It must have been spring of 2015. Peter Taylor, Connie’s nephew, was working at the San Francisco Exploratorium as an inventor. He took us on a tour behind the scenes, showing us his messy work table and the many workshops for melding, woodwork, and so on.
Later, we went into the tunnel. It was a pitch black tunnel where you could only find your way through footholds on the walls. We called for each other and found our ways through each other’s voices. At the end, there was a slide and we dropped into a ballpit, also pitch dark.
Connie went with us the first time, and sat the second time out. She was watching us on the CCTV with night vision.
On the second time, in the ballpit, we were giggling and Don ruffled my hair, then put his hand meaningfully on my chest. It wasn’t my collarbone. It was my chestplate, right above my breasts. I did not know what he was doing and was very confused. I have been sexually assaulted before I was raped in 2017, and I did not know what he was doing. When we came out of the ballpit, Connie said, “I was watching!”
I kept my calm and betrayed no emotion, as I always do in a crisis. But that stayed with me for years.
I thought, Don must have been trying to anchor me. To locate me. Because I’ve had to make myself so invisible for this war that nobody can see me. When I talked to Connie at home, she would be frequently frowning in serious attention, because she was reading me.
So, Don must have been trying to locate me. I did not know why Connie said, “I was watching”. Now, I know she was trying to tell me that it was safe, that he did it for a reason.
The RapeTM really traumatized me. I made so many videos I had to delete because my eyes were all fucked up from trauma.
I could not understand. If Connie knew the future so well, why would she post about semen as SPF? If she knew it was going to end with RapeTM, why would she? Therefore, she can’t tell the future. Therefore, her Goodreads must be against me instead of flanking me.
Now, it makes sense. Connie knows the future but knows not the way. I’m Frodo and she’s Galadriel the wise mystical elvish.
Once I followed Ryan, she flanked me by a trust fall. Trusting I knew what I was doing. That I would end game when I’d exposed him. That’s why she tweeted “Damn, I used to be funny.” Tricking RyanTM into thinking that we were fooled by them.
Now, I remember. It’s been so many years.
They killed my grandfather in 2016. I blocked that from Connie’s mind until very recently. I did not want her to feel responsible. She tweeted, 5 years after his death, “I am so sorry for your loss.”
There was a large scaled operation in Melbourne to buy me over. They knew about Don and Connie. They’ve been tracking them for years. Don’s carplate had no numbers on it. It only said “OBVS”. They knew I lived with them. Along with my deep dive into Silicon Valley when I was in the Bay, they knew I had to be the person who was planning to destroy them.
In Melbourne, 2016, before my grandfather died, I was teaching English and Geography in a high school. I also slept on the streets. I had a double life.
On the streets, people would come up to me and give me presents. An expensive magazine, nail polish, etc. Complete strangers. I sat outside my house, having a cigarette once, and a man drove and stopped right outside the porch, wound down his window, and shouted, “Get a fucking clue!” and drove off.
Then, Harry G. I can’t even remember how I met him. I told him I was a writer, and he told me that he wanted to sponsor and publish my book. He kept asking what I was going to write about. They needed to know. And minutes before I was due to meet him, he made a fatal error. He emailed “She’s in Melbourne Central” — — to my email address.
I knew I was being stalked, but I did not know how big the operation was. I just decided to have fun with it. I continued sleeping on the streets in May, Melbourne’s winter, with nothing but a blanket and a satchel where I’d collect all their gifts and tried to piece it together.
I did not have my phone on me, I had no money on me. I went into restaurants and asked for water sometimes. I sat at the sides of the streets and asked for spare change for something to eat. I really wanted to understand what it’s like to be homeless. At night, homeless people taught me how to skateboard.
My theory is that when they realized Operation Melbourne had failed — — that they had failed to buy me over, they increasingly got angered. Hence, “Get a fucking clue”. When they knew it was a lost cause, they killed my grandfather in order to get me to go home. They knew I’d lose my mind. He was the light of my life. My parents were really busy working when I was young, and I thought he was my dad. I didn’t know he wasn’t my dad until I could speak, I think.
