To the Sociopath That Murdered Our Cat

Bloody sociopath,

I don't frigging know who you are, I'll probably never find out, and I'll certainly never meet you, but I learnt today that you deliberately hit our cat as she was crouching next to a wall.

This tells me that you're a fucking sociopath because we've now met the witnesses, and they told us that you aimed at our poor cat, and that you're either the luckiest son of a bitch in our neighbourhood or you've been doing this quite often, because you didn't hit our neighbour's wall.

I could ignore you.

I could just wish you some highly entertaining karma.

That would be way too easy.

When we were told that our cat was dead, I sincerely wished you to wrap your car around a pole, and I still mean it.

You're a sociopath, but perhaps there are bipeds that you like, and I hope they're going to break your heart in so many ways that words will have to be invented to count them.

I also hope that something nasty happens to you and you end up as frightened and in as much pain as our poor cat.

A gal can dream...

You've managed to wake up my inner Mrs Hyde, and if curses worked, I'd be going Egyptian on you.

May your organs betray you one by one, and may your body turn against you in horrid ways.

Our cat is in peace.

May you be in agony and hell for a very long time.

(I never pretended to be a nice gal)

[This post's doing to do zilch, but I can wish that sociopath some bloody karma]

Give Me Liberty or Give Me... The Right to Growl at You

If I were President of Earth (the measure is already implemented in my empire, because that was the right thing to do), I'd have Strategy classes in all schools from the age of 6.

That'd teach Earthlings to spot manipulators and bullies - and bad politicos (or are they covered with "manipulators"??). Anyway... elementary strategy seems like a good idea to fight against the sheeple problem.

It's a real need, because John and Jane Doe seem to not notice how their Liberty is eroded one millimetre at a time.

In the wake of the recent events in France, local politicos have been taking emergency measures - strategy reading of this: they must be seen doing something (even if that's just following the script that the bad guys are expecting - if I were President of Earth, I'd do something so unexpected that the bad guys would freeze long enough to be tackled by the good guys I'd have sent; and yes, I know what I would do).

As well, we're assaulted by pseudo-specialists on telly who yell that you're a bad Republican if you don't obey blindly (that started two days after the attacks) - and the politicos are already in election-mode (ballots casting in 2016 and 2017!).

As well, we're fed pseudo-polls that say that over 80% of the population is in favour of the increased security measures - strategy reading: if you seem to be against the additional security measures, you'll appear to be a minority, and that's not safe (in clear: we're going to make you stay silent by scaring you with invented or twisted polls).

Over the past days on Twitter, I spotted this: 

 

It's rather accurate, if scary.

There are good articles on the topic here (about political sheeple passing laws in emergency), here (about the testimony of an ex-hostage of the plonkers), or here (about the manipulation and lies amongst the bad guys themselves).

And from the 18th century, there's the infamous: "Those who would give up essential Liberty, to purchase a little temporary Safety, deserve neither Liberty nor Safety."

I'm currently growling because of a detail. A little something. A bloody millimetre.

You see, when I go to work, we've got two guards at the door now, and I've got to show my badge - and open my handbag.

Legally, the guards have no special power over me. I open my bag because I'm a nice gal (and I need to go to work, and I can't wait for the coppers to show at the door to check my bag), but... the guards are forbidden to touch my bag. "Visual inspection", and that's it.

Of course, the bloke who checked my bag the past days puts his hand on the side of my bag - and he's doing that with everybody (I witnessed it myself and I asked my students).

I may end up being in trouble, but if I deal with the same bloke next time, I'll ask his boss to send him back to training.

If I allow this millimetre to escape me, what next? Registering as a slave for the bad guys? Allowing a male in a blue shirt to check if I'm hiding anything inside my body?

Sweet something. The bad guys must be laughing... but not for long. I'm going to defend all my legal millimetres, and I'll let no one limit my Liberty - it's already tough enough being a gal on this planet. I don't need more plonkers to bully me.

