane. he hacked into one of my email accounts twice (is that a federal crime? doesn’t matter. I didn’t tell the agent about that), and for all I know he’s been up to all sorts of other chicanery. but if this man is truly the reason for the DOJ guy’s visit, why does he not knock on this man’s door and talk to him, show him the gun and the badge? why does he walk away?

I believe that most rational people would agree, if they thought about it purely objectively, that there was absolutely no plausible reason for this man to have behaved in the way that he did, except for the fact that I am what I am: the feds’ own piece of bait and property, on whom endless tricks are endlessly played. I think most rational people would conclude, as I did, that this man came down the alley specifically to see me, to show me his gun and badge loudly outside the abandoned house. to protect me from someone? to perform yet another federal test of character, test of reactions on me?

my friend thinks he spoke so loudly outside the empty house and did the gun and badge thing because there was someone lurking in that house from whom I needed protection right that minute. it’s an idea I’ve never had myself, and yet it’s as likely as anything else. and it’s certainly true that I never get told, in an above-board and human-being sort of way, when someone who means me harm is very close to me. I get told by such dramatic stunts on the parts of the agent, I get told by frantic and lunatic code, by drama and stunts, and when the stuff around my person gets thicker and crazier and more extreme, then I know.

like the time so long ago now when matthew came power-walking down main street wearing a very thick winter parka (code) on a very hot and humid june day in 2008, in order to get between me and someone very near. it’s rare to see matthew, or any of them, move with that kind of speed. when they do that, when they add speed or a gun or a badge to their usual code and drama, I know it’s a very bad day.

 

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read…   why did I go…   the matthew… 

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2016 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

mucky birthday

wednesday 20 january 2016

it’s been my practice for a long time to write in this blog whenever ginger the mafia chick, or any of the undercover protectors, stage some kind of a performance at me. I’ve grown rather lax about that practice over the last couple of years. I’ve grown lax about writing in general.

matthew lacoy (this is not his real name, of course, but it’s the only one I’ve ever been told), the master of my protection and my so far unceasing torment, gave me a break for a long time. he did not put his body before my eyes for close to a year, from december of 2014 until 22 september 2015. it was a great relief. it’s been my contention for years (in 2008 I even wrote him a letter saying so) that if some protector has to do a bit of the endless code in front of me, or stand between me and someone who wants to hurt me, that it doesn’t have to be him. he has what feels like a million minions, and one of them can do whatever has to be done in front of my face. after preaching this message off and on for six years, I thought he’d finally received it. I thought he’d grown a fragment of a conscience.

think again, anne. were you not an idiot to think that he could ever grow something as alien to law enforcement as a conscience? you were.

he popped out this past september 22nd, when for the first time I brought my new grandson to main street in greenfield. in truth he didn’t just pop out in front of us, he was squatting on the sidewalk waiting for us when we parked the car. his next move was to come over very close to the stroller once we had the baby in it. he shadowed us two or three more times that day, as we moved from store to store.

I admit that it rattled me to see him come out for the baby. after months and months of staying out of my sight, here he is on the sidewalk waiting, here he is at the stroller, and in front of the jewelry store, and squatting at yet another store when we wheel the baby past. and that time, from his squatting position, he was nearly at eye level with the baby, and made this sweet, charmed little smile, the like of which I’ve never seen on matthew’s face before, as if to say: isn’t that baby so absolutely cute. and he is. he’s my only grandchild and I am hugely biased, but I do think he’s one of the prettiest and most facially expressive babies I’ve ever seen. apparently matthew was rather taken with him too. but it does cause me concern, still today, that after so many months of invisibility, he would come out and monitor us when we had the baby.

since that day, he has continued to get into my view nearly every time I go to main street, usually more than once. squatting  down and babysitting me when I am in a store, usually the store called zemi, and doing some of his other gambits as well. my grandson came again in december, and matthew dogged us a second time.

but the pièce de résistance was this past monday. it was my birthday. I went to main street to do things on my birthday with two friends (lucky accident of fate: at least this time I was not wading in the federal/mob muck alone).

he wasn’t waiting  on the sidewalk when we got out of our cars, but someone else was. our first stop was the health food store. I know from long and ugly experience that matthew uses this place as a sort of headquarters, partly because his cousin was for years a manager there. we were inside maybe 20 minutes when he made his grand move: he got right in between me and my friend at the coffee stand. his body was actually touching mine. when I turned my head and saw it was him I dashed away, of course, spilling a little trail of coffee all along my route.

we sat down inside and he went back to squatting outside in front of the store. we could see his head as we ate. actually, I could not eat the danish I had bought. I was too angry. lots of reasons for that anger, not the least of which being that after years of not making physical contact anymore, he suddenly decides he has to do it again, without an excuse me or a may I or any acknowledgment at all that I am indeed a person and not his federal property, that he is invading my personal space and that it is both rude and uncalled for. he may have to protect me, but he doesn’t have to touch me.

my original plan was to leave the health food store pretty quickly and go elsewhere, but I changed my mind. I wanted to see how long he would plague us. it was about 50 minutes. that’s how long my friends and I stayed, and that’s how long he glommed on. for a while it was no longer good enough to squat. he had to get right up on the store’s built-in bench (that’s where I met him lo these long years ago), right beside my friend. all that separated them was a thick pane of glass.

