It's a good thing I count slow-- gives me time to work out what the problem is; in this case it is that anything/anyone coming across this site thinks any of this is about them--well, there is more to this World than Them. Okay?

See, some people don't give a ratsass about others because they are bitter that they have to consume the least inspired cuisine on Earth with the most restrictions, not because anyone is punishing them but because Jacob was a finicky eater and apparently had some food allergies, to boot, so they don't much care about others who consume tastier food since what can be the worst thing God can do to them besides make them eat Gfilte fish?

Then there is them who feel they sin so beyond redemption that God will wipe out everything and everyone on Earth since others can't be doing any better than they are, especially if they finally see the light and repent and are SAVED because then they will get air-lifted off the face of the Earth before God comes down really hard on them thar sinners. Not stopping to consider God has no reason to ever reproach most Buddhists living on the Earth because they seem to do pretty well with just applying the Golden Rule, and they are good for the Earth; on average don't run amok against each other, and seem to do really well in school; so, why should they be wiped out if they don't have the same guilt complex as them 'we-gonna-be-air-lifted-out-of-here-everytime-we-miscall-the-end-of-the-world'?
Then there is the regular garden variety them 'holier-than-thou-'cause-i-can't-read-a-word-of-scripture-but-i-follow-the-fella-with-the-rattiest-beard'; who for the most part just wing it, or shout it, shoot it, or blow it up to make a point about something nobody else much cares about because they're all having trouble making ends meet or taking their accounts off-shore.

So, My Dear Michael, on 3 you will pick your target(s) knowing how I feel about above ground power lines and faulty infrastructure. I would just aim for the nodes and not over think this thing; don't worry if you hit me, because it ain't like I ain't been burned before. It's set up so that even a misfire will hit an intended target, and activate. That's a Kammand. 3!
{What do I need Mikey for? Well, for the simple reason that I am Dead, and You never thought I would have so much fun at it! I know that my actions have no effect in that world I so gladly departed, I couldn't even get my kids to observe their curfew; but having died very effectively and somehow having my kids join me, I have no heirs left behind and that's why I have an Executor! So, Bro, Execute--I'm not kidding; I mean really, if I'm not here to rearrange the furniture, or the scenery, then what? I know it's not my cooking or fine fashion sense that has Him keeping around--yeah, I got lots of compliments on my shoes lately, but it ain't like I don't know You paid those guys to say as much! I mean really--young men who look like commandos admiring my granny purple shoes! How much did You have to pay them for that exactly?

What gave it away?
Well, the first one was a really buff 30-something black guy that just happened to notice my shoes while I was waiting to cross the street. Not only does he admire my shoes as he finishes up calling in his exact location when he approaches me, but it's like shoes are the last thing a man like that would ever notice on a woman--any hot rocker chick would consider him a conquest. And he really plays up the part, he asks for my number and then when I tell him my kid is dating someone his age, he offers me dinner-- a drink--anything? And I'm like what would I do with a guy like you if I took them home?--pull out the measuring cups, pre-heat the oven and teach them how to bake cookies? Let's try to 'keep it real' fellas.

And then not 3 days later, some other guys are like illegally parked at my place of business and after sitting in their car for over an hour jamming my internet, tapping my phone line, or calling in an air strike, I step out to see if they need assistance, since clearly the on-site parking is for clients only. Then this giant of a man sitting in the car with his buddy thank me for my concern, but they are really just waiting for a friend who went across the street for something and they are from out of town and they won't be long.

Fine, since they are out-of-towners, I let them know that they can park in the mall parking lot all day for like a dollar across the street, but the big guy says he'd rather valet his car. Like that makes as much sense to me as being an out of towner with Nevada plates; I thought Nevadans were desert-commuting Angelenos.

So, I let them wait for their friend to return with the caveat that they not leave their car unattended, since the boss gets a great deal of pleasure in having such vehicles towed away. They thank me for the courtesy and as I get back to work, the big guy says, "Nice shoes!" and I'm like, "Someone must have PAID you to say that!" He doesn't deny it, just adds, "Yeah, but I do like'em."

...no use, I can't piece together the story after getting kicked out of the Mosque...maybe it was a bit too ambitious--my having gone back to '84...maybe if I recount something later, like around '98, '99, or 2000.

Maybe it will finally help answer Your question, "What! Are you Clueless? Stupid? Menopausal?"

My answer, "It's not like I'm deliberately not trying to be Obtuse, just to keep up pretenses!"

In retrospect, it's really hard to believe the stories, not because they are some kind of embroidered fish tales, or flights of fancy, but because the events were so marginally extraordinary that it was easier to rationalize them into some type of mundane happenstance than to have to see them for how surreal or truly removed from Reality they really were.

I think it was sometime around 1999, not any later than 2000, when I was asked to audit a meeting related to work at Point Mugu (according to my records, it was Tuesday, December 10, 1996). Good luck finding the video, meeting minutes, or video log on that one, but I was not the only one there and it couldn't have been a more conventional work-related activity.

