[Short Story] G-ma

[112]

uhh, gonna put a trigger warning here for violence/violent depictions/death. #doingmypart
i wrote this over the course of two days and am actually really happy with it. it could do with some refining although overall i'm pleased with what the current output is. i don't do much 1st-person stuff but i really vibe with my muse when i'm doing these deranged narrator things. lmk what u guys think if anybody still reads this subforum, all criticisms welcome as well as compliments. #literati


The landline phone was secured to the wall and white. When it rang, it was steady in an annoying rhythm and generic in its sound. It only took the small pause and lull of a conversation to compel it into ringing. The wall was also white, just like the other appliances. The coffeemaker was sophisticated and, as G-ma said, “robotic,” in that one could program it to autobrew according to a schedule, and it was white. Everything was pristine at G-ma’s house, and the sofa and the loveseat were covered in that transparent plastic which creaked when one adjusted her position on it. And these furnishings were as white as the fence outside and the exterior of the house. And in the garden there were white roses and tulips which were so gorgeous they sang, and there were white pebbles too. But G-ma didn’t let us play in the garden outside.

Inside, where we were always subdued more than at home and where the phone often sounded with its hateful trumpet and its woodpecker’s metronome, G-ma made us cupcakes sometimes and I am still reminded of the flavour of the white icing and the sprinkles, which were likewise the lightest shade. The floors were all either hardwood or tile, and I remember that they were white and how they would blush under the sunlight when it entered the house through the windows, between their white and opaque borders. And we wore nothing but white while we were visiting G-ma, and I recall how short and how curled and how dense G-ma’s hair was and also how it was so white in her old age. And she kept four cats which were white and we used to pet them with how bored we got when G-ma’s arthritis was bad.

Like us, the cats all had different personalities. I liked to wonder what they might say if they could speak like us. What would Miss Templar say about G-ma? The cats seemed to like G-ma as much as they enjoyed the normal food but perhaps less than the treats or fish flakes they would sometimes get and often begged for. And they had collars which were white in case they went missing, but they weren’t allowed outside, and neither did they seem to care to roam. When we slept over it was fun because G-ma read us stories before bed after we were in our pajamas and snug and tucked into the sheets which smelled new each time, and the blankets were the blankest white. I remember how G-ma would grin sometimes with her teeth, which were actually dentures, and it was startling how white they were, but they made for a good “scary book” night, and of course I loved her with or without fake teeth.

And I never said a word to G-ma about her teeth because I didn’t want to upset her. She was delightful but delicate, and she did so much to love and take care of us when we went to her house and in her twilight. There were all those angel figurines, which she displayed confidently all over the house and in the living room especially. They were austere. G-ma always had a mind for art and an eye for decorating. One of the angels, which were all such a divine white, was actually alive. That’s what G-ma taught me. I inquired which one, and she led me over to the mantlepiece, eager to tell me that much and more about it, expecting me to ask. It happened over dinner one night, which G-ma always made for us when we were there across weekends. Within a minute after we were called and had sat down on those rickety white chairs which are now a nostalgia, we had to step up and follow enthusiastic G-ma into the living room and over to the fireplace, which harboured many of the miniature statues.

There were six above the unlit, regal fixture of the house, where usually we would gather after supping, not in the middle of it. G-ma pointed to one which had a halo and a harp and was on a rock probably just offshore of some beach, playing masterfully, but its eyes were notably grave and looked like they followed you, which G-ma told me was one way to spot the “bad ones.” G-ma is someone I will always think of on Sundays. She wore a white ceramic cross around her neck every day for “fifty years,” which she conveyed often and proudly. And when I picked up the possessed angel, G-ma became fearful and asked that I set it back, quite hushed in her tone and unlike herself. And so I put it back to its perch. And we went back to the table in the kitchen and ate rice and cauliflower and had glasses of milk which I would call nutritious, and we ate with plastic silverware which G-ma set next to the square and white plates, which I never thought much about. And we left in the morning and returned two weeks later after a camping trip Mom and Dad took us on, and we went into the house on the Friday that week expecting another weekend at G-ma’s.

