Well, haven’t done a podcast in a while.
So here’s an new one.
This is July 21 2023
Well, haven’t done a podcast in a while.
So here’s an new one.
This is July 21 2023
This is the type of response that I’ve encountered when trying to obtain help with the topic of child sexual abuse in the Canadian Armed Forces.

When I started off on this journey back in 2011 I was shortly thereafter given the name of a lawyer from Ontario who had experience taking on the Catholic Church and reaching settlements with the church to compensate the victims of child sexual abuse committed by members of the Catholic Clergy.
This lawyer wouldn’t commit to helping me in my matter.
Why not?
As it turns out he was a member of the Canadian Forces reserves.
I guess he didn’t want to make a bad name for himself in the reserves.
This wasn’t the only lawyer to balk at getting involved with thus matter.
There were three ex-jags who now practice military law in private practice.
Nope. Child sexual abuse in the Canadian Forces was something they were not getting themselves involved with.
Anyways…… time for yet another video.
Well, no one will ever convince me any differently now.
If I had a vagina between my legs and the other kids from CFB Namao had vaginas between their legs it’s very, very obvious that the CBC and most other Canadian media would have handled our story and the story of the more than 25 male children from Canadian Forces Base Namao a lot differently.
And as per Captain McRae’s court martial transcripts, and as per his signed confession during his ecclesiastical trial in front of the Archdiocese of Edmonton, Captain McRae molested kids not only on Canadian Forces Base Namao, but also on Canadian Forces Station Holberg, Canadian Forces Base Portage La Prairie, and Canadian Forces Base Kingston.
As it is, the CBC’s outright refusal to look at the events surrounding Captain Father Angus McRae and his 15 year old accomplice shows that the CBC doesn’t consider male child sexual assault to be as serious or as damaging as female sexual assault.
I’ve been dealing with the CBC since 2012.
The only person at the CBC to have shown the slightest in interest was Jenn Blair.
Jenn had a camera operator over to my place to record an interview.
What I didn’t know and what I hadn’t been told was that Jenn was temporary.
Shortly after the interview Jenn was replaced by Rachel Ward.
Rachel scrapped the entire interview. She had an idea. Her idea was that instead of a televised news story, my story could be told via a “timeline” that would be on the CBC Go Public website that people could click on if they were interested.
Rachel just wasn’t that interested.
I told Rachel about MP Randall Garrison, who was the co-chair of the Parliamentary Standing Committee on National Defence, and that he had agreed to ask Lt. Gen. Christine Whitecross during a Standing Committee hearing, who was responsible for investigating matters of child sexual abuse on the bases in Canada.
Rachel told me to call her as soon as I found out.
Randall’s office called me the moment the hearings had concluded to let me know that Randall had asked the question and that I needed to watch the video of the hearings.
Lt. Gen. Christine Whitecross said during the hearing that matters of child sexual abuse are always handed off to the outside civilian authorities. So why were the Canadian Forces National Investigations Service and the Provost Marshal so hellbent on retaining a 35 year old child sexual abuse matter?
So, as per Rachel’s instructions I called her. Got a message saying that the subscriber hadn’t set up their voicemail. I called the Calgary office number that she had called me from. No answer, no voice mail. So I dialled some random numbers by changing the last two digits. End up getting some guy from a video booth. He couldn’t say that he had heard of Rachel, but he checked the internal directory for me. Nope, her name wasn’t showing up. He ended up transferring me to a woman who said she thought that Rachel worked out of the Calgary studio, but that she didn’t really have a landline.
Rachel called a few days later in a huff wanting to know what was so important. I told her that Randall had asked the question about jurisdiction of the military police for child sexual abuse matter and that Lt. Gen. Christine Whitecross had said that the the military police always hand child sexual abuse matters to the outside civilian authorities.
“Look, just because he said that is what she said doesn’t mean that is what she actually said”.
I told her that this was an official session of the Standing Committee on National Defence, that it had been video recorded, and that it was available to view on Parliament’s website.
“I’m busy with other stories right now, I can’t just drop everything that I’m doing to deal with your story”.
I didn’t want to believe it at the time, but I do believe it now.
Had I had a vagina between my legs, the media would have been tripping over themselves to look at child sexual abuse on the Canadian Forces Bases in Canada.
As it is, I have a penis between my legs. And everyone knows, especially the CBC, that people with penises between their legs can’t be sexually abused, they can only be sexual abusers. Because a person with a penis between their legs can’t get pregnant from a sexual assault it’s not really a sexual assault, now is it?
It’s just like what Captain Terry Totzke said to me back in 1980. An 8 year old boy being penetrated by a 15 year old boy and also being abused by a 50 something year old military chaplain happened because I had a mental illness called “homosexuality”. If I didn’t have “homosexuality”, then it wouldn’t have happened.
Realizing that Canadian media was not ever going to be interested in this story I contacted the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists (ICIJ)
The ICIJ put me in contact with a member named Frederic Zalac.
Frederic as it turned out is a reporter with the CBC.
Not interested in the slightest. No criminal charges. I didn’t have the names of the other victims.
And now I have 100% irrefutable proof that the CBC deals with sexual assaults differently depending on the junk between a victim’s legs.

