Prepare Your Back Door
The WikiLeaks Party buggered my designated pillow hours. The days are fine, but at night in dreams my mind walks in fear. Terrible nights of interrupted sleep. Mornings presented with fresh piles of shit from angry WikiLeaks supporters. Hard core activists idly wondering if we might unconsciously be doing the work of Julian Assange's enemies. The examples of allies going Full Arsehole and speculating about our mental health, integrity, really real actual secret motivations, ego length/width/size go on and on throwing a spanner in my inner workings.
We are accused of turncoat antics by people trained by long hours on the internet to make spastic jumps over the truth. To these fucktards the truth is what you know and research is how you arrive at what you know deep inside because you are an elf or some fucking shit.
Across social media witch hunters weave snail trails around what is real, never coming close to the salty goodness like the motherfucking slugs they are.
Yes, this windfall of half-assed new enemies displeases me. It's fucking my nights. Their ability to rise from the flames of their own failure to grasp a situation is only a further spur to ride them down on my mighty keyboard horse. Get fucked cunts.
Do I have to play nice with these abusers on my virtual doormat? They latch like on like limpets striking a blow for justice with highhanded rhetoric about epic loyalty fails.
I've been dragged backwards out of the US Consulate building so many times, handcuffed, manhandled, brutalised, thrown into claustrophobic overheated vehicles and kidnapped. I've assumed I'm being watched, profiled, measured. I've lost count of the number of times I've been to court on my own and fellows' civil disobedience matters. I've lost touch with friends and family, my career is not a career, it's a pile of shit, I'm damaged from seeing police attack my friends and allies and after all that I've got to deal with the very centre of my loyalty and faith put under the retarded internet microscope. The obsessed will do anything but ask me directly what I'm up to. The obsessed will do anything but take at face value the multiple statements and outbursts made publicly, on the public record.
I will fuck these people in the arse.
That's a metaphor.
But, really, right in the arse.
We are accused of turncoat antics by people trained by long hours on the internet to make spastic jumps over the truth. To these fucktards the truth is what you know and research is how you arrive at what you know deep inside because you are an elf or some fucking shit.
Across social media witch hunters weave snail trails around what is real, never coming close to the salty goodness like the motherfucking slugs they are.
Yes, this windfall of half-assed new enemies displeases me. It's fucking my nights. Their ability to rise from the flames of their own failure to grasp a situation is only a further spur to ride them down on my mighty keyboard horse. Get fucked cunts.
Do I have to play nice with these abusers on my virtual doormat? They latch like on like limpets striking a blow for justice with highhanded rhetoric about epic loyalty fails.
I've been dragged backwards out of the US Consulate building so many times, handcuffed, manhandled, brutalised, thrown into claustrophobic overheated vehicles and kidnapped. I've assumed I'm being watched, profiled, measured. I've lost count of the number of times I've been to court on my own and fellows' civil disobedience matters. I've lost touch with friends and family, my career is not a career, it's a pile of shit, I'm damaged from seeing police attack my friends and allies and after all that I've got to deal with the very centre of my loyalty and faith put under the retarded internet microscope. The obsessed will do anything but ask me directly what I'm up to. The obsessed will do anything but take at face value the multiple statements and outbursts made publicly, on the public record.
I will fuck these people in the arse.
That's a metaphor.
But, really, right in the arse.
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