My life partner has returned from the hospital. I've already smoked and drank, but I haven't masturbated OR master baited yet, so I'm golden in God's eyes. It was great having Byoomth back. Things were so happy, rejoiceful and every moment was filled with gratitude and the little eye dimples he gets when he's really happy.

Then I ask about his pills, what his regiment is and where his pharmacy is. He dodges. I wait. I ask again. He dodges. I wait until we're doing nothing. I ask, and he says he doesn't agree with the treatment plan. My heart sinks. He tried rice again! Do you understand? He's taken insane vows, one of which, or at least the implication of, is not to eat rice because the Buddha said in the future we won't need to eat rice. He was willing to try it again! The meds did something!

But I ask later, after a drink and feeling the revulsion of the nicotine withdrawal from stress of “nothing has changed,” telling him how I've transgressed and he changes his tune to be supportive, positive…of me? He tells me he's on the shot now, but he has to take the pill for several days until…? I dunno, but it's really hard to think with my neighbor mirroring my noises in a clear and apparent way. But my life partner, who is not in communication with my above stairs neighbor, changed what he said to leave me feeling hopeless in how any of this is going to improve.

Just had a sip of coffee and thought of actually-actually going-going to police. Nah, that ain't real but I don't know what to do. Something has to give. In a parallel fashion, I got fucked over again getting my lab work. Panicked. Lied and had a cigarette by the door. Someone walked by. Gunna get a six thousand dollar ticket for that, well, the fine will be $75, the court expenses account for the rest. Hafta do so much for no reason other than I'm retarded. Gotta get my labs done or I could die. It's ok, I'm gunna be stabbed in the line for lunch in prison when the FBI does their stupid nana nana boo boo bullshit with me, regardless what I do now.

That's the thing though. My life partner is really in-tune with the higher picture shit. That's why I trust him; you can't fake that. Therein, he's faking mental illness, for higher purpose reasons, and I know that he's Jesus/the Buddha in this regard. The perfect being is the being that can be any being as needed. He can be perfect and wrong in many ways at the same time. And he toys with me compassionately, because up here, in the realm of sorcery, we're protected by the highest of beings.

How this came to be written just now. About a week or two ago, I wrote how synchronicity proliferate from intention-setting, saying that I could write about purple cars and then see twenty purple cars. Well, I wrote that and saw four fucking purple cars. Then, yesterday, while getting us dinner, I saw “Odin QED” in a floor tile that doesn't show up in the picture I took, but then I saw two fucking purple cars at the same time - a harken back synchronicity - and one had the license plate “Uresaela,” or something of that nature that spawned the thought of a Disney villain.

Then my life partner said something about how there are infinite gods n goddesses, but we were protected by the highest of beings, and he said it with authority, and I reviewed with my brain's other hemisphere to conclude it was true, and I knew that the tricks and traps of those watching me are ultimately defeated by the light orchestrating the coming shitshow.

I just tried getting his medication sent to a closer location. Ten miles on bike in this heat is a little much. Too late as I found they were closing early for Juneteenth. Felt they were testing if I follow through with my duties. Always being tested. Always under scrutiny. That's what every moment of every day is like for me as the default. It's what my baseline of consciousness has been made to be by the traumas n trials of my life.

I swear everyone is watching me. There's something going on, how people are coordinating. Must not be good enough. Always a failure. That's why they're watching, because I'm schizoaffective. I'm too dangerous. Gotta keep your eyes on me. Keep your eye on the ball. Keep your eye on the ball. I find no update to your behavior, so imma hit you and say again, “keep your eye on the ball!”

And this is all the madness I've put together to let y'all know that there are dumbass mother fuckers all around us who cannot identify a cop from a genuinely crazy person. To those who are dying every minute of every day, pray be you are strong enough to not go shitty shitty boo-boo in your pants. They plan for that in the interview room. Good goo go free free! Obviously, and I ain't talking bout me. I see you c-ing me, that you be free as count Dedede!