A Simple Complaint - Various - The Canadian Independent Box Set (CD)
Digital kitchen scale. Max weight g Different units of measurements can be selected g, oz. Easy to empty and clean. Reusable filter is easily Pool float in the form of a cactus in green vinyl. Dimensions: - Length: cm - Width: cm. Very good condition. Guadeloupe WII U for sale with lot of accessories alomost new July 26, To be collected between 31 July and 4th August in Lamentin.
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Get to Know Us. Make Money with Us. Amazon Payment Methods. Let Us Help You. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs. His dollarbird more resembles a pigeon; its tail is too long, its neck too scrawny, the curve of its beak overshot.
Underneath, a tube of silicone enhanced skin cream, the label trademarked. Like the Little Blue Book of Hugs. The model, in time-vague black and white, has been shot with her head thrown back in idiot abandon. She wears a bathing cap and is missing a front tooth; her breasts—only partially covered by her meaty forearms—are, of course, supersized.
At the age of seven, she was fitted for her first bra. The girl is dressed in a fitted, scoop-necked t-shirt and denim mini skirt. In both images, she glares at the camera, the defended sadness of a survivor in her eyes.
Not to mention that persons with boob fetishes might very well get off on her photograph. Three years is a long time for a fifteen year old girl to wait, I think. Though I have no advice as to how she should proceed. Dr Knight stands in the doorway, his right hand extended for me to shake. I move my arm; feel a smile start to rearrange my mouth. I have no regrets. I will not falter but I am fall. If it seems I have flowered, you are mistaken.
Our night attracts simpler things. That I might be bright white, a visible thing. I am not a visible thing. I am steeple, pure, filled of daydead. I am its pupil. Not dull, or charred, or fragment. Not piled. I am the holder of small things and the other body of my body. I read all the books. I opened them one by one. I startled it, night, and said sorry. As if the shapes were not mine, but a star deflated. I wished for it to be like this: The small round table: forlorn as children, me standing with finger on splinter, on edge.
The table collects us when we come near it. The fountain: I came to it, to throw coins in. The water was cool and sullied. I saw it and felt it did not see me. And I see, I saw. The white plate, I broke it.
I mean, I dropped it, and it broke. A Simple Complaint - Various - The Canadian Independent Box Set (CD) piece is here, the other buried as a sick lover in the meadow. It is meaning, the meaning of something that kills me: this porcelain thing. That it is, and is not, that it lives and does not. A little blood in the cracks, a spoil of self, all made to say hello I am here.
My knuckles were bruised from hard faces and brick walls. I got taller. The scars from her started to fade and I took to fucking young women in back alleyways and in public toilets. I got a job at the local pub, washing dishes and getting yelled at by angry cooks and uptight waitresses. Her washed out black hair and the plumpness in her face matched the size of her rump, and afterwards as I sat backstage with my friends on an old couch that smelt of cheap perfume and beer, she walked in with her friend.
Her hands grabbed around the bag strap across her chest as she sat down on the plastic chairs near the back door, and her eyes looked to everyone in the room but me.
I sat back in silence, drank my beer and watched her heft, her nervous indifference in the smoky air around us. Her eyes looked at me with a sense of urgency and bulging discomfort, as I took one and asked her to walk around the corner with me. And she did, her hands grabbing for me. Her head low. Her eyes to the ground. Her feet dancing impatiently for whispered, heated, love. We walked away from the crowd, my eyes resting on the nape of her neck, and I grabbed at her as we turned the corner.
The collar of her dress pulled tight around her thick throat as she looked up at me, her eyes wide and screaming like a hundred birds in flight, and told me to touch her. My fingers feathered the inside of her legs as I whispered in her ear, take my keys, go back to my car, sit there and wait. And she did. And I walked back to where my friends stood, made some joke about whores and alleyways, picked up my bag, and my half opened bottle of wine and walked back to the car.
Her silhouette reached up to the yellow moon of poets. Her eyes jumped back and forth at the shadows of the night. I got in the car, looked down at her concrete heavy legs, turned on the radio and drove. We drove fifty minutes. The sounds of her chewing at her gums and lighting cigarettes stopped her insistent chatter and the boredom of the long highway in front of us both.