Late 2016, I was in the hospital. That’s the Illuminati hospital, not the good hospital I’m currently at. I met a doctor named “Peter Q.” He introduced himself to my mother and I when we were alone with him. Later, when I was with the other doctors and him, without my mother, he went by “Dr. Chua.” When I was discharged, I showed my mother his photograph on the website. “That’s Peter Q,” she said. I was suddenly selected for what they called a “Grand Jury Ward Round”, where a panel of 70 psychiatrists watched me be interviewed on a stage.
“You’re a writer?”
“What’s your working process like?”
“I do social experiments,” I said.
“How do we know you’re not here for another social experiment?”
I did not know it was an Illuminati hospital at the moment of admission. I do not know how they expected me there and planted Peter Q there. But I know they wanted to know if I wanted to be there to investigate them, or if I was really affected by what they had done.
“I’m a sociopath,” I said.
They transferred me to a special unit. It was not like the other wards, with shit-stained walls, the entire place with a constant stench of urine, where no one was allowed to leave the ward for walks. The special unit was pristine. Clean. It looked like a student lounge. It was painted with bright colors and had a large screen television, a library with books, and a garden where we could go for walks anytime.
It is the only special unit in the hospital.
It was creepy. They had art therapy, yet would confiscate all our work at the end of it, saying they needed to analyze it. I wrote long poems saying that I would destroy the Illuminati.
When I saw the doctors, they had very long sessions with me. Far longer than the other patients. They would demand to see my diary. “We want to help you, to understand your state of mind, so you can go home earlier. Because you’re a very interesting case.” They thought flattery would make me share my diary with them.
I was there for 3 months.
I was abused by a nurse. She twisted my arm so hard I thought it was going to pop out its socket. She left a bruise the size of a watch strap on it. I stole my mother’s phone and went to the bathroom, and emailed Nick a photograph of it.
“Who has imprisoned you and inflicted these bruises on you?”
I could not explain myself properly.
After the abuse, I threw a chair angrily on the ground, at no one. 7 orderlies, mostly men, rushed towards me. They pushed me onto a steel bed and restrained me. I was injected with a heavy sedative and lost consciousness immediately. It wasn’t the first time I’d been restrained. It happened several times before the special unit, and I can’t remember why. The sedative wore off in the middle of the night and I found myself in isolation. I screamed all night.
The next morning, my dad was allowed to visit me briefly. He brought me classic fiction. “I don’t want that. Can you bring me every single one of Lee Kuan Yew’s books?” I studied in isolation.
I was there for 3 months, and at the end of it, the only way they’d let me out of the hospital was to convince my parents that I had to go for monthly injections of psychotropics. They were really strong. I fell into a catatonic depression for 3 months. It was like being in a coma, except there are no thoughts. Just blankness. I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I hid this from my parents. I hide almost everything from my family. They thought I was reading in my room. I managed to pull myself out of it for brief moments to do research on medications and figure a way out of this.
I remembered Nick said I have ADHD, and I insisted they bring me to see a private ADHD psychiatrist. It had to be private because I did not know if any hospital could be trusted at this stage. I convinced the psychiatrist that I did not have bipolar, and because of her specialism, she also had confirmation bias. I researched ADHD before I went in, and acted really restless, drumming my fingers on the chair, playing with a pen all the time, standing up suddenly and pacing the room. She diagnosed me with ADHD and gave me Concerta. Within a week or so, the catatonia wore off.
I took on a full time job, but never stopped working on the underground resistance. Invisibly.
I am telling you all this so you know I am not a sociopath. I am not a player. I am a serious person. I always have been. I have had to run cons against our enemies, knowing that nobody would understand me until each end game. “This is the end of the Ender’s Game,” I would say. At one point, my bio was “Esoteric causality stealth”.
I have been so lonely.
Now, I’m not.