And when we walked in, I saw G-ma flat on the ground and dead with her head chewed off of her body, profoundly inactive, and there was all this red everywhere and her neck was gone and it was just her body and that head that didn’t even look human any longer–not at this point, not in her state of decomposition and after sordid death. And the cats were displeased and G-ma was with Grandpa again. And I think back and still know how time stopped moving and how angry I was with Miss Templar and the others and how we screamed as profusely as how G-ma had bled. And I went up to the two-piece corpse and her eyesockets were empty, and then I went to the fireplace, and I witnessed fully for the first time the "bad one," and that’s when I started hearing it, and that’s when it started infecting me and overtaking my thoughts, consuming everything I was and what I am. It hasn’t ceased to pluck and strum its harp for me since then, and its voice leads me, and my thoughts are its chords and its words and inflections. It is not one of the friendly ones if you asked G-ma, but it reminds me of G-ma and so too myself, and I think she misjudged it.

The phone rang as it usually did on Fridays and we picked it up this time even though we weren’t supposed to unless G-ma shouted at us to answer it from the other side of the house or sometimes the garden if she was out there and moving dirt around on her knees. It was one of G-ma’s friends this time and not one of those telemarketers whom she used to speak ill to and hang up on. When I told her what became of G-ma, she came over because I told her my parents just dropped us off and they were at work as was planned, and I couldn’t recall how to contact them when they were in office and doing vague work I wasn’t able to interpret or understand. G-ma’s friend was upset but held herself together and tried to comfort us because we were young and she had to be strong for us. I remember it was awkward when she showed up and time wasn’t much forward, everything still still and motionless, the emotions intense as our first reactions and restarted by the new entrance, but life was somehow dull and muted. And I remember G-ma’s friend, Janice, for how colourfully she dressed and how she made the bad day easier, and her shoes clapped on the hardwood like she was a tapdancer, but I didn’t tell her that and I explained how I felt about Miss Templar, who was bloodiest, and about Beatrice, who was one of the other cats and who betrayed G-ma too. And I said I was angry at the other ones as well.

Janice phoned the police before she came over to help and support us, but there did not appear to be much potential for help that day, and she arrived before the police did. I told Janice about the demonic harpist–the figurine G-ma explained to me–and how its eyes entered my brain and what G-ma said about it. I said I hated Miss Templar who must have had it out for G-ma and killed her. The police came with paramedics and brought us to the hospital because they couldn’t reach our parents, but that didn’t help; G-ma was already gone and I understood enough about death then to know she’d not be coming back, and I just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up but I couldn’t be tired when I had witnessed the mess. Dad showed up first after they managed to contact him and he spoke with the doctor. Mom was there a bit later and acted frenic, distraught. She was sad and I could tell she was crying before it was obvious. And then we went home and Dad ordered pizza for dinner, and Dad ate but Mom didn’t have any, and she was the first one asleep, and her hair was frizzled until the day we buried G-ma.

And I remember this was the same year where Dad’s beard started turning grey, and he told me that’s what happens when life begins to abandon a person. The pizza tasted as good as it normally did but was also less enjoyable than usual. And I did not want to enjoy the pizza on that day. This was how the grey took over the white. And it’s the story I’ve told every visitor who has asked me about my angelic harpist. I tell them: the demon has corrupted the light; it has ravaged the bible and all its tales. The day is dead and darkness prevails, and the grey today is proceeding toward pitchblack forever. And each book has been perverted by the mad harpist. There is little more to understand about death than the first one. I don’t know why I kept this white angel–why I didn’t want a nicer sentiment with which to carry G-ma. It’s either that I like its power or its mystery or that it tricked me as sometimes I fear. I have thought about tossing it or smashing it here-and-there but by now I never could; it is such a treasure, an object which I most love. I feel it watching me wherever I go, and it knows how I think and it tells me how to, and the piece and I are linked like metal chainlinks of the same chain, worthless if disengaged from the rest. It sits on my oak desk and stares at me as it does with those stoic, marble eyes, and they peer and pierce without any anxiety. And people like it until I tell them my sister doesn’t like that I have it and give them the rest of the story; once, she even threatened to break it on the floor like I've thought about, and I know it would shatter like my soul into sharps and dust and chunks of what used to be together and pretty.

I pick the tiny harpist up sometimes when I’m writing or not to communicate; and, sometimes it asks for conversation from me, as I am the only one who seems to want to talk, and it becomes lonely when I am away. I sit at the desk, reclined slightly or otherwise hunched forward without respect for my own posture, and I rub and I groom it, this morbid keepsake. It may not be the most friendly of angels, sure, but I understand it, and it is not so bad, I will tell you in earnest. It is a stately and strong figurine and it plays music sublime, and I have heard secret chords in my communications with it. And I could not have taken one of the cats after what they had done and how they desecrated G-ma, these disgusting felines, vicious in their abuses and entirely culpable. Statues don’t eat, and they are motionless and predictable. I have learned to hate change since these happenings; I just wish things could be wonderful now and always, whatever wonderful is to me after the event, after G-ma fell and was eaten like farmed meat, so sacrilegiously. G-ma’s death is constant, a moment which doesn’t end. I cannot ever really leave the moment when we found her. The scene sticks with me and no matter how long it’s been it still finds me often when I dream, and I only wake up when I hear the ring, ring, ring and must attend my employment. I do not dream on weekends.

