Split Emotions and Food Stamps: A Real Update
I’m split two ways about this, but I’m going to start with the real: I just received $600 in food stamps.
That retroactive adjustment came only after I reported that my stalkers were actively accessing state and federal databases to track me. I’m not surprised—just disappointed. Operation PUSH knew the outcome before I did, and that alone confirms what I suspected: my information is being tracked and manipulated by those abusing their positions as government officials.
Your obsession with me is loud, proud, and disturbingly active. Duly noted. After everything you’ve done—after the mockery, the invasion, the manipulation using names like Marcie L. Fudge—you will never have to concern yourselves with me, or the Jackson family, again.
Let me be clear: the only reason I still pay attention is to validate your connection to my distress. That’s it. I’ve suffered tremendous losses—most recently, Pope Francis, a true man of God, respected and loved by billions. I will not beg for your acceptance or your approval. You had your chance.
This is the second location Jonathan Jackson has followed me to. My sincere apologies, but you’ve done nothing for me. I would honestly prefer not knowing you. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. You lost all access, interest, and influence with Kamala. But you keep pushing the line with Obama—and now, allow me to excuse myself from your non-sensible bull.
And now I have to ask—you did all of that just to revoke my housing? Are you serious? Marcie L. Fudge once stood on stage and presented a check for $60 million—and somehow, that money went to everyone but me. Let me be crystal clear: I will never advocate for another dime for Illinois. A city so entitled, you act like Pope Leo owes you a trip, while your streets are under a domestic terror watch. Why would he risk his life to return to a place like that?
I’m excited to leave this country. I want no ties to your world, your institutions, or your narratives. You knew it was me all along. And just like you were nothing without Debbie, I’ll be just fine without you.
Please stop mentioning Dr. King to me. I never knew him. I’m not connected to that legacy. And as for the children—they were never mine. Keep them. I’ll be changing my phone number soon.
Now to my second emotional challenge: Sean Combs and Al B. Sure are apparently at odds. Whatever happened to fun, music, and dancing? Watching this unfold is painful. I know Diddy is locked up—though honestly, it should be Mustapha. But that has nothing to do with me.
You can’t take what I give freely. And at this point, I give nothing.
