That ‘Oh God I Suck’ Moment

We all have them.

If we are incredibly cowardly or take ourselves too seriously, we don’t do anything at all because of them.

If we let things get to us too much, or have too much pride, we allow it to stop us, because it is easier to say we suck and laugh it off.

If we then go to the next step, we sneer at other people who don’t feel the same way.

I spent months saving the money to make Bordello Rhetoric.  I knew exactly what I wanted to do, I lavished attention on it.  Now I look at it and I say NOOOOOOOOOOOO.

It is a development piece.  I did not take inspiration from anyone but Boris himself for this piece of work.  I did not even need to plan it.  I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and I went ahead and did exactly that. It involved importing agate from a quarry in India, importing the beads from a manufacturer in Germany, sourced Georgian handles from an antique collector, an ungodly amount of resin, and a ratty old box gifted by a friend. (the principle of the Boris Johnson collection is to render unemployed furniture ‘Fit for Work’ by means of artifice, and preferably guile) I replaced the castors twice, which alone cost me a week of 24 hour caring for my mother in financial terms.  24/7 care is a lot of hours, and requires a lot of commitment if you want to avoid being robbed by the social work department and having your mother killed by an institution.  So why do I hate myself for it now?

Well, because I should have used my shades of colour more effectively and done a better blend on the beadwork.  Yes it is quite stunning, but it could be more stunning.  Yes it is as I intended, but it could be better because I had no reference point.  It is nice, but it is not as nice as it could be if I had visualised it more effectively.

Life is not like that.  If I had known I would fall crazily in love with a health guru, I would have looked after myself better.  If I had known that the NHS would kill my mother anyway, I would not have been investing every penny in keeping her well by natural means.  Hindsight is a wonderful thing.  This also applies to our artwork.

We should never feel bad about completing a piece of work that we no longer like by the end of it, nor should we worry about promoting pieces we no longer like, because as creators we are not trustworthy judges of what is good or bad.  I have thrown out pieces that other people thought were works of genius in the past, because I knew I would do something better.  When I first came across Wolfe, quite apart from not knowing how to get his attention any other way, all I could think about was how I could make him better, and better, and better.  I am still guilty of this.  Instead of appreciating what people or objects are, I strive for improvement.

My friend is even worse than this.  You cannot ask him to collaborate on a project from the beginning, because the objections are so many and varied that the project never starts.  He is, however adept at finishing work.  Once you think you are finished, he is ideal for finding details that you never thought of.

It took more than three years of deep and probably constant thought before I realised that I was the problem.  My desire for perfection was neither realistic, nor desirable.  Wolfe was right, I was wrong.  What matters is the doing, not the striving. The methodology is less important than the result.  When I finally accepted this, which took some time, Ina was born.

Conceptual thinking is probably more important than technique, when it comes to actually developing your work and ideas.  Acceptance of imperfection is necessary to reach mastery, because if you really care about your work, you very quickly realise that you will never truly become a master of anything.  I am fortunate that as a former chef, who worked for culinary glory for many years, I was aware of the futility of perfection.  I just hadn’t realised how universally applicable the concept was until I met my far more successful and happy twin (Wolfe and I were born twelve days apart, which was part of the reason for the level of focus)

So, when you have your own ‘Oh God I suck’ moment, feel good about it.  You learned something, and you need never feel ashamed of growth.  It is likely that nobody will even notice your mistake, because mistakes are often painfully beautiful, even when they drive you crazy.


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Ina Disguise Build Update 2

I should have written at the time, but I hit the 70lb weight loss mark at the beginning of November, actually.  Since then, I have stayed the same as I always take breaks in the course of losing weight and, by coincidence, I had an ankle injury from walking in a bad temper, followed by a flare-up of sciatica, followed by my mother’s appalling death.

I put on probably 10lb on one meal a day, and have now lost this again since my mother’s death.  I am now able to walk again, although time and cold is preventing me from doing my full 15km.

I also took a break from the corsetting during this time as it was not practical when spending your time running up and down from a hospital or desperately seeking the means to exist in the form of work.

It is not much fun being attacked all the time, so everything I have managed to do so far has been evidence of my improved confidence as a person rather than a delusional construct (see previous post, What would Mrs Wolfe do?)  I obviously won’t have that option in the coming months, so I guess my flight of fancy has made my own confidence improve somewhat.

If I was sensible and not trying to do anything more spectacular, I would just lose the same again and be done with it.  I have, however, met the most beautiful creature in the known universe now and I will have to make some more serious changes to my overall stature.