As we reached my place and parked the car underneath the old Jacaranda tree, we both sat silently and looked out to the dark, started to search at the outside world, unsure of reason, unsure of everything. My unit sat amongst four other bedsits, each separated by thin fibro walls that kept our nightmares and arguments familiar and shared.
That night as we took the steps to my place, the old boards beneath our feet moved with our weight and she stumbled and laughed at the stars in my perfect black blue sky. Its pillows stained with years of what I suspected to be fighting and fucking, inspiration, anticipation, real love smells, hair bleach and semen. And we curled our legs together on the couch. My mouth wide, her lips thin. Her head too small for her body.
My cock hard with anticipation. Her legs hairless. My fingernails, filled with dirt, scraping softly on her back as we kissed for hours. Her groans loud, louder, until her urgency to be loved became wild and she straddled me, her legs strong, her hair swinging from left to right as she searched for my nipples under my shirt in a vain attempt to turn me on. And I looked at her, the lamp beside me showing the acne scars on her chest and the hairs around her nipples, as I slowly pushed her head down to my groin.
She held my aching blue balls in one hand as her lips ran over my cock from base to top like some dirty s amateur porn movie, my aching balls exploding all over her breasts as I kicked my heels into the ground and called her a whore. And the next morning as she moved slightly to wake, I turned to her, her mascara soft eyes leaving black stars on my pillows, and with a languid push, moved her back to face me. Her head twisted sideways on the pillow and she groaned a small good morning. Her hands felt at the floor beside the bed and she raised her head, grabbed at the half full glass of wine, took in a heavy swig.
And she fell back down to the pillow, with the smell of her sour mixing in with her chemist bought perfume, mixing with my own sour, my own need to reach for the bottle.
Feeling like home with her in that moment, sad and fallen. I slid up behind her, her soft back filled with moles and the occasional stray black hair, and my hands moved around the base of her small breasts, pushing my large and blackhead ridden nose into her sharp shoulder blade. Spoon-like in my movements, she made some comment about the sharp morning sun in her eyes, pushed her strong firm arse up against my groin and folded her hands over her head.
And they all wanted to stay. And they wanted us to love them. That morning we drank the rest of the wine. We went through the cupboards searching for more when we ran out. We found a bottle of old whiskey under the kitchen sink.
We played Fleetwood Mac over and over so that the echoes on the walls began to feel familiar together. We drank with fury and passion. Our laughs were loud as I told her that my mother could find me wherever I went, could find me under 10 metres of the hardest ice.
We smoked the last of her cigarettes and, her in my old T-shirt and her yellow flowered underwear and me in a pair of wide fronts, started to go through the ashtray and pick at the tobacco left in the smoked cigarettes, making them into small hand rolled ones.
We drank whiskey in my moldy shower as she got on her knees and swallowed me whole. She asked me about my mother and her calls. I told her. She told me. She grabbed at my hands as I fell back onto the couch. She stayed for days. Over the next month Suzy and I drank and fucked and stayed indoors in our underwear, telling each other war stories and grooming each other like apes.
She took to making me concoctions that she found in an old natural remedies book to try and stop my nightmares, and daily told me she could love me. We fucked so hard that she developed a bad case of thrush, and she sat on the kitchen floor with a lit cigarette in one hand and a tub of natural yoghurt beside her, her skirt lifted up to her waist, as I talked to her about wanting to travel to Spain to see men bullfighting.
To watch them face their own deaths in the Corrida, to witness their search for reason, to marvel at their acts of faith. The idea a bore to her, a tedium, a thing other people did. Our smells had now mixed in with one another. Our unwashed hair had left stale smells on the linen in the house.
Her insistent chatter about her friends I had never met bored me. Her pale blonde hair clogging up the bathroom sink and the used tampons thrown at the top of my bin disgusted me. The smell of her stale breath after wine a constant, as my hand tapped on the window sill, silent with nothing to say to her, knowing that I could never tell her how much I could never love her.