“CBC Investigates”.
Well fuck me gently.
The CBC told me time and time again that without criminal charges, there would be no story. That without statements from other victims willing to go on camera, there would be no story. That I had to find the other victims.

Well, in my case the military justice system wasn’t able to find any evidence to indicate the babysitter was capable of what I accused him of. This even though as it turns out the CFNIS in 2011 had the 1980 CFSIU investigation paperwork and the 1980 Court Martial transcripts that indicate that it was very well known by the base military police, the CFSIU, and the court martial panel, what the babysitter had been doing to young children on base and that it was this molestation of young children on the base that resulted in the prosecution of Captain McRae.
Could the military police be in conflict of interest?
Two retired Supreme Court of Canada justices seem to think so.

An initial investigation…… The CBC had the ability to track a victim down without even knowing their name, but the CBC tells me they can’t investigate my story because tracking names isn’t their job.

Bobbie, unless the other victims are willing to go on the record, this story isn’t going to go too far.
I guess that women are more delicate than men and that men in today’s “macho” society are supposed to be okay with having their names associated with what was until recently considered to be “acts of homosexuality”.

Yep, that’s what it was called back in 1980 when a 50 something year old officer of the Canadian Armed Forces and his teenaged accomplice are investigated for sexually assaulting young prepubescent boys. “Acts of homosexuality”. That’s why I got my conversion therapy from Captain Totzke. That’s why Captain Totzke was adamant that I was a homosexual.

I know where the man who was not only my babysitter, but who was also the accomplice who took me to the chapel to be abused by captain McRae, and who subsequently pimped me out to some random stranger in the sauna at the base swimming pool. He lives in Fort Erie Ontario.
The man who was my primary abuser has a extensive criminal record involving children:
1982 – charged and convicted for molesting a young boy north of CFB Petawawa
1984 – charged and convicted for molesting an 8 year old boy around CFB Winnipeg.
1985 – charge and convicted for molesting a 9 year old boy on CFB Namao and a 13 year old newspaper boy in the west side of Edmonton.
1986 – 2000 Various charges from Buggery to Assault and Robbery.
2015 – 2x sexual assault, 1X forcible confinement
But Bobbie, we can’t just contact this guy and make accusations against him! That wouldn’t be right!

According to retired warrant officer Frederic R. Cunningham, “the brass” wouldn’t allow the Canadian Forces Special Investigation unit nor the Canadian Forces Military Police to call in the Royal Canadian Mounted Police to deal with the babysitter. In May of 1980 the investigators with the CFSIU were told to lie about the age of the babysitter and record that he was only 12 years old. The babysitter was born on June 20th, 1965.
I wasn’t “slut shamed”. I was “homosexual shamed”. I received 2-1/2 years of conversion therapy from Captain Terry Totzke for the homosexuality I had exhibited when I frequently had sex with the babysitter.

Yes, for the 1 millionth time, I understand that CFAO 19-20 would not have applied directly to me as I was not a member of the Canadian Armed Forces. However, my social worker, military officer Captain Terry Totzke would have been very well aware of this. His training as provided by the Canadian Forces would have trained him and instructed him that males having sexual intercourse with other males was wrong and was ultimately a sign of an underlying mental illness. The fact that I was an 8 year old boy with nary a hair between his legs didn’t make a difference. I had allowed a boy twice my age, and on more than one occasion , to put his fingers and his penis into my ass. It doesn’t get more homosexual than that.

