Cuntster and his protracted propaganda and misinformation campaign are irrevocable provocations warranting the deepest ire and least forgiveness of anything the self-hagiographizing autogynephile, tranvestitic, and fetishistically exhibitionist embarrassment to his negroid race and, nay, humanity, has ever done

The basic crux of the incendiarily dehumanizing argument in illegitimation of not only my own dysphoria, but now, as it unfolds, most of the more prolifically known autistic transgender “lolcows”, that proceeds forth from Cuntster and his surreptitiously enlisted defence force of the lackeys he had enlisted from the very beginning — Walter Dempsey, S-Chan and LagoonaBlue, amongst others — is that they have, in their “various embarrassments”, rendered themselves irredeemable in the eyes of society, rendering them optionless other than to “wipe the slate clean” as women. I refuse to speak for either the merits or the cons in affirmation or against this theory in the case examples of Christian Weston Chandler, or “Isabel Arujo Rosa”, except by manner of comparison with what few of the particulars of their situation which I’m aware of, along with my own background.

Then I intend to approach this with a brief theoretical exposition of some of Amber’s less experiential and circumstantial arguments, before finally summarizing the real source of his own psychopathic bid to pull the wool over everyone’s eyes qua. autistics whom transition, and the supposed integrity of his experiences — clues to which the provision are his exclusive, idiotic courtesy, debunking himself under an extension of his own theories. Lastly, they will follow with my own, working off his Anti-Social Personality Disorder as a basis.

Before these even come under remote consideration, however, let’s talk briefly about the role of Walter Dempsey and his consort, Amber’s conscripts in this information-assymetrization effort. Any real embarrassment on my part was elicited by their encouragement of my stealth transition and the entailments of the various modes of its artistic expression there-following, for which, in return, Walter’s concubine was promised a transition all along for tolerating my presence using Amber’s American connections. It is without which that no videos would’ve ever been filmed, and no hormones ever imbibed. Set timelines in the supply lines of sources they — and by extension Amber — had led me to by way of recommendation, were designated for manufactured artificial shortages, leaving me high and dry, and for which any ill-conduct would be falsely scapegoated in the opposite direction (as being “inherent to the condition”, placing me in a situation unwittingly affirming that my own degeneration under negrosterone was “good”).

It is not an exo-facto sob story to speak of the environmental circumstances in which I was raised. These are the ones in which I grew up, forming an integral part of my background; this is vis-a-vis Chris-chan’s privileged video-game vegetation and whatever the hell Phil was up to contemporarily (I admit that Phil is a weakness in my lolcow knowledge despite reading ADFki during its operation; he’s actually quite boring and even genuinely unfortunate in many ways himself even if it’s obvious that out of even somebody like Amber, he’s the most developmentally hypermale or, to put another way, negroide). I detail much of it in Final Retrospections, but let me go further: in 2000-01, cans of SPAM were regular as a main course — my mother’s divorce, the loss of her property to my biological father for a temporary period, and a gap in employment left destitute a family of three, forced collectively to live off of £32 weekly.

For nearly half a decade thereafter, we were the absolute poorest of the poor. I wasn’t going to indulge or embrace my knowingly inner self in a crime-ridden part of Craigshill, where car-tipping bonfires by sociopathic ghetto kids — probably more of the ilk Amber and his “mudda” relate to than any single one of the users or lolcows present at KiwiFarms — were a weekly occurrence, except in the most extreme of circumstantial secrecy, whenever such time could be found in scantly paucious privacy. Compare this to the champaigne socialist liar Amber, whose trust-fund was contributed to extra-familiarly, mitigating the worst of the doubtful “hand to mouth” existence earned through his Music MA holding mother’s supposed supermarket money-for-old-rope position (and consider, additionally, that it only had to feed one).

Amber has no concept of hardship. It would follow that, as a socialized sociopath, as opposed to a deprived one, he would deliberately and callously misinterpret cries for desperation as an “embarrassment”, for weakness in his mental calculus is to be considered deplorable and execrable owing to the blunted nature of his sympathetic capacity; as such, it is his only available existential substitute. His frame of reference is utterly devoid of clemency or sympathy. Negroid genes setting back many thousands of years his sense of subjunctivity would similarly avail to him no consideration of an environmental circumstance, or any set of environmental circumstances, other than his own; “[he] was alright,” (in a gross exaggeration of the impoverishment and hardship he sustained in some perverse invere-narcissism ala Pauline Christianity) “Jack, so why shouldn’t ‘they’ be?”.

