For the record, I don’t give a fuck about what anyone else would do in my “shoes” or situation. How would you feel if Fun Dip finger-licking fuck-ass Feds were following you and focusing on footage of your every move for years? I’ve tried not to jump to conclusions as I’ve carefully carried on for countless cycles, but I couldn’t trust anyone that I’ve interacted with since my Spidey senses started tingling. Can you guess how long that’s been? And I’m not picky and prudent because I’m panicky and paranoid, it’s because the punk-ass police have been trying to play with my psyche perennially. There’s so many stories that I want to share, but I’m protecting pieces of my past to preserve certain people’s peace. Personally, I believe it’s my prerogative to publish as passionately as I please. For me, being an edifier means exhibiting my personal life lessons as an example. And anyone who suggests that they should have a say in what I should and shouldn’t say should shut the fuck up! Again, so many people misunderstand me, and misconstrue my distance and distinguished demeanor with timidity. The type of people who try to take advantage of one’s kindness are the kind of assholes who need more kind people in their lives, so they’re fucking themselves by forcing fine folks to not fuck with them. Respectfully, that’s how stupid people are. With that in mind, imagine believing that you’re a big, bad bully, but you assign actors to allusively attack your adversaries—assuming that anonymity is an advantage—yet you don’t think that lacking the cajones to disrespect and dishearten those who you despise directly is cowardice. What’s more, overlooking the fact that finding lookalikes to frighten or fuck with a person’s head can likely be listed as evidence in a lawsuit is another disappointing oversight that demonstrates dumbness and delusion. The Feds are fabulists, so please don’t pay their proposals, propositions, pronouncements, or promises any mind. They have cameras in my home, they follow me everywhere I go, they tried to take me out, and there’s nothing to respect about them—in my opinion. And any amoral accomplice who asserts that they’re unaware of all the aforementioned aggravating activities and allusive attacks—that they were coached on before carrying out—are absolutely lying like fuck. I can’t even focus on the future without facing this forwardly and finishing it for good—it’s unforgivable and unforgettable. “Let it go,” they say. “Move on,” they suggest. How, Sway?! By the way, shout-out to everyone over at Sway’s Universe—Sway, Heather B., Tracy G., etc. But again, how would you feel? Think about it. Insisting on invalidating my feelings, especially if you think you can tell me how to think, only exacerbates and elevates my anger. Not to mention the irritation from the goofy-ass gang-stalking and gaslighting. Ain’t no doubt in my mind that my vexation is valid. For the past few years, every time I visited my relatives, which was rarely, those motherfuckers were being told what to say—how to respond and react to me in real-time. I assume that they were wearing micro earpieces, receiving instructions via text message, and lying about who they were talking to during phone calls. How do I know? It’s because I caught them in lies, noticed nuisances, and identified innuendo and indirect messages that they’d not normally be clever enough to convey. Essentially, they were doing some of the same shit that the Feds’ triggering tarot readers and callous celebrity mouthpieces do. Y’all, infuriating ain’t an intense enough word for how this insanity has affected me. Who the fuck am I, Pablo Escobar or El Chapo?! A little word to the wise, never be intelligent and mind your motherfucking business—evidently it’s extremely suspicious. Had y’all had a me on your team, I never would’ve noticed that silly-ass white chick with the aviator shades following me every-fucking-where. Or the cute little light-skinned chick with the baseball cap who walked behind me that time I was at the DDS. Or the fake-ass family outside of Walmart with the little girl playing in the small car as her relative recorded me as I exited the store. And if I’m going back a little further, what about the African chick with the short hair and big booty that y’all staged at O’reilly Auto Parts? Or the dude who tried to hustle me with that fake-ass Beats speaker (which I bought to be funny) that time I was working the set of “Fast 8?” Or the chick who got out of the Uber, walked into the college I was posted at, then came back outside to flirt with me—asking if I knew where the restaurant was that just so happened to be right behind her? Shall I continue?
Omniscience