I met a couple of other victims via the face book groups. But most people who had a rough life growing up on base stay away from the base brat groups. If it wasn’t for me wanting to seek justice for what had happened on CFB Namao from 1978 until 1980 and then on CFB Griesbach from 1980 until 1983 I never would have joined facebook.
Advocating for change within the defence community is a non-starter as the defence community won’t even acknowledge this. In 2016 during a meeting with then Minister of National Defence Harjit Sajjan, Minister Sajjan accused me of “playing games” and “having an angle” insinuating that I was just trying to score some easy money from the military.
I had sent communications to current Minister of National Defence Anita Anand. I’ve never received any response. Not even after the Military Police Complaints Commission released their report in 2020 that found ample evidence that the CFNIS in 2011 knew about the babysitter’s criminal history on CFB Namao as the CFNIS had the 1980 CFSIU and 1980 Court Martial transcripts.

There is no support available for former former military dependants who were sexually abused on base and then fucked over by the defective military justice system. The DND and the CAF have no legal obligations to military dependents living on defence establishments, no matter the source of their injuries.
Civilian support services just roll their eyes when you try to explain what happened on the bases. The provinces in general consider what happened on base to be a federal matter, not a provincial matter.

An investigative podcast and two feature stories, man I wish I was this lucky.
People often wonder if I really want to undergo M.A.i.D.. or if I’m just claiming to want to do so as a means of getting attention.
I grew up in a dysfunctional military family in which my father used his postings to stay one step ahead of provincial social services.
I was sexually abused for 1-1/2 years starting at age 7.
From age 9 to age 11 I received what amounted to “conversion therapy” from a Canadian Forces military social worker.
As this social worker was a captain and my father was a master corporal my father placed special emphasis on what this social worker had to say.
I was raised by a grandmother who had survived Indian residential school and had the emotional damage and the alcoholism that came with having gone through Indian Residential School.
My father was just as emotionally damaged as his mother and was a piss-tank alcoholic just like his mother.
My father, unable and unwilling to accept responsibility for his two sons being sexually abused in his house while being raised by his own mother blamed me instead for the abuse my younger brother went through.
Even though just months after the abuse came to a screeching halt I had been diagnosed with major depression, severe anxiety, haphephobia, and an intense fear of men, Captain Totzke never seemed to follow through with treatments for me.
According to my social service records, when Alberta Social Services wanted to pull me from my father’s home and place me into residential care or foster care, Captain Totzke appears to have helped with my father obtaining a posting out of the jurisdiction of Alberta.
I was left to suffer all alone for all of these years with gender confusion, fear of sex, fear of men, untreated major depression, untreated severe anxiety, haphephobia, etc.
Yes, I really do want to undergo M.A.i.D..
There’s nothing left to fix.
I’m tired, my brain is burnt out, and it really is time to go.
And I feel so relieved.
Okay, depression is clearing so I thought that I would make some videos before the depression comes back. Gotta be quick.
So, here are some videos that I made yesterday.
I might even have enough energy and enough nerves to do some more today.
To say that my father Richard was a misogynist would have been an understatement. Of all of the traits that I may have picked up from my father, thankfully his misogyny and hatred of women wasn’t one of them.
People keep fixating on the sexual abuse at the hands of the babysitter as my reasons for desiring to end my life via M.A.i.D..
This of course ignores the professional malpractice I endured at the hands of Canadian Forces military social worker Captain Terry Totzke. Professional malpractice that denied me treatment for major depression, severe anxiety, and haphephobia. Professional malpractice that also interfered with my safety and wellbeing. Professional malpractice that caused me to have life long issues with sexual identity.
There are many more reasons for why I would like to be put to sleep. The year and a half of sexual abuse is only a part of the equation.
Why do I view my death as the only appropriate answer?
It’s quite simple. I don’t want a chemical lobotomy. I also don’t want to be blamed for not “trying hard enough”.
The damage is done.
Not really too much to say in this one.
The Department of Justice is a massive organization with more money and more lawyers than the law firm representing me could ever dream of having access to.
The goal of the DOJ is to work out a settlement that will allow the DND and the CAF to look like the heroes while not admitting that children were fucked over by the defective and easily manipulated pre-1998 military justice system.