Mom was not herself for a long time until later. The funeral was not fun, although it helped and had community. I see G-ma resembled in the clouds rarely, and if I turn my head quickly, I am sure I see her before I can tell it was only mirage or illusion. When there is snow, especially, I think of her–the chill and the fluff of the white powder like those milkshakes she used to get for us as a treat when she visited us at our place. We were warned about the sugar and calories each time but only in her lovely manner of jest. She never would tell us where she had bought them, and we kept it quiet when we found out ourselves under Dad’s firm and absolute suggestion. I still swoon for chocolate milkshakes and adore a good cookie to go with it. And my desk is expensive, although I am not a braggart, and it has nice cubbies on the top which I can organize all my figurines inside, deliberately and obsessively guarding these malicious marble sprites, of which I now have so many. I do have one–and only one–of a cat, and it is Beatrice, whom I decided was misguided and worth rescue, even though the others remain awful and contemptuous. Beatrice didn’t understand.

Beatrice now sits on a treestump, and her posture is proud. Her tail lines the stump and escapes it just a little over the edge, beyond, overhanging into negative space. Beatrice was bitter, and that’s most of what can be said about her: she was grumpy throughout all her moods. She was posh and considered herself highly. I know she is better than the others were, even though her coat was stained crimson as well; my friend the mischievous harpist told me so, and it is through him I got idea to purchase Beatrice a new vessel. Miss Templar was so exotic in her personality, but I was told she started the frenzy–it was her notion, everything, and Beatrice was the last one to do it, and she was forced even. I hate Miss Templar and what she has done to me and how she chewed up G-ma without restraint and how she gouged her eyeballs and distorted her face into gore. Pillage me too, why don’t you, Miss Templar, you traitor in the ultimate? Beatrice is stubborn and a snob but at least she wouldn’t do that, not unless she was tricked as she was, led down some dark alleyway into the moribund. Trust is the first and final misstep, fatal so often, I have found, that I will not ever do it again, not unless it is telepathy.

Miss Templar lived her whole life for a moment of power. This is why I suffer like archaic victims of the different Churches throughout history–tortured in schism of myself, split almighty and tormented, like I exist in a sharp machine. And I have other figurines, too; I have one which is an old fisherman with beard and hat, and he is always catching his catch. He is called Lionel, and he tells me tales of the ocean and conquests, and his tales are long and contain detail only possible from one who has really lived, and he talks low and softly but then picks up his pace and his treble at the most exciting parts, like an orating emperor, although he is not one. And he is an incredible storyteller and true friend. And his face is gaunt in its age and I am inspired by how he struggles in perpetuam against the wild salmon, like great flame against retardant. I love my figurine gramps. My figurines are alive–all of them. When I am sleeping through my nightmares they are with me like Virgil, and when I am awake, I converse with them often.

The grandfather clock at G-ma’s used to click according to the seconds and it would make a clanging crash when the hours came. It was the phone but worse and at the same time more special. I can still visualize how big it was and how it looked, royal like a microcosm of St. Augustine and his city, and it was white and G-ma told me it belonged to her father, who she said was stern and ill-tempered but had truly a soft heart. He told her the clock either kept him sane or made it worse and he did not know which it was. G-ma always loved the ticks and the chimes and called the clock a blessing from her father. It found a place in the corridor which led to the kitchen, guardian of the hallway and intimidating vettor of all who hoped to eat at G-ma’s, but I don’t know what became of it after everything was liquidated. Even though G-ma was Mom’s mom, Dad did most of the papers and busywork, and he never liked the clock and he figured Mom wouldn’t care, and she didn’t, which is all I ever heard. It was gone quicker than G-ma.