The inveterate liar will talk big about the severity of his circumstances being understated, and how I will magically become “middle class by birth” under the tutelage of his well-renowned historically revisionistic magic. If the rest of his babbling heretofore is any indication, I probably don’t have to worry too greatly about it. I will say, in some sort of concession to him, that I most likely could — and should — have run away whilst I had the chance, but, and contrary to Amber’s long-standing narrative of the “long-suffering” by my mother at my hands, my loyalty to her — despite her implicit abuses of me — has been undying and unwavering since the first initial signs of my speech’s recovery. The momentous occasion where I became verbal again was when I’d not only acknowledged my mother, but declared (and this will be read incorrectly by the more perverse of you, but I can’t think of any other way to write it) my love to her. Love which has been betrayed time and again.

But I have limits to the oversight of such betrayals. That things would go south post-adolescence was inevitable. In spite of my frustrations, I feel nothing but unending regret, grief, aggrievement, and remorse for how things had turned out in the end; even if she is a manipulative, Borderline bitch who toys with such loyalty routinely. Her forgiveness despite everything I’ve done is one of the most meaningful things left in my pitiful existence.

I was crying whilst writing this segment. Do you want to know the most likely response to this by such a predatorically psychopathic pseudonegress as Amber, and in this respect, where he won’t fail to deliver? It’ll be in a similar light to the way he’d encouraged the distortion of my actual opinion and sentiments of the January attack preceding my suicide attempt when my discharge notes were finalized, swooping opportunistically in insult of all the aforementioned. (Oh wait, he’ll just scapegoat Onongye/”Telefunken”.)

With any sort of mercy permitting, I’ll decease long before my mother does. I am reminisced back to a time in December 2015 where we had a heated discussion in the car, and I swear that this is the only time I’d ever seen any emotion even implicitly cued by her that wasn’t some sort of disappointment, anger, or tweely side-grinning half-baked scheme of hers. She was imploring me to believe that there was hope to confide in the system’s capacity to assist with the overarching issues despite my awareness that Amber’s ruinous recklessness had been in the works since 2014. I kept pleading with her to let me go (figuratively). One key crucial detail debunking the idea of an impulsive gambit reactionarily made to being “caught by the police” in January 2016, which Amber has distorted to no end, is that I had ordered the diphenhydramine ~November 2015, roughly when I started penning Final Retrospections, the heart which Amber hacked my Scribd account to distort. I saw a tear streaming down from my poor mother’s eye, and I couldn’t help but feel immensely stung. I can’t quite remember in what order I’d started crying myself, or departed the car; or whether I’d apologized, holding back tears, to then depart the car with tears fully streaming thereafter; I’m not even going to take a guess — the order is irrelevant given the atmospherically charged hopelessness and misery of a situation Amber had ultimately fomented from the beginning.

Amber is a psycho whose callousness allowed him to waltz into a GIC. Crucially, he stupidly admits the secret to his cognitively-pseudoempathic fuelled secret to the success of bolstering his emotionally unsubstantiated lies. Although I doubt he pulled it off as well as he stated — otherwise, in the absence of having done it myself, he would have no frame of reference from which to infer “hesitation, contradiction, backtracking and stumbling,” especially as I was quizzed by Haselgrove at no point regarding these things — it’s wholly conceivable that he would have done his absolute best to use his chameleonistically reptoid equatorial charisma to brush these impetuous tell-tale signs of his dishonesty off;
“Oh! Tee-hee, I was just ‘nervous’.” (He’s incapable of this, given ample evidence of his present audacity.)

Black magnetism, no matter how genetically diluted, hormonally compromised, or otherwise hampered by a milieu in which it is unpractised, would have been an extremely powerful draw, compelling a loosening of the guard and distanced objectivity of the practitioner in question, you see it in dictators like Idi Amin, Robert Mugabe, Nkrumrah, Nyere, Mobutu Banga, &c., &c., &c.. He is a negroid male — hell, he probably even had shitloads of estrogen already, if albeit all aromatized from his hypertestosteronism. He just knew it was a pathway to more of that classic negroid magnetism, to get his hands on HRT. Knowing his mental gymnastics, avarice, aggression, duplicity, gleefully low cunning, an outrageous sense of audacity, spite, and all sorts of Lysistratean intrigue, are probably now somehow magically feminine, per his convenience (i.e. the reason for his pseudotranssexualism in the first place; somatoform conversion disorder). Talk about “make believe”.