The DOJ has already tried arguing that the DND and the CAF shouldn’t be responsible for the victims of Captain McRae’s teenaged accomplice. That the DND and the CAF should only be responsible for the children abused by Captain McRae himself. The problem with this is that even though the original CFSIU investigation into Captain McRae was well aware of numerous victims of Captain McRae and his teenaged accomplice, at least 25 according to the father of the teenaged accomplice, the chain of command interfered with the CFSIU investigation and limited the charges against Captain McRae to only those involving Captain McRae’s teenaged accomplice.
In a nutshell, under the DOJ’s argument, only the teenaged accomplice would receive any funds or acknowledgement from the DOJ, the CAF, and the DND.
My body.
Milk fucks with my body.
When I was young, nothing would get my grandmother’s anger going faster than me trying to ditch my cereal, or yogurt, or porridge.
I hated milk as a kid.
The taste of it sucked.
It always tasted metallic and acidic to me.
It made my stomach sore.
Within an hour of drinking milk my asshole would become extremely itchy.
The cramps sucked.
So, I used to try to dump my cereal into the toilet.
But grandma caught me and after that she would hover over me and would crack the back of my hands with her wooden soup spoon.
I even tried to discretely dump my cereal into the garbage.
I had to eat my cereal out of the garbage when she caught me.
I once tried to hide my cereal in the floor register.
Got caught and had to scoop it out and eat it.
After grandma moved out, Richard and Sue would leave for work early and leave my brother and I at home to get ready for school by ourselves.
I’d eat my cereal dry and flush the milk.
After I moved out of the house when I was 16 I didn’t really have steady housing until I was about 23. So I never had the need for milk and never drank it again.
As a child, I only had ice cream on the rare occasion. Ice cream always tasted nice.
Well, between the time I moved out and the year 2000, I had never really had much in the way of dairy or ice cream, but I got bit by the ice cream bug while I was living on Barclay St. in the west end of Vancouver.
Went into the Dairy Queen for some totally out of the blue reason and I had a sundae.
Finished it.
And then about 5 minutes later I knew I was in trouble.
I barely made it back to my apartment before all hell broke loose.
It was like my colon exploded.
The smell was rancid.
And the amount of blood was disturbing.
So, off to the doctor I went.
“Anyone in your family lactose intolerant?”
Not sure.
“Well, why don’t you wait a couple of weeks and try some dairy again? You might have just had a stomach bug that coincided with you eating ice cream. I wouldn’t worry”
So, I waited about two months and challenged ice cream again.
Same result.
Went back to the doctor.
“Well, I don’t think we need to waste time testing you, it’s fairly obvious that you can’t process lactose. You might want to stay away from dairy”.
I did some reading on lactose intolerance, and pretty well everything that was indicated as being a symptom of lactose intolerance, I had.
I wondered if grandma knew that I was lactose intolerant.
Did my father know?
Obviously not.
Or so I thought.
In the summer of 2011, after I had obtained my social service records from the Alberta Government, I started filling ATI requests with other provincial governments.
In my hospital records from the IWK children’s hospital were numerous notes about how I would become very colicky and I was exhibiting rectal bleeding.
After a few rounds of testing it was determined that I was lactose intolerant and that I was to be placed on a dairy free diet. This was in 1975.
Two years before grandma would come to live with us full time.
Two years before she practically started funnelling the fucking crap down my throat.
I don’t know how many kids were forced to eat cereal out of the garbage, but I still dry heave when I think about it.
Richard would have written my lactose intolerance off as being just a way for me to get attention. But then again, he just really didn’t give a fuck.
Grandma? She had a lot of issues. Maybe she was too drunk to remember being told that I was lactose intolerant.
These days I survive just fine.
Having ice cream like treats isn’t a problem as there are dairy free soy based products, or even treats like sorbet. And even lactose free dairy exists.
There are still the occasional screwups no matter how careful I am.
I had a donair platter a couple of weeks ago. The store I go to has two styles of Tzatziki sauce. Regular and lactose free. They goofed on the order and gave me regular tzatziki sauce. Yep, it was as painful as could be after about 10 minutes. And I just barely made it home in time.
I drink soy cappuccinos and soy hot chocolates. The baristas at the local coffee shops are great, but occasionally a mixup is made. Usually the acidic taste will tell me that they used real dairy.
One of the side effects of lactose intolerance is malabsorption. The more lactose one consumes, the more inflamed their small intestines become. The more inflamed the small intestine becomes, the less able it is to absorb required nutrients and minerals.
Probably explains why I was an under weight runt for most of my childhood and why the docs at the IWK noted that I was anorexic.
I honestly don’t know why death frightens people.
Sure, the manner in which you die can be pleasant and peaceful or horrific and terrifying.