To put this in some sort of context – yes, I respect other people’s choices.  No, I do not have any serious plans to bag any wolves or eat their cubs and I LIVE IN A DIFFERENT COUNTRY ANYWAY.

Life is complicated, however, and I do have potential plans which may mean I end up having to awkwardly stand next to him at times, so the visuals have to be correct.  I have a 7″ wrist, which means I genuinely suffer from what nastier people dismiss as fantasy and am in possession of a quite stormingly enormous bone structure.  Wolfe, on the other hand has a beautifully formed, small structure.  As we do happen to look sufficiently alike for more than one fan to stop and instigate conversation in the past, I now have to ensure that I do not look like an inflated female version!

So, there is a long way to go, and I will end up having to sustain being smaller than is comfortable regardless of anything else. It is fortunate that, thanks to him, I have done sufficient research now to be able to manage very good nutrition in very few calories per day.

I probably suit being muscular more than bony, I have tried both, but bony is probably going to be easier given that writing is likely to become more important than artwork or anything else.  Assuming I survive the inevitable family attack, which I may not, it looks as if the future consists of a lot of drinking water and supermix blends, so I need to get used to this now. I have banned everything that is not strictly correct from the house, so probably a good idea to avoid visiting.

My skin is responding well to the attention I am paying it, the magnesium oil, whilst painful, has pretty much eradicated all signs of stress-related psoriasis, but I am still seeing some evidence of collagen depletion, probably age-related around the eyes and chin, which I am experimenting with.  I will update when I find a more fail-safe way of dealing with it than I am currently using.

I think it is probably time to dig the next set of corsets out, although replacing clothing is not going to be easy financially until I secure more gainful employment. (the current job, whilst entertaining and flexible, is not likely to last forever due to a rather unfortunate cultural issue which I have no plans to do anything about)



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How the NHS kills old people

There are a variety of techniques I have seen employed over the last decade.  Broadly speaking, if you are over 80, particularly if you are no longer on your feet, you should be considering private treatment for most ailments if you wish to remain alive.

I imagine that this cut-off will get smaller as time goes on.  It is as much for the benefit of the economy as it is for reducing costs of sustaining the lives of people that a consultant has written off and obtained the agreement of some colleagues, who may or may not have met you, to proceed with a process on the assumption that your ‘best interests’ are served by being dead.

Having had reason to read the legislation that the Social Work Department work from when dealing with adults with incapacity recently, even this has paragraphs which all end the same way ‘the problem ceases when the patient is dead.’  Hence we have systems in place which assume that the best interests of the patient are, in fact, for them to no longer exist.

Whilst the actions of so-called-professionals have given me many reasons for anger of late, it is not surprising then that they operate on several assumptions:

  1. That any carer needs some form of reeducation as they are sublimating their lives for someone else.
  2. That any elderly person getting few visitors is of no value
  3. That any difficult patient is draining resources and of less value.
  4. That ongoing health issues as you get older are again draining resources and making the patient actually cost money.

One of my elderly neighbours was actually told to his face that he was deserving of treatment because he was a high-rate taxpayer.  I was told by three separate doctors what was going to happen to my mother long before it actually happened.

When they decided to finish my father, it was the Liverpool technique.  He was drugged within two days of being in a unit devoted to sparing other hospitals from high death rates on the grounds of his being ‘difficult.’  He was still able to speak and was a relatively happy, plump and mischievous man when he was drugged.  Within four months he was starved, unable to speak and agitated when awake.

When they decided to finish my uncle, he was on  his feet and independent.  He recovered well from a UTI, only to be placed in a draughty ward and given further antibiotics until he contracted pneumonia a week later.

When it came to my mother, they actually came right out and told me.  Seven months before, she had been sent home, painfully thin with terribly fragile skin on the assumption she was going to die.  I knew this because of the daily visits of the district nurses, who were supposed to be there to give her an injection to clear any fragmented clots.  So keen were they to also give her painkillers, that a fight broke out when I changed her diet to a highly technical version of a raw food diet and not only solved the continuing weight loss problem but improved her skin and eradicated the infections she had had for the previous ten years on a normal diet.  My friend, a former medical professional, was astonished by her recovery.  So was her GP, who noted the astonishing improvements in her blood work, since the nurses were so keen to attempt to prove a case against me, that they invented stories about weight loss as she gained, clutter which was caused by visiting carers not knowing the house, and by accusing me of neglect if I left the room within the five minutes that they were there to see my mother.  It was a constant fight for seven months.  The social work department were brought in to tell me that I resented my mother, that my saving her life was, in fact, me somehow abusing her and that anything I did was wrong.