I have lost 10 kilograms in 5 months. I cannot regain the weight. I have discipline. I walk every day. I walked through slush during the tropical thunderstorm monsoon seasons end of last year. Deep muddy slush up to my ankles. I walk through rain.
Connie knows the future, but not the way. She has been flanking me.
I was so confused about the Exploratorium. It made me doubt every single thing that happened between the three of us.
I trusted Don more, because of his way of communicating. Connie would reply with only one line, saying “Melissa, please talk to your parents. We are not close enough.”
How could I talk to my parents? No one knows what I am doing.
Now, I remember. I remember 19 Picadilly Court, San Rafael. The shire.
I remember the gentle way we moved around each other, Connie and I. We did not tiptoe, we were listening to each other so closely. When I found out she was the CQ, she did not need to tell me that, because we both already knew. The next morning at breakfast, I felt like nothing had happened. That she was Connie. I did not care that she was the CQ. Because I knew Connie and love Connie, and the CQ is a persona.
Connie is my owl. I’m her owl. We communicate by night. She did not tell me “It’s a luxury to see one’s parents grow old”. She was probably talking about right now, where I am living in Singapore, that I am now, seeing them grow old. They aren’t that old. They’re 60. She posted “The Storyteller” outside a medical centre as taichi. We practiced taichi together. Don, Connie and I. It’s a push and pull. Counterintuitive. You push someone and they push back. I don’t know if Nick saw that post, but perhaps Connie was trying to tell him, “She’s not a child. Do you really think she is?”
Connie would not be so unkind. I remember now. I was talking about Chapman and she said, “Nicholas Meyer’s your favorite?” I hadn’t realized that I had fallen in love with him the first day we met. I hadn’t realized that until very recently. Because it’s not “love at first sight” that matters. The years of letters, texts. He knew when to be soft with me. He knew when to be hard on me. Sometimes, I’d disappear for an entire year without talking to him. Yet, whenever I emailed him, he’d reply the next day.
“Melissa — hi.”
I don’t think either of us realized how we felt about each other until very recently.
Don and Connie are my godparents. No trauma is ever going to take that away from me now. Connie was never petty. She was testing me, or teasing me. A lot of the time, at home with her, I was far more serious than her. I’ve grown up with an incredibly passive-aggressive mother.
We really did train together. We had to read each other very closely.
I teased her once. She had just finished writing her first novel — The Pastor’s Kids. I sat her down on the couch and sat at her feet like an adoring fan, asking her questions about her book. She played along.
I don’t know why she was upset that I had asked her to send me the book to “Jessica Sen”. Maybe she was upset that Jessica Sen and the CQ were more real than Melissa and Connie.
It never was, Connie. Remember, breakfast. I did not care that you were the CQ.
Now, it’s clear to me that she does not want credit for me, or this war. She never lost trust in me. I went crazy because she was commentating on what I was doing with “sex crimes” right as I ended game with RyanTM. I do not subtweet. But I get it. She bled cool when I could not.
Her Goodreads are neither cowardice nor aggressive, towards me. They are aggressive towards our enemies. “The Great Derangement” — Ryan’s endless proposals to me over 3 weeks. “Visit from the Goon Squad” — Ryan’s friends like Jason Bateman and Samuel L. Jackson coming to pile on sexual compliments. “Weather: The Dept of Speculation” — the gossip club in Hollywood not knowing what was going on with Ryan and Blake, knowing I’d end game and embarrass them both. Remember? I said “the minions of Mordred don’t know who Ryan is and who Morgana is. Morgana is Blake Lively.” That was before the real end game — the exposure of Front of Kids, with the “new t-shirt sponsor” — hailing Threadless, etc. I had to keep going because it wasn’t enough to expose he was Illuminati. I had to expose the entire operation.
I had to get to cocaine rider.
Not that it was easy on me. I didn’t see cocaine rider coming. I just wanted to either destroy, or force Front of Kids to become something. I wanted to see his Adweek could make revolutionary ads that didn’t brainwash. This was the same time I launched the Rectangle Project.