But death is death. There is no more sensation, there is no more comprehension, there is no more awareness.
Everything stops.
And everyone dies at least once in their life.
And I really don’t understand why people get so upset about my desire to die and my desire to obtain medical assistance in dying.
You only get one life to live. There are no restarts. There are no do-overs.
My life isn’t going to suddenly get better.
My depression and my anxiety aren’t suddenly just going to disappear.
The memories of what I’ve endured aren’t going to go away.
I’m not going to instantly find a significant other.
I’m not suddenly going to take on interests and hobbies.
I wake up every morning with an intense desire to stay in bed.
On my days off I can sleep, and sleep, and sleep.
Sleep is much better than being awake as dreamland is much more interesting than reality.
There is nothing here for me, there honestly isn’t.
If I die tomorrow or if I die ten years from now, it wouldn’t make a difference other than I would endure ten more years of living with the shit from Canadian Forces Base Namao and Canadian Forces Base Greisbach in my head.
In many ways I wish I hadn’t sent that fateful email to the Edmonton Police Service in March of 2011.
Sure, I had wanted to die before then. I’ve wanted to die since 1980. But I was too afraid of the pain of dying and of botching up my death to go through with it.
But after having dealt with the Canadian Armed Forces and the Department of National Defence my desire to die has become a mission.
People tell me that I am being silly. That I can’t die. That I have too much to live for.
Maybe if things in my youth had been different, then yes, maybe my desire to die would be silly.
I have absolutely nothing to live for. And that’s the truth. And I’m not being melodramatic.
I obtain no real joy from life.
Life just keeps repeating, day in, day out, the same shit. The same memories. The same depression. The same anxiety. The same hopelessness. The same worthlessness.
I don’t like the fact that one of the reasons that I’m still alive is that others have determined that I shouldn’t be allowed to determine when I’ve had enough.
Not thinking about the depression won’t work.
It’s been with me for far too long, and it wasn’t that I never wanted to seek treatment for it. It was that I was actively denied treatment for it. Fuck, I didn’t even know that I officially had issues until the summer of 2011 when I received my social service records.
Up to that point in time I had always believed what my father told me. That I was acting up. That I was doing this for attention. That I didn’t have friends because I thought that I was better than everyone. That I had fucked with his military career. That I was a cock-sucking homosexual because of what I had been caught doing with the babysitter. That I was a fucking pervert for what I allowed the babysitter to do to my younger brother.
Not thinking about the sexual assaults on Canadian Forces Base Namao won’t make them go away. I wasn’t allowed to be a victim. I was a pervert. A homosexual. I “wanted it” because I never told anyone about it.
But, there was no one to tell about it.
My grandmother was an emotionally damaged piss-tank alcoholic Indian Residential School survivor.
My father was a misogynistic womanizer who was just as much of an alcoholic and who was just as emotionally damaged as his mother.
And when people did find out about it I was labelled a pervert and a homosexual by my father and by military social worker Captain Totzke.
Knowing the truth about back then doesn’t make any of this go away.
Knowing that I was caught up in the Captain Father Angus McRae child sexual abuse scandal in which over 25 children were abused by Captain McRae for more than two years on four different bases, doesn’t make me feel like a hero or a champion.
How can I feel good about this mess knowing that men in positions of power made a decision to sacrifice my mental health and wellbeing in order to save the image and prestige of the Canadian Forces and that even my own father stood aside and put up no resistance.
If you respect me, you will respect my desires.
I had no choice in the matter of being born.
That was a decision made by two very irresponsible adults.
I didn’t chose to be raised by my emotionally damaged grandmother.
I didn’t chose to be raised by my just as equally damaged father.
I didn’t chose to be sexually abused on CFB Namao.
I didn’t choose to have a military social worker.
At least let me have a choice over when I’ve had enough.
Respect my choice when the time comes.
Support me in my quest to obtain peace through Medical Assistance in Dying.
Don’t shame me, or ridicule me for wanting to die. Take your energy and direct it towards agencies that hide child sexual abuse. Use your energy to try to eradicate child sexual abuse.
Ensure that no male victim of child sexual abuse is labelled as a homosexual or blamed for their own abuse.
Don’t come after me for making “irrational decisions”. I’m not angry. I’m not upset. This isn’t a spur of he moment thing. I’ve wanted to die since back in 1980. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. I want to go. I want to go peacefully. I want to die with dignity as opposed to dying like an injured animal.
That’s it.
That’s all I ask.
One issue that has been clear to me for quite some time is that it’s really not me that people care about.
