If real recognizes real, who the fuck are y’all?! Relatability relies on the recognition of traits, trends, behaviors, beliefs, characteristics, and correlation. And compatibility clearly requires relatability, to varying degrees. If I don’t desire to deal with you, regardless of relations or relatability from the past, it’s a consequence of incontrovertible incompatibility. I’ve dealt with mentally unhealthy people my entire life, who, again, have been consistently dishonest, disrespectful, disloyal, disreputable, and downright dumb. Why perpetuate problematic patterns? Traditionally, at least as Americans, adulthood is automatically attached to stress and sorrow. Whether it’s dedicating yourself to debt, being desperate to experience disappointment and divorce, running toward regrettable responsibilities, preferring peer pressure over personal priorities, or something similar, stupid people revel in relating to recurrent ridiculousness. Like I said, I’ve never wanted to be anybody but myself. My reclusiveness and refusal to relate to normalcy is a result of me recognizing reality. And in reality, I recognize that realness ain’t regular or routine. We’re not the same! Imagine imagining that me being recognized and respected for my individuality and immense intelligence is an invitation for idiotic imbeciles to tell me why I should relate to them. What the fuck are y’all talkin’ ‘bout? Unlike the saying suggests, as an authentic and analytical individual, I recognize everything and everyone for what and who they really are. Similarities may seem to symbolize solidarity for some, but delusion doesn’t allow those depleted of discernment to detect distinctive and defining differences. Like I said, liars lie to themselves the most, staying stuck in a self-deceptive cycle that they can’t conclude without coming clean—to themselves. Nevertheless, if maintaining mental health means managing messy moments of trials and tribulations, convincing oneself that they’re armed with abilities and attributes that they don’t yet possess could be efficacious. On Earth, you better believe in yourself like your life depends on it, because uplifting unity, positive people, helping hands, and friendly faces can seem to be rarer than realness—especially if you’re elevating and evolving as a recognizably real motherfucker. For the record, I don’t give a fuck about y’all in real life, and allow my absence and averting to self-speak. Your Honor, ain’t shit to talk about, but the conspirators and co-conspirators constantly communicate—allusively while deliberately dodging directness, of course—that actively avoiding “hard conversations” and “tough discussions” is cowardly. Repeating as a reminder, fuck y’all, kill your motherfuckin’ selves, and I hope all y’all fuckin’ die! If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, yes, this indisputable inequity is indeed why mass murders make national news nonstop. Something is wrong with humanity, and the country’s chief conspirators and their cruel and callous co-conspirators are at the top of the list. Your Honor, in sustainably stalking and surveilling me, these mentally ill, miserable, meddlesome motherfuckers act as if I don’t expect everyone that I intend to interact with or are projected to pass to be bugged, sporting spy spectacles, or wearing a wire—completely compromised. As if I can’t say or do whatever I want at any time to throw them off or create confusion, as I’m sure that they’re steadily searching for shit that even slightly suggests that I’m not who they already know I am. As if I’m undeniably unaware of the contrived coincidences that I ceaselessly communicate about to objective observers and returning readers. As if them having a hankering for humiliating me hasn’t always been absolutely apparent. As if I can’t catch a vibe from celebrity co-conspirators after every eventful exchange or encounter. As if they’re not creating working witnesses by involving innocent individuals in all their tireless terrible tactics. As if they’re proving anything aside from their oppressive obsession with me as they toil to tear me down. Life lessons learned by looking through limited lenses or a shortened scope aren’t edifying enough to help humans. But what’s about to happen will expand everyone’s education. Sissies, stop trying to make my story about you, because you’re not a main character in anyone’s story—not even your own! And soon…
Omniscience