As the second month of us being together came about, Suzy moved in with me, quietly and without asking. Her collection of nail polish sat on the edge of the bathtub, the smell of her sandalwood sat in my pile of unwashed clothes. She cut herself a key. We talked little. I smoked more. My fingers began to stain yellow with nicotine and the once flat stomach that I would proudly display to strangers now folded over my jeans like surrender. I began to feel age. I began to feel the heavy weight of a loveless love.
She was found decapitated, with her ears cut off. And then — nothing. There was a case that just got started two years ago but was thrown out of court. There were lots of deaths at that time, but only a few rumors online about how they were all related to the court case.
Then, the journalists who put those pieces up died too, and all references were A Simple Complaint - Various - The Canadian Independent Box Set (CD) from the net. I had a suspicion. People need to know. You are being led to believe our Counter-Intelligence is innocent, but I tell you they are using vile methods of indoctrinating people beyond anything you can imagine.
The news hoaxes stories all the time using green-screen methodology. Even voice-to-skull technology has been in use for nearly a century. The facts speak for themselves. But the material I was able to obtain about the case was heavily marked with thick black marker.
Some of it was possible to read through that, and other parts I reconstructed the best I could, using only common sense and imagination of a layperson. Perhaps too many parts have I left redacted. Work with me on this. But still…. I am not receiving any money for this reconstruction. Read the recording of the presentation of the documents on their table. She was well respected as a journalist for her clear thinking. Eventually during the course of this log, you can tell she was indoctrinated by the Counter-Intelligence ploy in question.
Think what you will. The notes were found in her pocket. Surely other people have plants growing from their ears as well. The tendrils move and align with something, I assume the sun, perhaps influenced by ionics. In fact, they are moving right now.
They possibly move toward certain ideas. They are tropic towards people speaking on certain topics, even on the news. They are sensitive to forces of indoctrination and any awakenings to the evil of those forces. He loves me as much as ever, if not more so. I can tell because he is giving me diamond ear-rings lately, huge ones that he wants me to wear all the time to prove to the world that he loves me in spite of the articles I wrote about social engineering by the CIA, using the Mockingbird Project A Simple Complaint - Various - The Canadian Independent Box Set (CD) and newscaster, to convince people they should hate the countries our government decides need to be our new enemies.
He asked me to wear the ear rings even when I sleep. That seems strange, but I do care for him. They are somewhat painful against the pillow at night. They would feel too silly to look closely enough to see them and act as though they could be real. My career speaks for itself. I suppose Richard feels the diamonds are a way to bolster my self-esteem even through the night. Sometimes I get suspicious of the people at the grocery story in the plant area.
But I as yet have nothing to suggest anything untoward. Richard is currently in Russia, and I need to talk to someone. They seek the sun, their leaves photosynthesizing for further growth, providing the ability to grasp available carbon molecules from the air. He referred to this as A Simple Complaint - Various - The Canadian Independent Box Set (CD) Theory, something scientific that sounded intriguing, but complicated.
Like ordinary plants, their sap travels up and back down — into the brain in my case. And he said he believed he found something like seeds blowing off their tips.
I never believed in God before. People always saw me as a skeptical, even-keeled, reasonable person, and my MMPI results confirmed I was sane. My journalism career was hard-hitting and materialistic. I always thought religion was for nuts. I love God now. My husband is completely behind my telling the truth about my mistaken conclusions in my articles, and explaining it as a natural event, perhaps something like the th monkey, in which so many people have the same idea at the same time.
He is very glad I have gone to God. My previous article detailing what looked to me to be egregious propagandizing and underhanded orchestration of events by people with connections to Intelligence were misguided. I just thought most people were gullible, indoctrinated, and now I realize I was wrong. No social engineering happens at all.
I am blessed. April 1 2 P. To explain further. I think his job is mundane. My boss at the Post did not particularly like my original trouble making-article about the trends in films since the s. The movies to convince the public of imminent alien invasion. The Post has to keep on a few of us or the smarter readers get suspicious. My boss would have fired me but the new redacting article more than makes up for that original misguided one. My first article also discussed how the movies make whomever our government wants to go to war against seem alien, and evil.