It’s themselves that they care about.
And I don’t mean in a rude and selfish manner.
It’s just comes from from a feeling of powerlessness they feel when they can’t imagine not being able to right wrongs.
People fear death as it’s the great unknown, and people generally can’t understand how death could be an answer.
When has no real purpose other than getting up everyday to go to work, what’s the point?
People don’t tell me to get counselling so that I can feel better.
People tell me to get counselling so that they can feel better about themselves.
Empty platitudes as they say.
Me?
I’m tired, so very very tired.
As I’ve said, I will always remember what I lived through.
I will always understand what was taken from me.
I will always remember the abuse.
I will always remember how the abuse was handled.
My brain was already fried as a result of the sexual abuse and then the manner in which Captain Totzke dealt with the abuse.
But, dealing with the CFNIS from 2011 onwards fried my brain even more.
I think what made the CFNIS investigation so much more depressing was that they went out of their way to humiliate me, to discredit me, and to make sure that I understood that no one was ever going to own up for what I endured on Canadian Forces Base Namao from 1978 to 1980 or on CFB Griesbach from 1980 to 1983.
Even though they’re both dead and gone, the memories of my father and my grandmother linger on.
If the memories weren’t so fucking painful, the idea of Richard calling his mother an alcoholic that was cruel to his children would have been a fucking laugh riot.
Let me make a few things very clear.
I was never allowed to be the victim. I made things happen. I allowed things to happen. I was a pervert. I was a homosexual. I was old enough to know what I was doing. I was supposed to be raising my younger brother.
It wasn’t like nobody knew that I had been abused.
Captain Totzke knew.
My father knew.
The military police in May of 1980 started investigating the babysitter for what he had done to younger children on the base as a result of numerous parents complaining. I have no doubt that the military police back then knew about my brother and I.
The fact that both my father and Captain Totzke knew and yet blamed me means that I didn’t suffer in silence since 1980.
It means that they both shoved a sock in my mouth to keep me silent.
One did it because of orders from the chain of command
One did it to hide his dysfunctional household.
In the end, I’m the one left with the burnt out brain.
I’ve lost.
And I’ve lost big time.
The least you could do is admit that I should have the ability end my life if I want to.
I had no input in the matter of being born.
My parents had sex.
That was their choice.
The adults in my childhood were either absent, dysfunctional, alcoholic, or they had agendas.
One line from a song that has always resonated with me since I heard it is:
“You know where it ends, yo, it usually depends on where you start”, Everlast, What it’s like.
I wasn’t given every advantage in life only to piss it away in my college years because I got into drugs or drinking.
During my adolescence all I could do is sit and wonder why I was so fucking stupid and so fucking dumb. Nothing I did ever seemed to work out. Everything I did I fucked up.
In my early adult years I realized that my electronic skills and my computer skills were not going to amount to anything. No degrees, no certificates, no decent pay.
As I said in another post, I could use my mechanical reasoning, my electronic skills, and my interests in computers to get an advantage over other candidates for jobs that were basically just over minimum wage.
It was in the mid to late ’90s that I realized that I was never going to amount to anything.
All those years, wasting away at jobs that I didn’t really like, but they were jobs that allowed me to eat and sleep in a bed.
What makes this even worse is all the years of listening to people telling me that I was crazy, that I was insane, that I was a fucking retard, that I was a fucking loser, that I was psychotic, that I was an asshole, that I was a snob.
The crazy is what the kids in school called me.
The insane was what my father called me.
The fucking retard is what my stepmother called me.
The fucking loser was from my time living on the streets and in emergency shelters.
The fucking psycho was from when a female customer was trying to get a response out of me when she accused the machines of intentionally damaging her personal equipment.
The fucking asshole and the snob come from the fact that I don’t get worked up over shit, nor do I give a shit about TV programs, or sportsball teams, or movies.
And please don’t respond telling me that I’m not the above. It would be meaningless empty gesture.
All my life people have told me that I should be very happy that as shitty as my life was, that at least I wasn’t born in some 3rd world country.
I’ve never underfuckingstood what they bullshit is supposed to mean.
I wasn’t born in some mythical 3rd world country. I was born in this country. A country where children are supposed to be safe. A meritocracy where one can go as far in life as they’re willing to go. This shit all turned out to be a fucking lie. But I’m supposed to pretend that I’m the luckiest boy in the world for all of the opportunities that were thrown at my feet.