#de ligne

- C.J. De Ligne

Laundry, the focus of his terms, was and remains the reason he geometrically strategized to use my slight time in the home of a misinterpreted entrepreneur, now is my call out for Barry to do the right thing.

The best kush on the American continent, will remain exclusively holistic after two months of talks between dispensary owners and a handful of prominent holistic pharmacists. The decision comes as a blow to Washington state, where the "green rush" is facing drought. Starbucks of hybrids, reputed for its feathery leaves and exquisite caliber, the African/Native American strain was designed by holistic pharmacists in 1989, and quickly became known as the best. Most desired by eclectics for its neural stimulation, Chiller is attributed to having made consumers more intuitive over time. Princess Mary Elizabeth, who is inheriting 47% of Chiller stock, is leveraging her shares to encourage State Deal support. According to one source, "Having a princess who represents the holistic trade turn down dispensaries on the West coast tells you high profile pharmacists will do the same. They don't follow her. It's that traders are all over this." Stastics show 5 out of 7 pharmacists back the State Deal, and want national licensing to trade under international statutes. Fans all over the world are excited for the release of "Doing Laundry", a music piece some pharmacists are calling a transparent advertisement for the State Deal. Princess Lizzy's new release is expected to break download records. While fans of Don Chill II trolled the political rap released in 2012 and Moriah Lee Davis attracted a new fan base with experimental style, Princess Lizzy brings a new twist to fans of the lost baby royal, who spent almost her entire first year with a drug lord. Sources attribute her lyrical genius to years of listening to Eminen, whom Princess Mary Elizabeth lovingly calls, "Marshall", for their bond. Sources say Marshall's recent lyrical attack on President Trump is linked to the president's lack of action to send the princess home to England. Although it was his predecessor, who found Princess Mary Elizabeth and capitazed on her skills, the incumbent is expected to take action on behalf of the princess. More to come on this story.

For five years, I studied how it worked. I found myself on the edge. Frantically, I tried to educate anyone willing to pay attention, for many reasons. I wanted a lot of things when I started out trying to create a training program that would teach others to read minds. The foremost reason, being a single mom of two young children, I needed flexibility, working at an insurance company didn't provide much of that. My family needed more income just to survive, future plans were impossible on my salary, I knew I wouldn't be able to afford tuition for any higher learning for my children. Teaching people to read minds might have changed all that. I daydreamed of being the one that picked the kids up from school, attended their field trips, chaperoned dances, helped with bake sales. So with dreams in mind, a sharpie in hand, and white posters on my (lab) walls, I started trying to debunk the myths, and solidify the science of intuition. My garage was cold. At the time, I still smoked cigarettes. Looking back, its hard to think about that smoky cold space as being something to complain about, especially, years later, when I have survived so much worse. Saving the world came after, then representative of the drug trade, a new plan for structuring the government, falling in and out of love with Obama. Then I wasn't me anymore, the ceiling, walls and floor of my world shattered. All that time spent wanting the world to accept my oddities and here I was refusing to accept the blatant reality that I was a dead person.

Yesterday, I was asked if I looked up to Hillary Clinton. I'll tell you, "What Happened." My greatgrandmother passed away when I was about eight-years old. At the graveyard, families made their way back to their respective vehicles. I didn't like the way the graves we walked past made me feel. I reached out for my father's hand, who batted away my appendages, then for my mother's, she shook her head, "no". My parents and siblings walked in a cluster. They all pieced together in some way, while I seemed to fit better in the forest of headstones. Time lapsed and the space between their well fitting cluster and my lone trail widened. Father noticed my having fallen behind and called me, the rest of the family was getting into the car. More scared of his wrath than the erieness that engulfed me, I pushed myself to move forward. Step, step, then ugh, I felt my right foot slip into cool, soft ground. The screech of agonized terror rose like solid vomit from my throat. He was embarrassed by me, then with hunched shoulders, and a primal like, emotional detachment commemorative of the 10th & Quindaro, Kansas City, Kansas, neighborhood he survived growing up, my father demanded I get in the car. There was no question of timing. He stood with the driver's door open, silently growling the pertinence of immediacy. Having tumbled to the ground, panicking at proximity to dead body, I wildly tugged my foot out of the earth, my lace trimmed sock covered with dirt, my eyes mathematically analyzing the dates on the plot's headstone. Something told me I was dead already. If a story like mine was brought to my attention, I would do something. At the very least, Trump acknowledged that I proved that I mind read Obama. Kudos. He also actually exercised his right to divorce rather than beguile the public with deception. This nation was ready for that kind of change, but Hillary, the prospective first woman president, had already been in the oval office, have her tell it, running the nation while Bill got his rocks off in office. Contradiction. More of the same won't fix anything, including my problem, a Bill type getting off in office. Hillary didn't even pretend to address her husband's infidelities throughout the election process. (I would have divorced him, even if it broke the bank. Staying with Bill supports the codependent female stereotypes perpetrated by social inequality.) Look up to her? No. Look at her? Not if I can help it. I especially dislike her for the reasons that it was brought to her attention what was happening to me, and she chose more of the same. Don't get me wrong here, there was this glimmer of hope that fluttered in and out of my heart when Hillary claimed to have predicted that she would marry a president while attending college. For a moment or so I thought she might have been hinting that she would stand up for a psychic, or a girl with enough physics competency to measure how we all use intuition. The fluttering wings of faith hit the blender when I felt her arranging for my murder, planning to make mine like the unfortunate demise of a Dutch reporter with hopes of bringing to light Hillary's illegal probes into Bernie Sanders' campaign strategies. A few posts about my foundation for TAT leaning hard on "Think Big and Kick Ass in Business and in Life", bugged her venture to kill me off. All of Trump's books certainly did not halt at Chapter 11, plus, I give him more props than Gates when it comes to mental Windows. She doesn't like passing out, she should pick her battles wisely. Looking back through my own window of memories, I recall that it was a sunny, September day, that my foot freshly turned soil in the new grave plot. Leveled close to the dead, I had felt the calm air which carried a bite of Kansas nightly frost.The light, that strange lighting that streams between us, overtook my trembling hands and pushed me up from the ground. I remember distant scolding, and a surealness of being somewhere else and where I was at the same time. Such are my vivid childhood memories of x-entanglement. Rather than a "Girlfriend in Love", I was a little girl believing Jesus walked with me, teetering on the dividing line of life and death. If the prior statement seems bizarre, well it describes something a secret service agent that goes by the name of Paul Wade, called just that. Paul Wade, however, isn't a real name I found out, just like I'm actually not alive, or at least the baby whose name I've used for the past thirty years isn't.