Finally, when she went into hospital after a GI bleed (she had also had one on her previous visit to hospital, so personally I would have regarded this as routine and simply given her a transfusion)  I was asked whether I wanted her to have medical treatment, to which I said yes, of course.  The next doctor I saw said that in future she would be ‘eased out.’  The third consultant stated that she did not believe in the science of my mother’s diet, and when I referred her to the blood test results I had established, simply did not bother to look because she was wrong.

I have had many reasons over the years to be highly suspicious of people who assume that their education is the end of them having to learn anything.  Crap doctors, crap accountants, crap former bank managers.  People who take their salary, pay their bills and carry on administering a conveyor belt.

You may choose to live in blissful ignorance.  It will not help you when it happens to your family.

Maybe, like my local shopkeeper and my neighbour, you actually want your loved ones dead.  I did not, and on the assumption that there are still some other compassionate and intelligent people left in the world, I suggest that you get out and learn what they are failing to teach so-called professionals.  There is no need for too many antibiotics.  As I said to a consultant pathologist I was working alongside several years ago.

We don’t need more doctors.  We need better health.

Where is the funding for that? Why aren’t the public told the truth?  If we fed animals the way we feed ourselves, the animals would be taken from us. How come a £150000 a year consultant cannot manage to find it out by themselves, and I can? I am very sorry that I did not know what I know now in time for it to have spared my father his miserable death.

I have heard a frightening number of people who think these issues will never affect them.  They will, and sooner than you think.  In memory of my parents, I think it is time to do something about it.

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Merry Christmas to readers old and new

Sorry that I have not posted in some time.  My mother was being killed by the NHS and my attention was rather diverted by that.

How do they do this?  A couple of consultants decide that your aged relatives are a burden to you and pass this down the line, whereupon a team of nurses will tell you that they are professional and acting in your parent’s best interests as they then precede to feed them crap to ensure that the pharmaceutical drugs they are using destroy every nutrient in their body until they die of infection.

Be warned, this is very likely to happen to you.  I have seen it done to three people now, and there is no escape.

In the event that you wish to enjoy your full lifespan, I suggest that you avoid the NHS.

My alter ego, the serious academic type who fell in totally uncharacteristic love with Wolfe some years ago is now going to take on the NHS, the pharmaceutical industry and the social engineering system they have been perfecting since the first phase of their eugenics system, WW1 and 2, and demonstrate exactly how this works and how education has changed even in my lifetime to reduce your status as an economic unit to the point that there is little possibility of escape from a system that tells you what to eat, what to wear, what to worry about and when to die.

Merry Christmas, enjoy whatever someone else told you to enjoy, and I will return in a more cheerful state when I have more fully recovered from this latest case of institutional murder.

My mother was a much loved, much misunderstood, mischievous lady who deserved better.  Better from her other children, better from the NHS, a better final chapter.

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How the world works

A potted history

The 1950s, for a starting point, which is similar to now because they too had been wooed into thinking that manufactured chemicals were all beneficial and anything modern was good. This was immediately post-war, which saw the massive growth of the chemical and pharmaceutical industry, both of which had hugely benefitted from WW2.

This was the post-union golden age in the USA, where large manufacturers were enabled by lack of workers’ rights.  This meant potentially unlimited growth, however education was less accessible, so your degree actually meant something, and your technical skill, often gained in your workplace from an apprenticeship gained on leaving school, was duly rewarded.

A high level of employment  meant that consumer confidence was relatively high. In the UK, properties which had been impossible to maintain during the war period were now being snapped up by this population of eager consumers, who set to work spend, spend, spending on new-fangled fabrics and trendy furniture.

A golden time for many, still miserable for the rest, the 1950s saw huge interest in marketing, methods of communicating and advertising, on which my father founded his career as a commercial artist.

Moving through to the 70s, and we see the ‘natural backlash,’ and the food counter culture, which my father was again a big part of.  Both of my family doctors as a child were homeopaths as well as conventional doctors.  The enmity that we see now between natural health and conventional medicine did not yet exist, and so as a child, I was just as likely to be prescribed herbs or homeopathy as an antibiotic.  At that time, the pharmaceutical companies had not yet seen fit to condemn anyone in opposition, and perfectly normal people did not see fit to argue over science that does not exist.

