Glass It—The New "Get Your Damn Shot."

There's "Flatten" People, But Then There Are The "Glass It" Crowd. How To Win Friends And Influence People

I sit here and the word “obsolete” comes to mind. In the upper Manhattan sky outside, the sound of choppers—so overwhelming I called my precinct to ask what is going down, didn't want to call 911 of course. I left a message. How absurd. Well, nobody answered, so I left a message, asking why all the choppers, what is happening? I wanted to ask: Is it the alien invasion? Should I get a flashlight? Or maybe the aliens will come with lots of lights. Are the choppers because some people are protesting, who don’t want Gaza to be a parking lot and this positions makes all Jews feel unsafe? I feel unsafe. But not because many people don’t want Gaza to be a parking lot. If it weren’t so late I’d call Vera.

This city is a loveless husk and I’m already over it, having been back 4 days, very sick for 2. I’m fully recovered now. Except it’s one thing after another.

It sounds like MASH, literally, outside. I went down to the street— saw no policemen on Broadway. Another anomaly. Not a cop in sight.

I asked a passing gay couple if they knew what it was about and they said: “No, we just got off the Subway.”

Another one of those short non-sequitur conversations that are common these days. If you listen carefully, nobody is ever quite answering the other person.

“Do we know why there are choppers overhead?”

This would have been a proper answer.

Then I would have said, “Right,” and then they could have said, “No, we don’t. Now that you say it, it’s very loud. We just got off the subway.”

“Well, let’s hope for the best but these days anything can happen.”

“Right? Have a good one.”

That would have been a normal New York conversation in the old world of communication and language.

So—I am healed from the sudden onset illness I posted about the other night, but if I start talking about it it will take us off track. I am not a “sick” (as in unhealthy or chronically ill) person anymore (I healed it all by eliminating carbs and sugar) and what happened is clear to me but I have to tell you later, and for now, issue thanks and maybe an apology for making people worried.

I had a need to communicate—and the problem with “stalker” has not been resolved. Today he or they called from my landlords number in my contacts, and pretended to be my building manager Carlos.

Carlos would never call me about rent, especially rent not due, never mind overdue, so the whole thing is like an Ionesco play without the humor. I’m really bored and frustrated and I need to understand what this is. And yes, this phone is over. No more phone. But I want to interview this entity and ask what the nature of the attack is, what they want. Do they think I will recite my checking information to them, because they pretend to be my building manager whose job is to tend to problems in the building, who never address rent, and who does not sound like that? I detest when things make zero sense. I said to the creep: “I’ll call Natalia in the rental office, not to worry. I’ll call you back ok?”

Hung up.

I just enjoy pretending to me an abject moron sometimes to get away from a predator. It’s a form of rebellion that feels better than saying: “Who are you?”

My mother once smiled sweetly to an (alleged) rapist who’d gotten out of confinement in the mental hospital she worked at, in Stockholm, (the night shift,) who asked in a deep slow voice: “May I …lift… your ….dress?” She was all alone, and had heard his heavy footsteps approaching. She beamed her best and brightest smile at him and said. “Not today, but tomorrow, yes.” He smiled back. And she took him by the arm and walked him back to his room he was not supposed to get out of. Actually now that I tell that story—one of my father’s favorite heroica tales of my mother—I feel real sorrow for that man. In my family’s lore he is a kind of monster figure and my mother is the luminous, innocent Swedish nurse in a Red Cross uniform. But now I feel bad. He was actually trying really hard to just get his needs met and use language. They worked it out.

I love language. And people who use it properly.

My phone stalker is impersonating people in my life with a lot of detail. How do they know my building manager is named Carlos? How do they not know he never handles rent checks?

It’s super bizarre. I hang up every time they “get” me by calling from a contact, assuming the identity of somebody known to me. But what I really want is to understand the nature of the assault.

I say I feel “obsolete” because journalists are on the ground in Gaza, and at least 30 have been killed so far. I no longer know what the value is of non frontline reportage. I feel like a goldfish being shown whales.

30 journalists killed in Gaza so far.

What I was killed for, I was already killed for—long ago. It was a bloodless affair, full of sneering “AIDS activists” and sulphur bombs of globalist outrage that not everybody worshipped their chosen RNA deity called “HIV.” So everybody who reported that not everybody (in science) agreed with them had to die. The end.

They won because some people’s outrage determines history, determines government allocation of hundreds of billions of dollars. Brat fascism, the triumph of the chosen ones, who can imagine no other ones. Who want them turned into parking lots.

What can I bring to you now?

All I have is files, memories, wounds, observations, shards of insight that really don’t “matter.” Or do they?

Journalists in Gaza are doing a job I never had to do—risk life and limb.

I feel I can only put my head on this desk and weep. And that’s not how a small or large news organization should be. I don’t know how to position myself anymore, I’m too shattered.

You have no idea—most days I write at least 3 or 4 posts that I destroy. Or rather, file away and forget. It all seems useless.

Maybe I should, when the book is finished, hit the streets and try to talk to crazy people who want Gaza to be a parking lot. I could ask them what kind of parking lot they want. With a straight face.

Laura Loomer, we know, wants one that is glassed. It’s not enough for this bloodthirsty “conservative” to get a parking lot from once upon a time Gaza, she needs one that’s glassed to be satisfied. Now that is a queen. The blood and bones and hair and stuffed animals of all the murdered children would make this glassed parking lot shine in a way that would say: “Take that,” to all the new good people who would park there. Jews, one presumes. It would make Jews feel safe, on American Ivy League college campuses. It’s perfect.

When people want to live, when people want anything at all, when people object to their own mass sacrifice, show them a thing or two. Make them into glass. Make America Great Again. Get behind child sacrifice, as the new Woke. Surely people will come to love Jews, love Israel, and love glassed parking lots as the appropriate collective price to pay for some shadowy group we never hear a word from, who inexplicably both hold their hostages hands and, in other moods, cut their heads off.

What part don’t you understand, terrorist lover? I’m getting ready to become a Jew, at last, to lord an entitlement I never felt. To call this what it is: Psychosis.