Renting, the whole thing was a copycat alternative to New York. The quaint village I left had become home, but even in that pocket of antique community, fate found a way to push me to Seattle. On the other side of the country, I was still thinking like it was New York. They call it the train here, but I was waiting for the subway. "Are you Italian?" Slightly shorter than I, rather cute, with a swag that seemed familiar, I stopped mentally rummaging through prospective rentals to answer him. "No." It didn't phase him, he went on to state he had just moved here from New York, New York. Then he asked me for directions. I had been downtown a handful of times, I came off that information without hesitating, oh yes, and great, I just moved from New York as well. He was a chef on his way to an interview. Wow, I had stinted as a sous chef in Upstate. Super chatty, he went on to say he had connections out this way, and asked if I was looking for work. We exchanged numbers. After a couple conversations, my preoccupation with the mayhem I evaded/encountered going west cleared just enough to question the whole thing. The witty guy told me he was from Sri Lanka, he had relatives on the east coast, including a cousin that worked at the Whitehouse. He had dissolved a talent agency prior to moving, his fiancée worked overseas as a stock broker. It was a morning I recall having a million things to do, checking email deprioritized only by my morning cup of Joe. Picking up my LG while concomitantly stirring creamer in my mug, I unlocked the screen to find twenty plus text messages waiting to be opened. Lewd messages from his number rattled my brain. I fumed from reading the smut. I fired out with a 'leave me alone forever' text. Sometime that afternoon, I declined his call, then he apologetically texted. His older neighbor took his phone after he had passed out due to a few too many drinks. I badgered myself for being angry; I felt better and forgave him. His older friend, Sam (not his actual name), lived in an apartment next to his parents. He told me Sam's dad had worked for NASA. Sam had a tough life since his father died. I related. I wanted to meet my father. A little time passed and both Sam and the chef would call or text me throughout the day. They asked me to come over often, it never worked with my schedule. Another instance of texts overnight occurred, this time more vulgar and slightly threatening. I chided myself for feeling paranoid, and decided to just question the two about what was going on. My gut may have been wrong, I thought. A few more chances given and then I was really scared. The chef alluded to people wanting to buy me overseas. He threatened that the only people that knew who I was wouldn't help me, that I would have to do what he said. He texted that he knew where I was when I was there... I didn't want to face it. I called a human trafficking hotline for help. I moved again. Tolerance at an all time low, I managed to find a place to live, and keep to myself, for awhile anyway. Gauging it, around four months of living somewhere, and something gives. The same something that sometimes saves me also puts my life on the line. Fault in our starless nights, perils of liger, I feel I could solve this if it weren't for my dual identity. Ethically bent, I look at the world and think, 'perhaps they think I'm scamming them?' Contritely, I feel I'm being scammed into being a princess. A picture of her, I see in my cerebral cortex, evaluating her features, comparing her looks against mine. She, the mother who raised me, was a ginger. Genetically, I could have turned out a number of ways and still biologically be hers. If I trust my mind for anything, it's for logic. Finding a way to measure my skill was logic. Whether or not I am a princess, well, the math could be there. Spot on, I do look like Charles, the same way I feel I resemble the mother who raised me. I would just love to see a picture of Sarah de Ligne, yes, of course I would rather see her in person. I just want to know for certain. Parietal lobe, perhaps, I imagined a tan skinned woman with dark curls and eyes, intuitive and refined with a feisty personality. However, I felt this tugging, occipital lobe, pulling me back, indicating my imagination was based in memory. If you lose an arm, medical professionals work with you to mentally control a prosthetic arm. This is similar to how, without a logical arm, I reached for my mother. The father that raised me, taught me to walk with my head up, so I could see where I was going. Of all his traits, I wouldn't forfeit that one. In that respect, I'll never reach shore if I don't keep swimming. Whether that shore is London, New York, or even back in Kansas, I plan to find that DNA match.