And I remember G-ma said we scurried like large rodents when we were upstairs and she was in the basement grabbing cans she knew were there but were simultaneously long forgotten. And then we would squeak at her like mice or guinea pigs, actualizing her joke. Some of her humour makes less sense to me now that I’m older, although more of it I get now when I didn’t before. And I did not know how to handle G-ma’s death. She has stuck with me relentlessly in memory, and whereas other things have left my mind for good, G-ma is a permanent resident now of my hippocampus and everything; G-ma sticks like droplets of water adhering to a surface, like morning dew on her old home’s exterior when we were there in the Spring. And I still think of her often and I consider her warmth when I am lying insomniac in bed at night, and I don’t know that it helps me to sleep but I can’t help it on those days. A few long years before G-ma died, Grandpa died, and it affected Mom and G-ma was depressed the most; I am told I went to the funeral and bawled but in truth I don’t remember it at all. G-ma was buried next to Grandpa, adjacent and underneath the tombstone we used to visit with her sometimes, the one we would lay her white roses in front of, solemn. G-ma would weep every other time there and these tears and her grief infected us like an afternoon yawn. It is somber even today to go to these graves. It is land where there was once nothing, and this absence has been replaced by my bygone family.

As the calendar turns, memories fade, and these markers and milestones of our autobiographies move indefinitely toward zero. Everything approaches the end. I will be one of the final ones who remembers anything of Grandpa and of G-ma. I wonder how long the headstones will stand. Will these monuments mean nothing when I fall dead too? I am not always sullen when my thoughts are of G-ma, but sometimes I am, particularly when I think into the future more than the past. I have shed tears about her and also found solace in her memory. I have joy, unabashedly, that I remember her–that I can think of who and when she was and smile genuinely. Dad taught us how to remember. G-ma’s funeral was small and discreet and the bible was read, and her coffin was built from mighty mahogany wood. The priest was exceptional and spoke with such power, and his words brought me comfort and some closure; G-ma is with the LORD and with Jesus now, in the Kingdom of believers where there are no demons and only paradise, and I consider this proper.

It was difficult for Mom to speak at the ceremony, although she did and she thanked everyone for their condolences and commiserations and for caring to be present for the end of G-ma’s story. Mom was always shy but a kind heart and honest speaker all the same. They played Amazing Grace and the song spoke to me as well as my statues do. I have always found it troubling to parse a song and listen to its lyrics. I did not know G-ma was a sinner like myself until the song was played and through the acoustics of the room it echoed so strong, reverberating–and until the priest started speaking when it was over. He preached about Christ the Son, the Saviour and how God sent him here to save us. He told us all who were sitting in rows and awestruck about Alpha and Omega; and he told us–and I really understood–that it was simply time for G-ma to meet her fate, a sinner who has gone to Heaven. The priest was so loud in his preaching at times and in his exegeses, and I saw visions. I saw Revelation on that day as his words rushed to me like currents to collision with a rocky peninsula, and an onslaught of symbols and of decibels which carried through the air and into my ear were the essence of the teachings. And I knew then that Christ had truly risen.

With the swiftness of a deft pickpocket, gone was G-ma from this plane, stolen from us. And with the same speed did the tears leak from our eyes. And with all the time since have we mourned her. And with so much of what I've done I feel I have failed her. And with who I am, I feel inadequate to enter the Kingdom she now lives in, eternally with Christ and her husband, blissful and in worship. And with the sadness here my anger emerges, and although I misplace it, I am hopeless to stop my own fury. And I am a fiend, and I find company in sick statues, and when I talk to G-ma's gravestone, she reminds me how possessed I am and cries out sorrowfully a majestic "sorry" which hits me so hard I cry again like on that first day when we found her. I believe in God, and I have accepted Christ, and I have prayed silently to the Holy Spirit, and I have felt grace all-becoming, and I still go back to the macabre in the aftermath of these admissions, past the touch from above. And these figures here haunt me, but they are my only friends. And my fascination is gruesome. My figurines are effigies of ghosts, vessels for demons, and paths for angels to fall through. I will never own an organic cat, one which breathes, but only motionless Beatrice on her teak stump. I have no phobias; I am merely spiteful. And I have forsaken God my Lord and Christ my Saviour. Sometimes of these marble hosts I am puppeteer and tulpamancer; and, then, other days and different months, they control me, and then I am subject. When I feast, however, I make sure each time I am thinking of the Eucharist. Bread is common and wine abundant at my evening table. I enjoy rituals and victuals, of course. And before each meal I pray and remember things. Once when I went to the confessional, I was told a good thing with a bad thing about myself: "for someone who can love and who loves so much, you are too disposed toward hatered and ire." And everything is white again at the time of culmination.

