I’ve been having a hard time signing into my new email account. I’ve used this email account for NOTHING else except for this blog.
My second time logging in on a different day, my account has been suspended. Someone used my new email, whom no one should know about to, to send lots of spam, or something like that. It’s never happened to my other email accounts, just to this one. Is it just a crazy coincidence? Am I overly paranoid?
I think not.
And guys, I am NOT a conspiracy theorist. I believe that the twin towers fell because terrorists ran into them, not because the government something something something, know what I’m saying?!?!
Some fabulous memories:
Going to Michael Aquino’s house in San Francisco near the Presidio was always a terrible experience. I realized that I stopped visiting his house when I was around 4. I don’t think he wants these little kids to have the chance to remember specifics about his house, nay, apartment.
When I first began going to Michael Aquino’s hell-hole, he’d give me drugs. They’d make me lethargic so I couldn’t move or protest. Before I’d be picked up, they’d bathe me–sometimes trying to drown me, other times making it a great experiences with bubbles–and give me more drugs to wake me up. I know I slept hard on the way home.
At one point, Michael was torturing me and stopped. He held a gun to my neck and talked to me about taking a gun to church and shooting people. Or blowing it up. I didn’t like that.
Michael would role play with me. He’d ask me who cared about me and what would happen if I told them people were hurting me. He’d pretend to be my dad and we’d chat. I’d say, “Daddy, I don’t like when men hurt me.” Michael would respond to me in the form of my dad, “But you’re just a little girl. I don’t care about you. I have other kids that are better and aren’t as whiny. If you are gone, I don’t notice. It helps me to have you gone. That’s why Mom brings you to Michael’s house because you whine too much.”
Oh, Michael, you sick and twisted man. One day, you will rot in hell. And I still don’t think you’ll be sorry.