Do you see the difference between this and today?  Today the Board of Nutrition and the medical community are entirely dominated by the food manufacturers and pharmaceutical companies.  They endlessly repeat a mantra of guidelines that aren’t even correct.

You are told to eat five portions of fruit and vegetables a day.  The benefits of increasing your consumption continue on a steep trajectory until you hit seven.  The World health organisation recommend 9-15.  The reason for this lie is that it is not possible for producers of fresh fruit and vegetables to have a member of the board of nutrition on the payroll to represent them. This lie alone ought to tell you that something is wrong with your reliance on advice from authority figures that you used to unthinkingly trust.

The medical community, meanwhile, are apparently taught that all natural medicine is to be condemned and replaced with pharmaceutical products.  This change has happened in my lifetime.  The doctors themselves seem to be unaware of this change, presumably the free holidays have affected their memories.

This attitude percolates down to the point that people scrap daily online that everything ‘scientific’ is good and anyone that does not subscribe to their viewpoint is bonkers or stupid.  Science is sponsored.  As with all statistics, the results are used to paint a picture, but that is all it is.  In a vast number of cases, the science does not exist, because the science does not attract profits for companies who have had it all their own way for decades, with budgets bigger than entire countries.

The only way to reach the truth, or to get the level of treatment that is possible, is to find out by yourself. Find out what to eat, find out how to solve problems that medical science cannot solve, of which there are many.

Someone online mentioned trusting a professional the other day.  My experience of professionals, whether they be financial, scientific or medical, is that they are paid to give you information that is limited by the scope of their day-to-day jobs.  You cannot expect them to be interested in their subject, because they have a salary to spend and holidays to take.  Trusting a professional is not an option.

The only answer is to find out by yourself.  The world is not improving, and you are not stupid.  Trust nobody, there is a lot of money invested in keeping you dumb.

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Scottish people eat meat

Well, readers, it looks as if my mother is to be killed in line with Scottish NHS policy after all.

According to the nurses on the ward that my mother is in following a GI bleed (they are treating her for heliobacter pylori)  the district nurses have a file on my mother and the social work department have ‘raised concerns.’

This is likely to be either the spurious concerns raised by nurses who were frustrated in their attempts to inject my mother with painkillers as they had been told she was sent home to die after her last trip to hospital, or concerns that I do not want the house full of carers and nurses who do not do very much but at any time feel free to make vile reports for the purposes of keeping us under investigation.  When you become upset by this, they then make further statements about you.

They do this to enable the social work department to repeatedly enter your home and make further vile statements because this is how they build a case to procure money from the elderly.

We have had false statements about cats, false statements about clutter, which was there because of them, statements about me being neglectful by leaving the room when they are in the house for five minutes.  This is how social work operates if you were stupid enough to work and have a home they can seize.

Now the NHS feel that as my mother is 90 with dementia, she should be killed.  The last ridiculous conversation with a district nurse had her asserting that I was to do as I was told, and the NHS was to determine my mother’s death in her ‘best interests.’

If my mother was unhappy, had a painful illness or was otherwise in danger of generalised misery, I could see their point.  As it is, they seem to be operating on a quota system.

The deaths from Alzheimers in Scotland went up by 31 percent in one year, so this is clearly NHS policy.

Sadly for my mother, this now means that it is probably too dangerous for her to return to her own home.  I have had six months of this now, and I am not putting myself or her home in this position any more.

Why is it not possible for a lady to live in her own home with her daughter who dotes on her, without all this?  Do these people consider how they would feel if I was to walk in and tell them that I was going to murder their parents and there was nothing they could do about it?  Probably not.

I have had good reason to become extremely mistrustful of the social work department and the district nurses over the last ten years.  Now they are going to kill my last remaining relative, since my siblings are not people anyone sane would want to be related to.  In the meantime I have to protect what the cats and I have left, not that I will get any thanks for it.

It is astonishing that mincegate is likely to be mentioned.  My mother hates mince, has not eaten it for years, but because my drunken sister wanted to feed it to her, an extensive investigation was carried out to determine whether she liked mince, to the point of her having to tell two people that she did not like it.

Such is the love of meat eating in Scotland.  Drinking some fruit constitutes abuse, even if your nutritional quality is far and away superior to a plate of mince.

Fuck Mince, and fuck the people who take pleasure in murdering the elderly for a living.

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A sad outcome of health awareness

Letter to my relatives

Apparently the combination of your totally ignoring her diet, and the fact that I wanted her to medically recover from her GI bleed has caused some considerable stress at the hospital.