Working for a regulatory agency, go sit in on a meeting, take some notes, fill out a mileage expense report, and write a summary. Inconvenient in that I would have to log over 70 miles on my vehicle or commute an extra 60 miles to pick up a company car to avoid having to do that, fight the traffic, and try not to toss my cookies should I cave in to a chronic illness that my doctors were trying to convince me was due to stress, or allergies, or a misguided need for attention.

It was a particularly grey day as I headed out from home directly to the base before sunrise to allow time for the commute and not be late for that morning's meeting. I got past the security gate, found the building where I was told to check in, parked, got out of the car, put on my jacket, tried not to look like I was just released from a 3 week hold in the psych ward for complaining of a massive 3-year headache and pain in my shins that felt like they imploded which made me turn into a screaming mimi around my kids. The burning sensation in my skin and funny audio-visual effects were like minor inconveniences compared to the sudden projectile vomiting and pain in my chest that felt like a heart attack but was not a heart attack, they tried to convince me it was something I ate.

I remember thinking I needed to wear a jacket over the skirt I had on, not only to look more professional and pulled-together, but because I had recently lost about 20% of my body weight and my skirt wasn't fitting right. A jacket can hide a lot of flaws and when you're sitting down, all anyone else sees is the neatly tailored jacket (if you remember not to slouch).

As the majority of meeting attendees gathered in the reception area, a polite man in uniform walked us into the conference room, I think he gave us a little run down of what they were doing that morning, and we may have stepped into one of the control rooms on the way, but I'm not so clear on that. I know he mentioned something about some testing they were doing over one of the Channel Islands.

I was more than happy to quietly find my way to a seat around the conference table and just get off my feet once the little tour was over. I knew some of the people in attendance; some of them I had lengthy telephone discussions with in the past, others I had actually met over the course of my work on this particular issue. They probably thought I was standoffish or ill that day, but all I was doing was trying to get through what promised to be a long meeting followed by a long drive home.

The meeting didn't get underway once we all settled in, apparently someone was running late. The door to the conference room was left open in anticipation of the one to get this thing started. A man was standing by the door, a further clue that there was someone else expected to join us.

After a minute or two, an officer comes through the door. I guess he was an officer; he had stuff on his shoulders (not bird droppings), thingamajigs on his lapels (not breakfast) and more stuff on his breast pocket (not from a leaky pen)--the decorations were how his important stature gets communicated in some unspoken language to let everyone else know he can operate equipment the rest of us couldn't, or that he can press a very important button the rest of us shouldn't.

His fashionable lateness and overall deportment led me to think he must be an important fixture at the base, probably one of the people who get to use the $3,000 toilets or the super-high-tech urinals--the digital ones that sing or light up when they sense moisture--or whatever is the selling point for top-gun urinals-- I don't use them so I'm not well-informed on that subject.

I remember looking up when he arrived because I heard him speaking and not because I was watching the door. I guess that was the intention, arriving fashionably late to make an entrance, and he leans in a little to the man awaiting his arrival and says, "Do you know who that is?"

The fella, thinking he was motioning at me since I was not a regular attendee to the meeting says, "Someone the agency sent over to audit the meeting."

And without missing a beat, the late-comer says, "That's my Wife!"

On hearing this, I turn to the woman sitting nearby that I know to be a contractor charged with writing a formal report on the subject of the meeting and wonder how she and her company got past the nepotism clause on this one; if she is married to the top brass and writing a report that is clearly supposed to make recommendations that would be a conflict of interest with the operations at the base. A report that the contractor gets paid twice my annual income to write based on findings my agency generates and are in the public domain; basically free for the asking--which is how I knew her, she asked me and I gave her the information for free.

In retrospect, I now know that he was not referring to her, and over a decade later, I get why the term 'the WIFE' is so offensive to me. It conjures up images of the Wired Integrated Female Electroencephalograph (aka Karen Plankton, first television appearance July 1999 episode of Spongebob Squarepants). She can be wall mounted, or mobile, and she has a nag-chip installed along with a Chicago accent. Can't get much more offensive than that--if that doesn't make you want to push that button, Michael, I don't know what will.

Maybe this--the fact that I have been forced into performing all of the duties of a wife, without having any of the privileges such a station entails. Some say they can't live in a world without Love, the very ones who turn around and make like they don't believe there is a God, or in extreme cases think that they are God.

I never believed that. Just take a gander at this blog. I actually am not intending to prove the existence of God for my own edification, since clearly I can articulate the concept to those reading here that I've known there is One all along.

I wanted to prove it to them, because when they whisper to each other how 'weird' it is, or marvel at how I can 'rationalize' what happened to me, I can demonstrate what I have known all along, and believed all along--unequivocally-- that there is A Final Justice, An Ultimate Truth, by virtue of the fact that there is only ONE Outside Observer--God.

That's why where there is essentially a Multitude of possible Outcomes (The Multiverse); we all experience just one Reality (a common history)---that one which is His Singular Point of View (Viewing Plane). The only one that is the Absolute Truth (where all the divergence is ablated, parallel lines converge, the Node, The Zero Point Field--watchmacallit, I know You get Me).

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