Now, I see I was wrong. In the first article, I laid out reasons the government wanted to go to war other countries, them which I mistakenly perceived as selfish and manipulative, having to do with oil and drugs, gun-running, and human trafficking.
I revealed things about the methods of propaganda through media and other CounterIntelligence hoaxes that most readers of mainstream mass media would have never come across. That had to be done to make people embrace the Nazis brought over with Project Paperclip. I was reading too much into things. I hope people believe it, and settle down, and trust our government.
I have seen the light. Our government is benevolent. I know this is not considered good journalistic standards. But when I went by my own logic, I was misguided. Instead, we need faith. There is no conspiracy to get the public thinking in any particular way through movies and video games after all. Their creators just all happen to have the same idea at the same time. Their directors all happen to sincerely hate the foreign leaders that later our government choses as our enemies to go to war with.
It was just chance, not something the people have been mind controlled to do. Everything is really OK. I just need to get more iron in my diet. Anemia can make one get strange ideas. Richard says I should eat more meat, and not so many plants. Charles also suggested last week that I read Jung A Simple Complaint - Various - The Canadian Independent Box Set (CD) Rupert Sheldrake. I keep their books by my bed now.
Or earie! I believe the ear-plants are interested in them. I almost think they grow larger from independent thinking, which actually causes me some pain due to the stretching of the holes in my eardrums.
I am loved. April 2 3 A. I am reading about the ear and learning that the hair cells activate receptors in response to pressure waves from sound.
The vestibular nerve carries information, such as about balance, which explains why I have been so dizzy lately, and having to hold onto the railings, and have fallen over a few times.
The vestibular nerve is the pathway along which the cilia in the ear send information to the brain. Tiny hair cells of the organ of Corti activate receptors in response to pressure waves reaching the basilar membrane through the transduction of sound.
No one really knows yet how the neurons of the cochlear nerve transmits the sound. Some scientists try to explain it through Place Theory: our hearing of sounds come from each frequency producing vibrations along the basilar membrane. The membrane vibrates according to certain frequencies. Something to do with the natural arrangement of auditory neurons.
Kind of beautiful, really, the human body, and how mathematical everything is. Now I see what he was talking about. It makes sense. I am now reading about self-replicating nano-bots which they are creating at Berkeley Labs.
Lack of sleep is starting to affect my pulse, which is getting irregular. What I learned: nano-bots pick out atoms and put them together, and to do that, use propulsion that is based on cilia — like what is in the ear canal. Electrical charges conduct along the nano-bots give them the frequency commands to replicate by pulling carbon molecules out of the air. Once I read that, I removed my earrings tonight so fast I tore my left earlobe a bit. Even the steel posts would have outgassed carbon along with the diamonds into the vicinity of the ear plants.
The diamonds have been feeding the nano-plants. I shudder at these thoughts coming into my mind. Thoughts about my husband. About why he gave me the earrings. But I aim to find out. This is a nasty development. Frightening indeed. I wonder if Betty and Andrea have done something to me. There is nothing I can do about plain air. I am reading about artificial plants proposed in the 50s by Edward Moore to use as machines that could draw on air, water, and dirt yet photosynthesize from the sun as well using a solar battery to self-replicate and create whatever shapes they were programmed to grow in.
I am reading about plant bio-technology, inserting DNA into flora. Nano-fiber arrays of animal material grown on chips will bind DNA to the plant fibers and the cells grow. I am now convinced that these are bio-nano-technology growing in my ears. I believe the cilia in my canals allow this to work.
The frequencies of sound along my ears are being vibrated by the nano-fibers running along the nerve. There is no Goddamned God. Fuck Fuck Fuck. I hate God now.
I — oh forget it. I may get divorced. But if my suspicions are right, Richard wants this plant take-over to be happening to me. The other one is a screenwriter. And I can see how both songs and movies would be the perfect places to get across divine messages about how we should just be innocent and trusting like babes — how there is a God who speaks to us, how our government is a lovely liberal place that loves us.
