Orange fat fuck is running out of patience. Beware.
I get frustrated in psychic classes when we have to practice on each other.
I mean, yes, information jumps into my head. Either really right or really wrong.
I’m more of a signs in dreams person.
And I just woke up from a doozy.
Bad shit is coming. I mean, worse bad shit.
I was in what I assume was Kennywood. I know my grandfather was there. But I was so exhausted from trying to outrun the fascists, I barely acknowledged him other than to say, “It’s my turn to fight them now.”
There was no reasoning with them. They were on our scent like bounty hunters.
There were many options to outsmart them. They got distracted by slower-moving people and those who decided to trust them.
I remember them slamming someone into a room who was in a wheelchair as I hid behind a door.
The door opened and I screamed that I was coming in. I think I had a weapon.
Well. They kicked out that wheelchair and had dismembered the person in it. It nearly knocked me over.
I know a weird ass dream when I see one, and I usually forget about it.
Something is telling me not to forget this one.
There were a few messages, most of which I don’t remember.
But “Trump is running out of patience with you resisters” was pretty prevalent.
I think hearing that Biden has an aggressive prostate cancer yesterday set this off in my head.
He has a 9 Gleason score. Not great.
Mets to the bone, too. I am intimately familiar with those.
The only thing worse than hearing you have cancer is hearing that it’s in your bones, IMHO.
Well, the only thing worse is having Coke Junior snort an 8-ball and tweet about why didn’t Joe’s PhD wife Jill notice he had Stage 5 cancer.
Let this be a lesson to all of us that praying for his bloated fat fuckface of a father to fucking die or have someone unalive him sent the message to the universe to make the guy we love unwell.
Still.
Wrong guy, universe. Wrong guy.