You should be made aware that six months ago your mother came out of that same hospital with tissue paper skin, extremely thin and was on the point of being drugged on the assumption of imminent death by the district nursing office without anybody even mentioning it. I contemplated taking photographs of just how bad she was and now regret not doing so.

This is when I changed her diet, which has meant that her skin improved, her oedema went down and she has needed less antibiotics over the last six months than at any point in the previous 5-10 years. I am terribly sorry that you fail to find that impressive, but I cannot help you.

The social work department then decided to use this not particularly unconventional dietary approach in yet another attempt to attack me because one or more of you decided to try to blame me for her weight loss. Since you bought her jumpers more appropriate for a doll when in hospital, you had clearly noticed prior to your complaint to social work.

Despite her diet being cleared by two dieticians, one of whom came here on three occasions, the issue has now caused so much confusion for ward staff that I am no longer going to make any attempt to keep her well via her diet. You are, therefore, welcome to feed her anything you like as the ward is now responsible for her nutrition and they do not care. I have had to tolerate more than enough accusations from stupid, selfish people who could not care less about your mother or her health.

A new attempt to prevent your mother from returning home is now imminent. Several spurious incidents with the social work department have indicated that this is the case, and the general attitude seems to be that as your mother is ninety with dementia, her life is not worth very much and I am to be attacked until I stop caring. I could give you several examples of people saying this, but going by your ongoing attitude, it is not worth my time or energy.

In the event that they do this, your mother will be dying in exactly the same needless way as your father, so say your goodbyes now whilst she is awake. Be aware that every effort was made to avoid this outcome, at quite enormous personal and financial cost.

I have, as previously mentioned, no intention of watching a second parent be clinically drugged and starved to death to suit you or their miserable careers so you are on your own with that lengthy misery.

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Hoisted by my own petard

Hilariously, some religious/hippy/intellectual decided to take me to task over yesterday’s post today, and talk about the universals of love, absence of expectation etc etc.

Longer term readers will know that I have already covered all this in many previous posts, and in the free book Best Love Letter Ever  

I was suitably irritated, naturally, and indicated that not only have I already walked that path, high minded ideals fail to keep you warm at night, provide emotional support or even smile at you.  They are, in short, useful for nothing apart from making sure you aren’t too impulsive, and for romantic inspiration.

To begin with, there was an issue of helplessness.  My elderly mother is my first priority above anything else, then I have two cats to consider.  Even if there had not been an additional issue of a secret insecure wife, the whole ‘being in love’ situation would have been a non-starter.  Then there was the problem of my unfortunate turn of phrase and cynical shyness.

This gentleman is elderly.  Either he is married, and full of complete shit, or he is likely to spend his life alone if he considers love to be an entirely abstract issue.  I would hazard a guess that the answer is the former.

Of course in my own case, I too have been this stupid, because it was not until I wrote Best Husband Ever that I realised how out of control and unreasonable my feelings actually were.  I was simply too hidebound and horrified to fully admit to them.

Ironically, the fact he was married is the only reason I have even met the individual I am in love with in person, because I knew that I was entirely safe. (the source of emotional danger being me rather than him) That is how much the idea of being in love terrifies me.  I was previously unaware of being such a scaredy cat, but there it is.  You can hide a lot behind an ego.


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Does falling in love make you healthier?

I did not actually watch the Longevity Warehouse video on this, but I had a lengthy comment to make about it which appears to be in approval limbo, so after a lot of messing about online this evening, trying to find some very old story about Wolfe to relay to a friend – I failed to find it, so evidently some cleaning up has been going on – I thought I might write a blog post on this.

Back when I started transitioning to raw in 2010 – much water has gone under the bridge since then, but I will get to that – I did so on the basis of a very old boyfriend turning up.  I had not seen Mark since I was a sixteen year old, living in my first flat which happened to be a floor below his.  He had some old photos on his facebook page, and so I assumed that, like me, he had not changed very much.  In May 2010 I was 310lb.  Ten weeks later I was 240lb, by the time I actually saw him in August of that year I was 200lb and had started talking to Wolfe from time to time.  Sadly, Mark was by this time a fat, bald and rather unpleasant drunk, and after much non-negotiation we no longer speak.