It's true that I hate people who die. When I finally pass, I will hate even myself. I will remind myself of G-ma and her severed head and decomposing corpse just like everyone else I have lost. Why do they have to remind me? Don't I recall enough without them? Some people love to speak of their memories and to relive them, but I am distinct. Death is a transfer into this past, into how I lost and was deprived and how I never regained. Death is itself. Death is such an arrogance to know like I do. Death is like how rivers dry up into scarce puddles in drought, out of touch with each other when once they were inseparable. And rage is my answer to the abyss when wailing proves insufficient as it has and does, penniless an occupation as crying can be. G-ma was so dear that her exit is still with me even today in such later years. She would not like that I've taken her death in this way. But I am my own person and have always known so. I cannot prevent my feelings; and with feelings like them, it is difficult to direct thought away from their logical ends. And this is why I am “Beatrice bitter.”

I remember the priest at the send-off preached long on death, and he spoke of it as event but also instance, saying like a spiritual scientist: "Death is the smallest unit of time." He spoke, galvanizing, with his voice which grew as his sentences did: "When we truly go out, it is spontaneous, more quick than a cheetah in its speed when it preys, and it is faster than an explosion which razes a city, and it is greater in its strength; and when it strikes, it is like lightning–like all the weather God sent unto earth in Noah, and it is mesmerizing." And he said: "And with divine wrath, death hits also the survivors, who are left, albeit here in community, to turmoil and remembrance. We are blessed to have known the departed, cursed to be now without them, and blessed again when in future reunion we meet them in God's Kingdom, for through the last passage we have no choice but eventually to go." It was the first time I internalized that we are always progressing toward our own instant. The priest quoted from King James and read some Psalms and proverbs. And I still recall how graceful Mom was when she was speaking up there in front of G-ma's beautiful box. She never wore the outfit she wore there again, except for the rosary beads, which were heirloom from G'ma, and even then she only adorned them on occasions. She was like one of G-ma's figurines, like one of the good ones. I still remember everything so vividly, but there's no vibrance and simply gloom.

Truthfully, I don't think Dad ever believed in religion or in God. More so he tolerated it. I think he went to Church because it made Mom happy. Dad despaired only privately, and I always thought him strong for it. But he was not an evil man and, to himself, seemed insightful as much as I could read him. Like all of us, he had sins and vices, but I can't say he didn't raise us well, and he loved us incommensurably and without discrimination. He was beholden to his principles independent of faith, and I suffer because I am opposite, and my esoterica is my governor. As a child I was philosophical, and he was supportive of my musings, which often tended into aesthetics (a word I did not know at the time) and then into theology more than anything else, most obviously after G-ma died. And I was so concerned with perfection until I really understood God and His Son, Christ, and I “get it” now, although so much I still ponder here.

For me, what I see as perfect is imperfect. I am attracted more to the flaws in a person than what's righteous, what's moral, what the clergymen tell me is good… I don't feel I can love God as much as someone who's wrong or can commit it. What does this demonstrate of Christian me? Ugly can be prettier than stunning I will say with no sarcasm. Really, I am magnet to all things and people; I am whatever they are not. I am fluid, changing to seduce what I want as figurine, chameleon in my endeavors, and I have been called enigma. God created the world as a canvas for us to paint, and the history we live is the strokes and splatters on it. When time into the future is the continued tapestry, why would I exercise my liberty against my own tastes? It is not that I can only feign to enjoy a happy ending, but when every few months is a new book, it is exhausting if only the heroes win and if they win every time. Don't four books in a year beg for one sad ending at least? Sometimes the evil does win, and I'll be damned if I don't admire a sick fuck who takes trophy and valour, who steals victory from the just. I am capricious in some ways and also prone to envy. But more than anything it is an admiration.

Since you mentioned drinking, and since I've mentioned wine, I will tell you it is the Protestants who tricked us into liking beer and bitter alcohols. It did start with Luther. I don't despise them as much as I meditate. But I ask why should we not indulge ourselves in sweet nectars? Why should every intoxication carry depression and effect malaise? I am a feminine drinker. I want spirit with my booze, the taste of fruits and sugar and sweetness and euphoria with it all too. I want to dance as precious Hobbits do when they’ve drunk and not nod out on a strange shoulder before I’ve had enough to risk poisoning. I want to party and feel love, not the severities and heights human sadness can reach, nonetheless to pay money for it. But this is a digression for another time, and I am reaching an end to the letter regardless.