No wonder Betty smiled so much last time I saw her. And wore that horrid pastel pink dress. Her nano-bots must have been telling her everything is nice. Richard could well be involved in International Espionage. Now, I think the plants are working in conjunction with his purposes. I now believe the nano-plants to be Counter-Intelligence grows information to give people within their own ears.
They grow false propagandistic stories in their own ears, segment by segment A Simple Complaint - Various - The Canadian Independent Box Set (CD) order to indoctrinate the public by what the implanted people say. People prone to independent thought have the right nourishing REDACTED activated in their brains to make the implants grow and propagate the messages that are vibrated specifically for them to hear and dispense.
This is how CounterIntelligence always works. If Charles confirms the logic of this, I will leave Richard immediately, and look for a country that will harbor whistle-blowers. I might have to sneak the article into the Post, even bribe the typesetter. I should change the cover on it, as possibly even police are in on this. I have always had great respect for Claire Daleen.
I read a lot of her articles and felt she had solid ideas reasonably explained. Then, when she suddenly got religious, the writing quality suffered, in my opinion. She no longer seemed like herself, logical, and articulate. And it made me curious. I started searching about her online to see what insights I could get. Until I discovered who her husband was. Or rather, the agency who gives him his orders. This is how the situation began when police arrived on the scene.
To sum up the video: Morrey breaks down the door and enters the lab. It has seeds! He asks the officer to treat her gentle. Be kind. Just get her off me. Large green leaves like vines, with tendrils. The tendrils come after him when he does so. He shoots them multiple times, but that does not affect them. Some enter his mouth and nostrils, and some of the smaller tendrils enter into his tear ducts. They cover the whites of his eyes.
He screams and tries to pull them off. Morrey calls for back-up. Dundsworth, stumbles, and falls down. He was later identified as deceased from strangulation. Tendrils threaten Morrey when he gets too close. They wrap themselves around Mrs. At the time of death, the plants stop all movement. When Officers Jane Twiley and Henry Murphey entered the lab, they took corroborating photographs of the scene of the crime.
See the prints within the package labeled Exhibit C. Morrey is unable to speak to us today. Twiley and Murphey are here today to talk to you, after myself, about this incident.
The husband, Richard Daleen, is out of the country and cannot attend. I recommend the log by Mrs. I recommend bringing in Betty and Andrea for testing in a nano-bot lab.
End of Mr. The plants were not tested further. Claire Daleen was not allowed an autopsy. No family members were allowed to see her, an no photos made public. She was cremated quickly. What does that tell you? Officer Jane Twiley was also found dead one month after. Plants growing into eyes. I been experiencing just in the last hour a voice that, if I was a religious woman, I would assume to be God. I also feel a sense of movement in my ears, as if something is growing there. Something could have remained.
This could be suggestibility after the trauma. Or it could not. The Voice says it is not. It says not to worry. Look into the methods the CIA uses to inculcate their agenda. I found one. Really, really hoping. So tight the bottom of her finger stays white, the tip growing purple. She pushes the purple bit back and forth like she wants it to drop off.
I look away. We sip our tea and look out to the night through the slats hinged onto the veranda. The first level is three times the height of your average man.
Not one and bit like some. Or the bare faced walk up you get in a low set house. Most of the new guests keep them together real tight so not even a cat or even a gecko could squeeze through. All these things matter. What happens after. PR mostly. Mr Pink is my D dog.
The trainers let the dogs choose you. They say in a group the dogs will gravitate to who they want. They get real edgy at the start like we do because they can smell our fear. My first day in the yard a group of us had gone in for meet and greet and the dogs ignored us, we were all walking around slow like we were told and nothing happened. All that inside voiceover about being lower than a snakes belly. But the dogs were just testing us.
We could see they were forming a kind of circle around this one girl, Leesa. Closing in on her slow. In an ever reducing arc. Later I got told it was all part of assimilation. That the dogs get rewarded for sniffing out the weakest one of us in the pack. Looking for the exit. At some point the dogs stopped walking their slow circles and sat facing out and here was this skinny girl Leesa probably nineteen with fifteen dogs seated round her like a furry fortress — like a big teeth posse.
And she must have liked that. When the trainers came in and gave them treats from their kit bags Leesa just kind of collapsed.
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