We get it Obama. Your biography is cute nonsense - some picture book everydayman's story, even though you own it, because why are none of us allowed to feel the same type of hero since your election and the ceasing of staged goodie-bags because thanks for helping out three people with your elephantine excess of campaign funds you decided to spend on a thirty minute infomercial instead of simply actively conducting the humanitarian work you once claimed you unobjectionably represented as the already laboring proof of what wouldn't need an election to then thrust into mass productivity the designing of some label to further symbolize what still wasn't getting done.

official informant site: www.myspace.com/snowdecipher

View 1: How dare you tell Jesus you would usher him in, thus being helped with certain "energies" during speeches that vanished during the general election while Barack Marduk's transmitter animated false tales of a national character who was tortured with the lovely occult powers of the man of sweet words and a purple robe. Where's the emblem on your cloak old friend? Do you really think you can own Christianity for two thousand years?

Generation Z

I do not support mental health facilities because they only exist to temporarily imprison some kid (for either getting into a fight or being forced to push back by somebody who continued the wrong conversation, at least through tone-channel focus), when, in times past, if you got into a fight your family was the one who stood up for you, or at least learned to yell from outside, maybe a ninja dodging punches, until it was figured how to break up the fight by couraging how to redirect an individually frustrated mind-cog til the smiles made someone say, “i can't be like this if i'm laughing”, i.e. “come on kids, you were just playing basketball and having fun, who are you two now?” and sticking up for the kid, by the parent, corrected the malformation of school because then the teachers saw the parents as demonstrating how to communicate with their son or daughter, and so, if the good kid was ever forced into a bad place by the people “outside”, he could count on his family to be the foundation to know he's still safe, and so, choosing to stick up for the kid, like knowing, “you're a human being with your own individual brain who is able to understand stuff and make progress”, is far more intelligent than projecting one's malfocus onto, because when the parent does that, it is the parent's own malfocus he or she doesn't want to feel and thus, projects onto the child what is seen as a disease because if you won't put your focus on your own self, it means you're afraid to feel what you are when your eyes are in your own head. Being afraid to feel what you are implies you are about to be one step closer to having a yogic energy journey yelling, because you ignored, and repelled, with great frustration-saturated spears what could've been left alone had you not thought to be only one step closer. And now that the parent is feeling his or her own gaze, their cleaning up their own minds instead of believing the focal layers of necessity slimed onto everything in the house they no longer appreciate living in, because their focus has associative negative symbolism-sight disease, and indeed, a courageous conversation might be necessary where the child says: “mom, dad, I'm friends with my own brain. It isn't the medication that's responsible for any of the progress. What's responsible for the progress is the two of you believing there's not something wrong with me, because supposedly the medication lets you feel okay thinking I'm making progress and that mode of thought, in itself, makes me appear healthier in your eyes, which paint me in weird ways that always make me feel uncomfortable, like you're a weird dominatrix helper, especially when you knock with that ghost voice only to say hi for some staling moment because I'm actually happy all alone listening to my music, it's the only time I feel a peace absent from the chaos of your abrasive presence which always chooses to talk the minute I feel comfortable with what's on the radio, because that was just two protective layers you swore against the healthy protection of by lowering the volume and demanding my focus because, “hello? what is there something wrong with you, all daze-like? I don't care what you think, it's not the same as the imaginative aura we once let you emanate with wonder when you were supposedly allowed to be left alone, as a child, with a parent to talk to. And so, thanks for violently demolitioning the healthy structural channel, of my mind, I was receiving spiritual refreshment from within until you ignored the rules for safe space, and from some weird wind-up vortex of exponential interruption, set off an IED to get my attention with incoming shrapnel. What side of which war do you even think you're a pawn for? And so, when my presence is successfully hidden from your focal latch-poison, and my mind, right then and there, knows I'm okay, because I'm not being corked by who always sends a different kind of love indirectly, and since it's all I feel, isn't it actually the only direct reception from must really be an evil zombie because I hear what you're saying but you're a completely different person from the parental cookie-cutter of someone else's brewery. And so, if you are still worrying about me while I'm having fun, it means any progress I ever make is independent of you, and you will know this. You will no longer feel a connection to what you will know you were an instrument against, and as my spirit strengthens my body, I will exist in the same household and feel great relief when the sitcom of your life becomes separated from my brain. We are people in a house, not lab mice with electrical shackles that shock each other. Let me go into the space I feel comfortable in. Whose voice is it that says I get yelled at for not diving underneath the falling gate before I'm back where I was trapped – because whoever claims attic supremacy is really in an underground asylum arguing his version of reality from a maximum security cell guarded by the minds of heritage heroes. And so, without the attic tramp, who could be like a guy saying he's a girl on instant messenger just because it's the only way to get boys to listen to his channel, because otherwise he'll just yell at you for trying to remember what being a boy felt like, and so, with the attic tramp gone, the parental vortex shrinks in ominousity, because it's no longer the parent and some attic suppressor against me, and I breathe free every moment you hear this being explained by the universe that's on my side because sometimes you appear to be agreeing with what you're supposedly verbally against, because your mind visually entertains the possibility of its validity for what if I just believe you'll understand accurately a little later on then maybe I can just speak from what your conscience visibly agrees with, or hears the resonation of as from a truthful source to be patiently digested with wisdom recognition for the human evolution we've all come to know as mythic salvation. So I'll forget about the details, it just fuels the parent's addiction to pick something out of context and wield it for a soul-stomping rant of disguised hate, because when did molding the son take over working stuff out with the husband, because I miss my mom, or what I once constructed to be the mom my real mom's existence of destroyed, and