In what might perhaps transpire to be a little too much credence lent to Cuntster’s logical deduction skills (for, that he would have anything to praise therein at all would make a considerable change from his masses of pseudosentimentally driven non-sequiturous garbage), he made what might quite easily have been the only remotely and vaguely sytllogistically deductive argument in the proper sense of the form, though, it was a shame that this had barely disguised the petulantly childish motivations behind its formation — to mistypify a characteristic infancy in an overglorified structurally-disguised spite of patronizing condescension. Worst still, the bigger shame had emerged from the abuses of the construct of mind-theoretical considerations as monolithically uniform and contiguous between neurotypes, as a thread through which he drew inferentially from non-existent postulates (the events in question) his conclusion (which can be distilled to “lol ur a retarded child”). This is something I expect from Lorraine rather than Amber. (Yes, there’s somebody more illogical and intentionally ignorant than him after all — and it’s another shemale mirror-humper.)

Following the example of Haselgrove post-scorn is one thing, but a childish semi-tard who literally dragged themselves through the ghetto by choice? (Lorraine, if anyone’s confused.) Are you even trying to make the pretence towards the aspiration of standards anymore? (Was he ever?) We know, as can be visibly seen, that Amber liberally utilizes the literary equivalent to drywall proto- and post-edit to sprinkle the trappings of eloquence to his unnaturally written “work”. Such material is perhaps only apt for entry into the journalism schooling wing of the Korean Central News Agency, and little where-else. I doubt his native Kenya would grant him entry.

He gaslights the introspection of autistics on a mind-theoretical basis which assumes congruity, contiguity and the linearity of the developments of its nature being in commensuration between neurotypes. The assumption of the introspective weakness of the autistic as based on a few scant studies conducted a decade ago (along with his bullshit anecdotal experiences which, provides they even exist, are filtrated through his callousness, meaning next to nothing beyond the same subjectively childish denigration disguised as a sensitivity — dubiously — to cue) holds integrally to this underpinning — a consistency of the reliability of measures and conception  of TOM cross-phenotype. Why bother considering this, however, from the point of view of a negroid whose callousness and underdeveloped sense of logic only extends to that strictly linear enough to support the conclusively sententious? His only joy — and that’s all “analysis” is for him, a pathetic game of faux-femininely catty and emotionally crass indulgence, where an inherent dyssympathy with autists precedes uncoupling it from judgement — was in raising the least plausible of hyperbolic examples of “autistic cue equivalents” he decided to divine from the furthest left outer-reaches of the bell-curve, but for which direct analogousness is hard to argue beyond false-equivalence.

It should probably come as intuitive at this juncture from the outlined reasoning above that when one underpins the assumption of an autistic TOM’s nature on the premise of a monodimensional, unilaterally gradiative difference, permitting deficiency, and more still, in the absolute as opposed to the relative (which might more characteristically allow direct comparison with neurotypicals — when intelligence and thus, the inevitably correlated socio-emotional intelligence, don’t as badly diverge), yes, such intentionally condescending biases of confirmation can be freely indulged in unabated, which is precisely what Amber has done, and all he ever does.

The observations by Haselgrove on paper post-January had no subsequent appointment in a clinical setting following it. Preceding this, however, although gender dysphoria had received no direct discussion beyond an allusive mention in September erst-while, the things that were — themselves exo-facto to this issue — had possibly been used mistakenly in inferential clues to develop a subtext from whence emerged this nonsensical narrative of “personality transformation” and “slates”, the latter remark a disturbingly revealing indicator of what it is they really wish to do (wipe my actual slate clean, to superimpose their own desires).

I wish to raise an example of post-facto manipulation in the retroactive revision of my record courtesy of Amber’s encouragement of Haselgrove. We had exchanged a PM in  July 2016; I’d said something to the effect of “why would I indulge in RLE if it could possibly incur the risk of getting arrested for the offense of impersonating a woman”? Amber, the psychopath, took it as an a-priori manifestation of my subconscious admission to the illegitimacy of my transition; in actuality, I was repeating a threat of one of her colleague’s to the best of my recollection (and it was none other than Mel’s, but that’s besides the point).

With respect to anything post-January ’16, there are very simple explanations bordering on the ethically moribund which demonstrates her implicit assent to, and even endorsements of, the trolling which had occurred over all such media, lest her willingness to take their results at face value as “informant reports” wouldn’t have existed in such a way as to permit her utilization thereof, whether these may come from: Kiwi Farms, the YouTube videos, Skype transcripts, Pretty Ugly Little Liar posts, &c., &c., &c.

