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My Experience of America’s Culture Wars. Part 2 RoundUp, Homework, and Trash

Another hotel room post. Thank goodness for the WordPress app because my laptop and desktop refuse to go online. So I am reduced to thumb typing and phone editing. Like a barbarian. Good thing my vision is perfect for 8 inches in front of my face, beyond that lies blindness.

Our house went up for sale. I was thumbing through the pictures, and remembering how much I loved that old house. I felt the same way while packing and cleaning. The hardwood floors we found under ancient linoleum. The laminate we put down in the big back room with the wood stove. It was so pretty. A happy place. Our happy place. And the only home my Border Collie ever knew.

Border Collies were not meant for hotel rooms, nor not being able to go out.

I spent so long avoiding the outside of my house, where the male neighbor, “Harry the Homunculus,” would sit and wait for me to come out to holler at me, comment on my life, and just stare all day. I have no idea why he was home all the time. But he sure let me know he was. Running motors at all hours, unattended, some diesel engines, until they ran out of fuel. But the result was, my gardens went untended and to seed. My animals weren’t happy. I didn’t want to power-wash. He was always looking. And I felt like the trash he dumped in our face. Like a middle finger, or a bathroom-wall dick scribble.

Though, of all females, my female neighbor earned every gendered epithet you can imagine, I called her “Becky.” As in BBQ Becky, Karen’s Dark Side disciple like The Emperor and Vader (but as totally basic [riches]). She was an emotionally manipulative, pathological liar, with two brain cells to rub together (two more than Harry). There was no lowness to which she would not sink, to her knees.

These people who tore up a 208 foot hogwire and cement sunk post fence AND the side picket fencing BECAUSE they were told to keep their dog out of our yard. Who admitted, when I requested an inspection from the Department of Agriculture, that, yeah they did mix and boom spray RoundUp Pro over a water course and onto our yard. The police did nothing. Zero. And I was always unsure how to react because when we put up some netting as a temporary fence for our animals, he made a pile of a pulled up tree, wire, posts, an old oil tank, and the roof of an outhouse in front of our house. I filmed it, and as he got off his forklift, dude said “Stop testing me, lady.”πŸ’›πŸ€πŸ’œπŸ–€

His reactions were always exponentially more insane than I could imagine. And all the police would say is keep a record, take pictures, and save your security cam video. Well, yeah, but what is the end game here?

In Gavin de Becker’s The Gift of Fear, he said that restraining orders are homework the police give to women to prove how much they REALLY do not want to see a person ever again. Usually a man person. This is when an abuser is most dangerous. You have done everything you were told, you filed the restraining or protection order, and that is when they feel trapped and kill pets, kill spouses, and in the case of my township, led to the gunning down of two little girls in a car in a ditch by the side of the road. Because the issuance of the Emergency Protection from Abuse Order (PFA) was delayed for 24 hours. And a disgraced, former Baltimore cop kidnapped those babies from their mother, and shot them dead on the side of the road.

No tragedy that unspeakable happened to me, but in the next part, I will tell you how much man power the regional police had, and how it was (mis)used against me, but not to protect that mother and her children.

Sorry these are so dark, folks. I promise, it gets something-er.

– JLβœŒπŸΌπŸ’šπŸ––πŸΌπŸ•ΊπŸ»πŸ’πŸŽΈ

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