I feel like taking my favourite towel and raising my wand to get a lift home (yes, mixing fandoms. Problem?).

Dreaming of a Complicated Quilt

This is NOT a post about sewing at all.

It's about humanity, but using a pattern image.

The thing is, the recent events in Paris have made people start talking about community, and some people would like our world to be a piece of material with printed polka dots, in which the dots are separate communities that would have no contact with the next dot whatsoever.

Of course, that's one way to stay safe... but of course, with that, you never get out of your cave, and you die in the dark.

What I'm dreaming of is a lovely quilt. Different colours, different materials, but with defined limits so that "blue coton" doesn't "bleed" on "red satin" or "green wool".

I don't want a world of ghettos (my cave, my family, my tribe, my village, my street, my pub, my region, my country?). Whatever the size of these limits, I don't like them. I do understand that I'm not like a Zen monk or a farmer from... let's say Guatemala, but if we are civilized we can respect all our boundaries, agree to disagree on some topics, and live together in harmony (then again, I grew up a trekkyer, so I probably dream about the Federation too much).

If people insist on having polka dots on the fabric of humanity, we could have them close enough to talk to one another couldn't we? Or are most people so afraid of the mauve cashmere polka dot that just moved too close to them?

Are so many people really that afraid? Can't we talk and communicate and be better than frightened animals?

I'm probably too optimistic.

I know.

PS: I'd kick any polka dot/quilt square so hard that "it" would land on a polar bear if "it" told me to obey "it" and let "it" treat me like a slave. I'm optimistic, not stupid.

PTSD & Suicide

Oddly enough (karmically??), I've been watching a few things about PTSD and suicide over the past week.

It's not such a mystery. If you bury people under trauma and you trigger panic attack after panic attack, there comes a time when the idea of stopping the pain/finding eternal sleep starts sounding bloody appealing.

Until you've met the Beast of the Void, you cannot understand how cold is the blade that pierces your heart.

Right now, I know that I'm in the uh-oh zone. If things like the ones I describe in my prior post keep happening, I'm going to start looking at the river and lengths of rope with different eyes.

It's that easy to blow a fuse for good.

I think I'm going to resort to yelling at my plonkers, but one shouldn't have to be "growly" in order to counter the pettiness and ineptitude of a collection of village idiots who don't do what they're supposed to do (and some pretend or think - or whatever - that you're the one who's being nasty because you want them to do what they're supposed to do).

I'm shaking.

I'm furious.

I'm not going to be able to fall asleep at any decent hour because I'm stressed.

But...

I don't want to kick the bucket because of wankers who think someone died and made them kings. It's a pity to have to stop being nice and kind to prevent idiots from taking their toll on my poor health.

Gosh, I hope it's just a glitch, and not the preview for November!!

Of the Arrogance of Plonkers

I've just blown a fuse.

You see, I've been working on that file... I say "file", I should say "heap of manure". I've had bad files, but this one's the point of origin of all bad files.

And yet, I was massively diplomatic whilst reviewing it because I don't like to club bipeds to death if I can encourage them to keep working and improve. The culprit (who's the decerebrated cousin of the village idiot) is now fuming and demands that I apologize for being petty.

Erm... lemme think... No (or if I'm channelling my lil' sis': 'Drop dead, do that').

I've been asked by my coordinator to reconsider and be kinder (I was already kind enough, and see where it got me!).

Enough is enough... Then again, today was a festival: I had to finish the work of a so-called specialist because he'd done only half of what he was supposed to have done (can I get his wages?). Oh! Speaking of wages, the work I did on the yelling, offended plonker's manure isn't paid yet, and I'm not even sure it's ever going to be.

And this, Ladies & Gentlemen, is why it's good that I'm de facto co-CEO at job #3 because I can yell at plonkers and invite them to go have lunch in hell on the devil's lap for all eternity, coz I'm the co-boss (and the other two in our triumvirate are formatted like me).

Plonkers are such a fucking waste of time.