With the implausibility of the idea that TOM is a monolithic concept with a uniform distribution and a linear course of development whereupon all possible strategic means for the empathization of individuals to be possible must converge established in a study as recent as last year, in which neurotypical controls performed significantly poorer in gauging the emotional states of autistics (did we need a study of this? I’m sure the bleating of “u mad” incessantly by KF was sufficient enough proof already), it’s alarming to say that a sociopath like Amber is far from oblivious to this.  The duplicitous pseudotranssexual antisocial had encouraged Haselgrove to definitively skirt around, distort, and all round abuse this cue-differential to her advantage; in part by falsely equivocating them with the equivalent emotional states in neurotypicals where no real analogue exists (interpreting anger where and when it didn’t exist — one I’ve covered shedloads — is a popular one; it’s quite revealingly trollish of the nature of the psychiatric profession when the best they have to muster half the time is “U mad?”), or, where no readily direct equivalent exists, to make one up (this one’s a bit more hypothetical, but to divert slightly: I would, without a lie, scream in a loud pitched whine whilst covering my ears, directly insider Amber’s, on purpose to intentionally infuriate him, as an unambiguous sign of defiance).

They know it is far easier to imbue stereotype threat into an autist than any other demographical in order to intimidate them owing to their absence of social supports, the milieu of hostility they seem to naturally invite by nature of their easily mischaracterizable aloofness as “coldness”, and the consequent dissympathy this invokes, making them suitable prey for such gaslighting intimidation; that, I’m fairly glad to say, hardly happened during our appointments (although there were a few close occasions in which things were done to foster effects like it), however much either Amber or Haselgrove wanted it to. Psychopathic emotional parasites of this sort feed energetically off the anxiety of autistics; I refused them the satisfaction for the most part.

This way, they can do a number of things in order to misimplicate insincerity when it’s entirely absent (admittedly, these are all based on my interactions with Amber as I’ve had comparatively few of these experiences with Haselgrove):

• Engage in the subtly incendiary and offensive in a line of inquiry. They are seeking an infuriated response — though in a gross overestimation of whatever anger the patient might be feeling on the day, such disgust might simply translate itself into the emotophobically meek; hesitation from either suppressed anger (an energetic waste in my experience), or excessive investment in trying to filtrate the actual matter at hand from these sentiments they were trying to evoke (what I’d tried my damned hardest to do), ensues.
• Wait for a pause in a yet-complete statement to undercut. This one is a Haselgrove-era import. It’s a flagrant abuse of autistic performance and social anxiety, and the energetic struggle to maintain consistent processing speed over the daily flux of functioning. (It is also why she would deliberate situate appointments later in the day.) Disinterest, as expressed in this way, in the greater context of what it was attempted to be said was one of the first tell-tale signs I should’ve jumped ship long before I had. (See, I can interpret your shitty cues; socially mandated rudeness however breaks another mandatory turn-based custom, demonstrates impetuousness, and is all-in-all inconsiderate.)
• The classic “intimidation by numbers”. Autist affecto-empathic capacity is defined by a unique feature of intuiting a whole room’s mood state — this comes with one obvious drawback; unless in conversation with just one individual, different affective states are conflated in a manner rendering it easy for specific attendees within the group to evade responsibility, and deflect (D.A.R.V.O. en-masse; basically) the perception thereof back onto the client in a gaslighting, patient-blaming manner.

I remember quite strategically advising one of the co-attendants (a neutral and ultimately unbelligerent A.C.A.S.T. employee) who was supposed to be present at a Haselgrove consultation before the appointment that she wasn’t necessary, unbeknownst to Haselgrove until after the fact.

Psychiatry is a wholly belligerent enterprise at the best of times when one’s diagnosis was solely designed by bourgeois, radical feminists to deracinate the inherently systematic dispositions of the proletarian Europid and Eurasid, by stratificationally isolating, alienating, deculturalizing, miseducating, and existentially anomizing them. (I’d written a small piece about anomie on my old Autphag tumblr if anyone’s interested.) Haselgrove has variously in her manoeuvres done nothing to disprove this notion. They speak of the “underdeveloped cue” making a “lie obvious”, but the really obvious lies lay squarely with the stereotype threats psychiatrists use intimidation to imbue into their subjects regressive states, in what is essentially iatrogenic traumatization through torture, achieved by a neurodivergent cue’s purposeful misinterpretation or even outright ignorance and over-writing, to be treacherously used against them post-facto; easy to do when pretending that TOM is contiguously uniform, and expecting a low cunning cynicism to serve a viable substitute.

Let me finish off with two things — a retrospective caveat, and a quote from the Supreme Commander and Generallisimo who had most lately passed. I’d stated an order to the structure in one of the earlier opening paragraphs and deviated from it somewhat, for which I’d appreciate some leniency in oversight and tolerance in a due taking into account my duressed state. Finally,

Never expect change from me, even if the world changes one-thousand times.

— Kim Jong-il