I had been working on a database of products that might help me, which turned into a food politics essay, which in turn turned into a book about corporatism which I will again be working on as soon as I complete my fictionalised account of the life of Boris Johnson.  There are various reasons why I have to complete two books before returning to the Corporatism book, but it is mainly because I would like the Corporatism book to sell reasonably well in the UK and USA.  I would like to maximise the output of that book because the original purpose of that book was to help with a situation that is becoming worse and worse by the day.  (see previous post ‘scientard’)

As you can imagine, I was not particularly on the lookout for falling in love with anyone, which is when it tends to happen.  The person I fell in love with was a total wildcard, and it seems to have happened across a crowded webpage.  It was all totally inconvenient, particularly as it called my beliefs about my radical approach to eating into question.  To make matters worse, the person concerned is a controversial figure to say the least.

In terms of timing, it could not have been worse.  My family were, as they have been since my birth, mobbing me because they could not stand the competition and wanted to take their mother’s money;  the exs were treating the house as if it had a revolving door;  I had just been incredibly ill, whilst my medical doctor laughed at me  (it is hard to take a person complaining of tiredness seriously when they work two jobs and take care of an elderly person and a mansion, apparently.)

So, my battle with my diet became an emotional battle – I do not particularly like being in love, it is irrational and being happy is not necessarily a good experience if you are being attacked constantly.  You tend to think you are going to be caught off-guard.  As it has turned out, my fears on this front were well-grounded, not because of the controversy, but because the person turned out to be spoken for.

When the wife of this person appeared from nowhere, I did not know that she existed, so I assumed that I was being teased by the person in question.  I was then left wondering what on earth I had done for several years, telling myself that I was clearly worthless and crazy, and cooked and ate to please yet another ex who had turned up unwell and seeking comfort food.  Eating at least shuts you up, so that you do not howl in protest as much as you might otherwise.

To cut an even longer story short, I lost 160lb between 2010-2012, and put it all back on again between 2013-2017.  I have just lost the first 70lb again, and this time I plan to lose even more.  On discovering the truth (that the object of my affection was married and the facebook blocker was, in fact, his wife) this year on my birthday, I realised that my feelings had not affected anyone but me, that what I want matters to nobody, and really there was no need to punish myself for something that was not my fault in the first place.

So now I am still in love, but no longer stuffing my face with denial – the situation is hopeless.  I am still unlikely to ever be anything but alone, and my response to this is to get on with the work I was doing before all this rubbish started. All I wanted was to help.  I had no real reason for this other than I like doing things for people and my life was already being squandered by it.

The last seven years have been wasted on working my way through emotional baggage on the basis that I wanted to be unimpeded and good enough for this person, but they have induced a great deal of self-development in terms of my crippling lack of confidence, cynicism and inability to even ask for what I want because the answer is inevitably going to be no, usually alongside accusations of madness and a variety of humiliation techniques.  Gas-lighting is a parlour game in my family, and it has taken all this to make it obvious that it is pointless to interact with people.

Being in love, even with a health expert, is not particularly good for your health.  Self-development – yes. Health – probably not.


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The Vaccination Debate

So, as usual facebook is full of aggressive and extremely stupid scientard Americans picking off what they imagine to be ditsy hippies and religious nuts by making disgusting comments about their children and their opinions.

I have no children, and I don’t care if you inject your children or not, so let’s clear that rumour up.  What does concern me is the blithe disregard for personal choice these immensely stupid people have.

Having had no less than three doctors assert that my mother is on the hitlist just for being 90 this week, I am probably more aware than most how dangerous it is to give power to the medical community.

I have been pointing this out to these people today.  If you make  vaccines and other injections mandatory, you lose the right to ask what is in the injection, and you lose the right to say no.

Not one of these people have chosen to engage me on this issue of personal choice.  Instead they continue to hurl abuse, even though I have made it clear that they are welcome to inject their children with whatever they like.

As usual this comes down to a question of philosophy.  Have we educated populations so poorly that they cannot see that the real question is not about vaccines at all, but about your rights as an individual to say no?  It is not about infectious disease, but about a corporation’s right to make profits based upon forcing people to do something that is deemed by others to be good for them?

This idea may be welcome to people so conditioned to stupidity that they believe everything they are told, but it is extremely dangerous for the future of humanity.  Doctors in Nazi Germany were more than happy to conduct experiments on prisoners of war.  It is an essential part of the training to carry out orders.

Do you want to live in a world where you are told what to eat, what to have injected into your blood, what to worry about, what insidious activities you have to perform to earn enough to live another day?  This is the era we live in, and it gets worse every day with more and more attitudes like this.

As I said to one of the scientard bretheren:

I suggest we give all stupid people a mandatory injection of poison.  You’ll be first in the queue then.

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