I was angrier than I’ve been in a very long time. from time to time I would go out on the sidewalk to smoke and rail about him and his federal ilk in a nice loud voice, rail while he sat there on the sidewalk listening and watching me. I did it inside the store too, and I would not cease. another federal boy, aaron, came to sit behind us in the dining area, and I railed about him as well.

eventually we went to other stores. matthew and another undercover sleaze called guy remained squatting in front of the health foods, and other protectors took up the babysitting as we moved further down the street.

when we went to eat at el greco, we sat watching the little parade of protectors pass by the window, and I pointed these people out to my friends. a couple of them came by more than once.

I’d planned to stay on main until 4:00, but the muck and the reason behind the muck wore me out. I quit at 2:40. one of my friends drove off and the other one took me with her. as she drove, she said to me: you’re safe from them now, you’re in the car. well we didn’t go far, only straight out the west end of main street to the dunkin donuts on the mohawk trail, a short distance in the merry haven of greenfield. we pull into a space and park the car, and there’s matthew. he’s sitting inside at a table with another man, and I am stunned. at the two tables beside him sit two more protectors, little bodyguards for him (I’ve seen this a few times before, on very bad days. while matthew guards me, he is also being guarded). I’m stunned because here he is again, and I thought I’d done with him for the day. but I’m also stunned because this is only the second time in seven and a half years that I’ve ever seen matthew sitting in a restaurant with anyone other than me, and the first time was way back in 2008. he is sitting with a man who is dangerous. I’ve had to be faced with dangerous men before. I can almost smell them.

while my friend goes in to get her coffee, I stand outside the window glaring in at him. I’m trying, if such a thing can be done, to pass the rage in my cells through the window and into his cells. I want him to feel how much I despise him and his colleagues. and I’m also studying, ananlyzing the body language and facial expressions of his little bodyguards, of him, and of the man sitting with him. I study them and know what’s up, because I have had years of practice doing this sort of analysis.

when we pull out of the parking lot, a light bulb of an idea turns on. I say to my friend: damn it, I should have gone into that place, marched up to him, and blown his cover again. I should have said you federal undercover slime, stay away from me. but my friend didn’t turned the car around, as I was hoping she would, and a fantastic and extremely rare opportunity was lost. I bitched about it for the rest of the afternoon: here was a little golden goose of a chance dropped in front of me, and I realized it about 3 minutes too late.

at my friend’s house, we watched on youtube a very short video in which a woman was saying: I hate the fbi with a boiling passion. I was clapping my hands. she had just finished describing a little psychological trick they had done to her that morning, a trick which has also been done to me many times. I could find out very little about this woman, but it seems she is either in or has refused to be in the witness protection thingy, WITSEC.

there have been people over these years who’ve thought me ungrateful. their thinking is this: the feds have kept you alive since september of 2007. stop hating them and be grateful. but I am autistic after all, and I do view life and people in a way that most neurotypicals find to be skewed. I still maintain, as I always have, that keeping me alive is one issue, and they have, yes, so far done an excellent job with that. but another issue is morality, and yet another is my status as a human being with both human and civil rights. my right, for instance, not to be used as mafia bait without my consent. my right to have had the agents come to my door in 2007 in their ugly suits and inform me of the trouble I was in, and inform me what was going to happen next, and locate me and my animals somewhere, and only use me as bait if I agreed to help them in this way. and the likelihood is great that I would indeed have agreed to help them as long as they were protecting me, because I am no fan of organized crime.

you can say that it is eight and a half years that they’ve kept me alive, but you can also say that it’s that same amount of time that they’ve treated me not like a person, but like a piece of property that they have bought and paid for. it is for this complete lack of morality that I despise them the most. I repeat that they are as sociopathic as the people they are fighting.

I haven’t been through these years of amoral, even cruel, undercover protection for nothing. I’ve learned many things about code, about undercover procedures, about matthew’s own particular style of mounting an operation. I know that what happened on my birthday happened because someone was in the health food store who wanted to hurt me on my birthday, and apparently wanted to do it right then and there. I usually, after so much time, can spot these people when they’re near me, but I was distracted by the presence of my friends and didn’t suss out whoever it was. in any case, my brithday wasn’t ruined because matthew had some malicious desire to do so, although I would really like it to be that. but I have learned, and I’ve had other days like monday. I know he ruined my birthday in order to keep me from physical harm. well done, matthew. does that feed your colossal ego enough? nonetheless I despise you.

