A heavy fog descends over the deep holler where my cabin sits. I can’t really see to the bottom for all the fog. The trees that are visible form a wall of dark vertical lines on a light grey background. I turn on the radio for some music now that my computer has been . . .
Forgotten times, just a blur in the periphery. I think what I learned is not to trust people, not to trust even myself, really. I taught myself, really. Shit, where is this going? . . .
I wake up with too many nightmares clouding my thought. I crack open a Mexican Coke and drink down that real sugar. I was in college again, lost in a dorm, assaulted by “bros,” manipulated into sexual humiliation by lesbians. I can’t go to work today. I go to Anonymous. In the middle of . . .
I wake up and go straight to the computer. I always go straight to the computer. It’s my only source for information aside from paperbacks. Call me an addict, but at least it’s not television.
No e-mails, no facebooks, not even any interesting news. I take a shit, but don’t shower and forget to brush . . .
Wilbur Mercer never stops climbing. . . .
Today, “dox” were dropped on the wrong John Rubenstein. In lay-speak that means the e-mail address, home address, and home phone number of John Rubenstein from Backtrace Security was published. . . .
Hubris to release revealing personal documents pertaining to members of Anonymous who he believes lost the way. . . .
Backtrace Security might be trolls. They might not. You should shit yourself. Now. . . .