the zombie replacement is like a cold, starving demon, even with a fridge full of flesh, saying we're supposed to share the darkness, because it really freaks me out how taking a pill is supposedly all she needs to feel her life is on the right path, even though me taking a pill has nothing to do with the events of her life which cause the anxieties and stresses she somehow thinks come from me, because I “act weird” because I say stuff that doesn't make sense to her, and this means there's something wrong with me, not that I've read through the dictionary and am one of those people who knows a word can have three different meanings which involves looking up other words to understand layers of previously unknown, not weird, depth,so instead of saying, “you're my child and I'm going to act like you scare me so your heart goes quiet” let's all wonder for a moment where the pharmaceutical torrent came from because Hillary Clinton had a closed-door health care meeting in the 90's and suddenly our kids were all immediately diagnosed according to the new medical workbook we acted like had been proven true for centuries before we'd ever subscribe to putting kids on three different types of medication – one that erases violent inclinations, because another says have the parent turn into a cartoon, only medication can speak to our brains, and a third makes the patient oblivious to everything that builds up to the inclination because now he's okay for being lost when before he was yelled at for the haze, and so, by being too physically distracted with side effects to properly function the kid is too dizzy to react, and the parent actually thinks this is all somehow a more healthy circumstance than taking a child's life and using it as dark toy to reinforce the projected animations of some parent who could not live with a darkness, projected it onto the child, and then went to immoral lengths to actualize its existence, for the child, instead... and the kid will still get stuff done even while more alone, and now on meds, while the parent says hello every time he walks into or passed the room, even if five times in ten minutes, in that ghost whisper, for a stale nothing, or some repeated accusation that I'm not acting well, or breathing the right way, which is a horrible conversation because if you really loved your kid you'd know how to make him laugh or feel intellectual at least once every night, like it's way more worth it to risk a failed conversation than charge with the poking stick, because failed conversations are actually conversations, and the kid doesn't have to show you he's happy especially when you're perceived as the happiness poacher, so how am I supposedly withdrawn and antisocial because are my parents on speed because normal people don't do what they somehow nightmare in only ten minutes. So yes, I will forge a distant alliance with imaginary secretaries who relay anything spoken from the parental poison because I appear as a human being with my own individual brain who is able to understand stuff and make progress, which the medication isn't responsible for. When the two of you act like such is this case, I don't feel this awful energy suffocating me like you're some giant oppressor-vortex in the house. I swear, the walls of the room disappear, or become paper, and every sound echoes like I'm trapped in a prism I'm supposed to believe belongs where it feels most suffocated and all because you won't learn that prayers are positive, delicately built thought visual-manifestations which are released from a holy chapel of spiritual purity and are certainly not bloody “worries” from a snarling parent, with some voodoo doll of their child, playing at imagining awful things, instead of feeling the winds of divine protection and asking them to help their child find their libraries most welcoming. And so, the kid picks up his fists, is then strapped to a stretcher and driven to the hospital in an ambulance where he is medicated and evaluated for yelling at someone who the cops believe because she's older and got to the phone first, because there's no rational court procedure in this unobjectionable system of cellular control. So welcome to the floor, kid, there's a cold bed with a creepy roommate who'll “spit” in your cup of water if you leave it or your toothbrush out, none of the windows open, and at night, it is said some of the larger patients who outpower the fragile objections from untrained staff, sneak into other patient rooms and try to lock the door while everybody's afraid to scream because the nightmare is real and the gum on our shoes is a silencing glue plugging our mouth, ears, and eyes. The bathroom doesn't have a lock, shower's out-of-order, and the floor shower doesn't provide flipflops. It's like when I was a decontamination janitor for pharmaceutical research facilities and they made us mop the ceiling with a mixture that said, “if swallowed, and able to speak, call a physician”, yet couldn't afford us goggles, for a billion-dollar facility. And so, instead of breathing rubbing alcohol fumes all day, I'm stuck in the lock-down dimension where a bunch of anorexic kids get in trouble for taking too many snacks from the snack room and are punished by then having their meals replaced with a feeding tube that was just taken out, has to get shoved back down the throat all the way into the stomach, and from an orderly who takes the girl into the medicine closet where she admits, “there's nothing she can do” because the greeting card taped to the hospital door reminds her of telling her mom what her mom's boyfriend did and then being yelled at, called a liar, “you just don't want mom to be happy”, or some boy whose cousin held a terrible concept of closet friendship that was like knowing how to bring the priest down but the poltergeist who smothers our breath in the middle of the night, how strong is your soul? and doesn't the phantom know Jesus says it's been negotiated the children are to be left alone, because you enjoy choking Jesus the most anyway, so why not do it collectively with all your armies so you can strategize something new instead of waiting to see what also won't work you've been afraid to lose as an option? and now we're all stranded and I don't know what to believe because I'm supposed to be thinking I'm crazy which is a terrible method to somehow motivate health... there's no fresh air, for weeks, just television, pills, and silent seizures like pockets of time the patients all experience as eternal elastic viewings, the parents see it but ignore what was like a mile traveled, because “you have a diagnosis, if you speak from the diagnostic manual, we'll say there's nothing wrong with you, because having a mental disorder cures mental illness, i.e. 'I am bipolar, which has nothing to do with a racing mind that then becomes exhausted, because then we'd all have to address the mind workings of the mental patients, because a mad scientist experimenting on brain-chemical routement has nothing to do with teaching or learning from a calm mind, and since calm minds exist, to ask a pill instead is against all the human spirit should stand for in this 21^st century, where the gym rat must park in the front row of the store parking lot because walking any farther is too exhausting for whose heart beats faster walking real distance, and not the treadmill simulation to entertain sweaty adultery into a magnified channel. So which form of exercise is an artificial failure?