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2015 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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the jude-wench

wed 9 sept 2015

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this post follows on things I mentioned in the previous one.. link below

so, the jude-wench, the ginger rubberboobs, the psychotic addict, the most loathsome creature of all the loathsome creatures I’ve ever known.

so it was yesterday, september 8th, in the turners trolls gorcery store, and there she was. I was making a beeline for the milk — it was the only thing I needed to get. my therapist — that therapist who believes what I say about matthew and rubberboobs and feds and mobbies, who does think me delusional — was waiting for me in the car. I see a grocery cart coming at me from the right, but I’m in a hurry and think nothing of it. when I reach the milk fridge, she reaches it too, and I see that it’s her. we are standing still, both of us, only two or three feet apart. I wait for the insane mouth, but it doesn’t come. I get my milk, turn right to get closer to her, and still she keeps her pie-hole shut. that’s the second time.

I saw her a few months ago, again at the grocery store. I’m going out, she’s coming in, and she says not a word. that’s twice in a row she has managed to keep her insane tauntings to herself, so maybe the detective really did speak to her last year. he said he was going to threaten her with a new harassment law that’s been recently passed, and maybe he really did.

I go to the car and tell the therapist. and then I ask the question I’ve been asking since 2008: why isn’t she in jail. it’s illegal (as far as I know) to pay someone to hurt or kill someone else. so shouldn’t it be just as illegal to commit an act and tell some lies that end up getting someone else hunted, that you know will get this person hunted, and that is your intent.

when I asked matthew that question in 2008, I got a lot supercilious posturing about big fish. the rubberboobs was never a big enough fish for the feds. they wanted the ones from connecticut, and believe me, they got some of them. but you’d think, wouldn’t you, that since she’s such a big fish to me, since she plunged my life into this movie-theater freak show, that they’d prosecute her and lock her up for me. just as a little treat for me. but no, I’m not a human being to these feds (as I continually state). I’m a piece of bait and a piece of property, but not a human being.

I say again: this is what the jude did. in 2007. she stole from some mobsters for whom she was selling drugs, told themwas the thief, and thrust me into the sickening world of amoral feds on one side and amoral gangsters on the other. and she did this because she despises me and wanted me dead, or at least very badly banged up.why go to such extremes over someone you hate? well, sane people wouldn’t, obviously. but she is not sane, never has been from the stories I’ve been told by people who knew her before I did. insane, and a severe addict to both alcohol and drugs.

you might wonder what I did to her. I rejected her. that’s it. but in her psycho world, that’s enough for murder. within a couple of months of her moving into my building, I could see how horrible she was, and I backed off from neighborly friendliness, chats at the picnic table in the backyard, etc. I rejected her. and for that I had to die. can you grasp how truly psychotic that is? I rejected her so I had to be dead?

she did many other things to me on the way to the big one, some of which I’ve written about in this blog over the last seven years, some I haven’t yet. she set a mob to chasing me because I rejected her. and her theft must have been a very hefty one, because these people wanted to kill me. I didn’t think so at first, thought they just wanted to rough me up and get back whatever I was supposed to have taken. but it was matthew who set me straight on that, and let me know that killing was the objective.

it would have ended. even matthew had expected it to be over in a few months. if you’ve read any books by retired feds or retired mobsters, you know that the feds infiltrate. they penetrate the organization they’ve targeted and insert information, lies or truth. (until I ended up in this mess, I’d never read any books like that, but now I have, you bet.) so the infiltration most likely happened, and the news that I had taken nothing was no doubt delivered into the right ears, within a few months. and that should have been the end.

but it wasn’t. why? because some fed, most likely matthew himself, committed a nasty that came down on my head, made my nightmare worse and much, much longer.

I want the wench dead or in a federal prison even more than I want such things for matthew. even more. and you can sit there in your politically correct, new-age righteousness and say: it’s wrong to hate, let it go. it’s wrong to wish others dead, let it go. but it hasn’t happened to you. the horrors I’ve been through because of the jude and because of matthew, the worst of which I’ve never yet written in this blog, are not horrors you have had to live in. and if I can get no justice, even retribution, through the courts (and I can’t), then the energies in the universe’s quantum field are my only hope. energies to gather and neutralize these two people, in a very big way.

there is not an iota of remorse in either one of them. in the face of such sociopathy, why should I be the moral hero and let it go? I see no reason. hatred is the seed they’ve sown with me, is what they have earned by their treatment of me, and it is what they deserve.

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read…  previous post: where is he…     who, why…

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all photos, graphics, poems and text copyright 2008-2015 by anne nakis, unless otherwise stated. all rights reserved.

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