Connoe never wanted credit for this war. I do not. She stood up for me in her blogpost on her Amazon page. We’d talked about Tolkien right before she changed the link on her Amazon page. On her page, she said that “only the most humble can be trusted with power”. She was standing up for me. I do not agree. I do not think I am humble. There are idiots who want to write my biography, I will obviously never. Why on earth would I give my war strategy away, ever? The next leader has to find his or her own way.
I’m not humble.
I’m Sherlock Holmes, and I always know when the game is on. Why? Because I love it.
I love Connie. I do not like the CQ.
I do not like that the CQ pushed drugs. I do not like that the CQ pushed a hedonistic lifestyle when in the years leading up to it, we could have been training for this war. I do not like that she said “Fuck religion”. Connie doesn’t actually think that. She’s very spiritual and was raised in a Lutheran Christian family. I can only imagine that she must have wanted us to have wild fun before the war began, and that I do not understand it because my idea of wild fun isn’t hedonism, and I’ve been training since young, and didn’t see the need to have wild fun before Don and I cued “FIRE”.
Who knows? Methods to her madness.
To stand up for her personal blog, intellectualism and ideology are different. She is an intellectual. She is not ideological. We have been talking about postmodernism and the end of it, a lot.
Nobody did anything wrong to me.
I did not do anything wrong to anyone.
As Don once told me, “At the end of every good story, everyone’s in the wrong.”
This wasn’t a subtweet.
I have no need to do subtweets since I’m openly leader of this war.
I would never dirty my timeline especially on the war room page with subtweets.
Luke took it as such, because he’s a narcissist.
He thought I was talking about him and the girl he’s in love with. He started piling on likes. “Nevertheless, Marie persisted”. This is the way he thinks. He thinks that by abusing someone, treating them badly, they’ll become more insecure and love him more. He thought that the virus was referring to him.
This is the comment. I found it highly disturbing the books that are on Amazon’s bestseller’s list. It’s not just about Amazon. It reflects our current culture. I also found it amusing that the funniest comment there was rated 1 star.
It was pure coincidence.
The girl he’s in love with is a sugar baby.
I was sitting at the cafeteria with Judd Legum and telling him “Seven Husbands” is trending, you can feel better now that the Covid misinformation book is ranked #8.
I mean it when I say I will never have another after Nicholas Meyer. I could never. I have my reasons for that video. I cannot explain it without going into the whole spiral of all the different algorithms I have talked about and all the enemies we have. I’m walkin’ on splinters here.
When I saw Pierce Brosnan on Hopkins’ page, I lost my mind. I emailed Nick.
“Worried sick. Text me back. Need to know if you’re okay.”
No reply. Blocked.
I wrote a letter to Luke privately. I told him that I’m happy that he’s found someone and learnt to love unconditionally. Because if you love someone, you’d share them, and I know he does not love me, because he blocks Nick from me. That’s possessiveness and obsessiveness, not love. I told him that he might not realize it, but she’s his princess, because you could never bear to hurt someone you love.
I told him the reason he thinks he loves me is because I understand him, the way I try to understand everyone, even and sometimes especially our enemies. I told him the reason he treats me badly is because he wants to test me all the time, as abusers do in relationships, enough is never enough, they have to destroy you and see if you still love them. That is not love.
He’s realized that she is his princess now, which is why he posted this on Sam’s timeline.
I thought Sam had tweeted to tell me to post a video to fight on.
“If Sam can be strong, so can I,” I said.
I only just realized this morning it was from Luke.
That it was a subtweet to her, because she is very sexual on camera in front of him. I was busy. I was teaching my English class when I got the notification, and retweeted it once I was done.
Now, Luke only has one option.
To prove to her his devotion and loyalty, that she is his number one, his princess, he must unblock me from Nicholas Meyer.
If he does not unblock me from Nicholas Meyer, it means that he is still obsessed with me.