Nature's Syringe 

Sometimes it's better to not fear cognitive buzzings because somewhere in South America there are much bigger insects, or smaller humans, I really can't tell any more, and while some learn to rest with the electrical company, others entertain immediate disease and its aftershocks, and so, sometimes it's better to not end up having to go to the doctor's when you can finally figure out where the invisible spider webbing suddenly comes from because maybe it's a space-fabric silken upgrade, and so, sometimes it's better to learn to tolerate more than one blood test which you're allowed to run the notch'd dilution of, or silently scream a new kind of movement, unlike acupuncture, which you cannot physically move during, but like acupuncture, in which there exists a neurological map of needle-thin canals that lead to tuning reservoirs, there are acupuncture “points” where no neurological anythings physicly exist, and this is proof of working mysteries, so before a tic is forced to gobble entire specimens during a hidden motel stay, before you find one dead with its legs up in the air like fried-battered shrimp tails (I was able to pull out with my thumb and index finger as long as I delicately observed the tension-threshold where the legs were connected with the burrowed beak's body) – so before a tic makes you freak out and refuse to feel what could be medicinal shocks, and this repellence of the medicine causes the allergic reaction which then forms the swollen ring where the doctor will make you take the pills you can refuse before the appearance of the signs of maybe a swollen ring, before the focal-disease manifestation has stolen the reigns of your world – so if you feel confident that you're hearing the truth of this while encouraged to object because decisions are important, then there's a chance the gnats are faery beings, because they have the existential stillness of a smart mind during flight.

* This is why legitimately starving children can look so aware-ingly alive, because the bugs on their faces are electrically feeding what is somehow alive with no real food and hydration.

Citizen Minds Do Your Part 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaza_War

Riddle

Is there any difference between a telescope and a microscope, and does this challenge our concept of modern science?

Supermarket Fraud

There are new lines of food with “upgraded” packaging, i.e. the plastic is thicker and sturdier which means twice as much oil is being used during the plastic-conversion process which is another reason why gas prices are “indirectly” inflated. Refrain from falling victim to the shinier, more expensive items with the same ingredients. “Field fresh” emanations are your best bet.