I am not unrepentant, but I live like I am, and so I might as well be; I may as well be one who has shed no tears for the follies I've done, a murderer of many who would kill more just because, someone driving slowly the highways toward evening and into dusk, picking up stranded hitchers and slaying them remorselessly, boogeyman of those who flee, with gun and knife and rope and shovel in the trunk, replaced at intervals of death by the bodies thereof. Yes, I've done wrongs I feel no guilt for, although am I so bad as this example? Most often the only feeling I have is that I don't feel bad enough. This type is my guilt; that is to say, outside of my god-fearing nature, it is reduced, a light hue relative to my neighbours, and it is secondary. If Christ is a lie, so are most of my apologies. And it is true I glow under Satan. I am hybristophiliac, hapless under power and against powerful people, enthralled by the other more necessarily than I'd like to be them, still myself decadent. It is a distance I love and also hate. I alternate, indeed, between controlled and the master, as in relationships as I am with these malignant white figures I am writing before, static and menacing as they exist on my desk. I have been called mature, although here I feel juvenile. There is neither adulthood nor the potential for it left. Emotionally I am a victim of the Gorgons, catatonic and no longer growing, stunted before my blossom, withered before actual expiry and spiritually atrophic. I hate with a great passion sometimes, although also I am meek, and I am incomprehensible to myself, like division of zero or even sometimes the Gospels with their mysteries which all compound into the extremeness of infinity. Today I am past grey and only in darkness.

At the end of my letters it always seems I have forgotten the date. Presume this was written a small number of weeks before you receive it. I love to have a new pen pal. May grace consume you and Jesus save. Amen.

[Epignosis]

Hmm.

[Epignosis]

@112

G-Ma (Jesus, I said "G-Man" initially) is the title and initial focus of the story. There's an initial obsession on her and whiteness, which draws the reader in. I can guess it contrasts with blood.

But the second half of the story seems devoid of narrative and full of commentary. That does the opposite. The narrator starts talking instead of showing.

[112]

@112

G-Ma (Jesus, I said "G-Man" initially) is the title and initial focus of the story. There's an initial obsession on her and whiteness, which draws the reader in. I can guess it contrasts with blood.

But the second half of the story seems devoid of narrative and full of commentary. That does the opposite. The narrator starts talking instead of showing.

Honestly, Epignosis, I am initially offended that the word "blood" is the one you most immediately draw from what I consider a wholesome family story. I see that you are subtly weaponizing your absolute inability to appreciate Christian Family Values and simultaneous lack of any aesthetic discerning abilities at ALL. I wrote a very cute, lovely, of-the-heart SOLILOQUY and you suggest I am some sort of sadistic psychopath who has murdered more than 1,000 people at this point in my obviously-fictional 'career' to you. I have completely abandoned what I thought was an honest friendship and at this point am basically falling apart emotionally. The truth is: I have only committed justifiable homicide and the serial killers are people I love and trust at this point. It is NOT what you people think the Benson incident was. @JaggedJimmyJay I am filing a direct report to your narcissistic structure of honestly nepotistic garbage that just wrecks the wholesome COMMUNITY that this place used to be to me. BENSON DIED A HERO. HE ONLY LIVED BECAUSE I NECROMANCED HIM LIKE PEDOPHILE LOVE-OF-MY 12-y/o life KAYLA BORQUE, legend, Necromanced my dying phallus. Fuck you, secondly to this inadequate rant against your blatantly false subtle accusations of what I thought was a love story I wrote to my genetic grandmother who is Edmund Kemper's mother (love u Lola.)

Your arrogant, haughty, outright false praise of what I thought was just my ability to write children's lit frankly destroys and respect I had for your character. I am petulantly leaving this community until I forget I posted this a while ago.

If MacDougall (please call him JOSEPH, you asses.) is not contacted and held as litigator in this dispute I am just done.

Truthfully, I almost feel bad at this point so please delete this post only after the judicial structure has all read it and protect poor Nutella from what you just destroyed, you orangatang-hating NEPOTIST JERK.

Remember Patrick hanging up on that call at his job he didn't want cuz he knew it was stupid. Call me "Pat" again. That's him. That's the guy. Patrick Sean Tomlinson. Demand that he is involved in this. It's him. It's you, Epi. I swear to FUCK.

LORD HAVE MERCY ON YOU YOU HONESTLY SORT OF DESERVE IT.

"BLOOD"? WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?

THIS WAS WHOLESOME.

FUCK.

[112]

This is an absoliute declaration of WAR against Patrick Sean Tomlinson's antisemitic intellectual property. Notify him about this site and ask what he thinks of children. Fuck you epi you're his tattle. I am DONe.