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Registrant Name: Adrian Lamo
Admin Name: Adrian Lamo
Admin ID: CR25623848
Admin Street1: 1 Police Plaza
Admin Street2: #Aspergers section
Admin City: New York
Admin Country: US
"The goberment of Portugal will not extradite me!"
Expires: January 17, 2012
Fuck. That. Shit.
Category:
News & Politics
Tags:
Anonymous Fraud Lulz Aspergers Hackgate NY USA @ELyssaD Whois
POLICE STAT-US: PARAnnoyED
Metro Nashville Police Department continue to cover up crimes by failing to follow established code of conduct in lower income neighborhoods. Police officer writes me up for "suspicious behavior" for video taping a crime scene, then releases suspect claiming there is not enough evidence???
Refuses to take witness statements; refuses to reveal name or badge number and another violent criminal continues to terrorize and assault three individuals within minutes of being released.
No evidence? Check the fucking surveillance cams just above the the scene of the crime.
Hell, check MY surveillance cam! I don't leave home without it!
Metro Nashville Police Department continue to cover up crimes by failing to follow established code of conduct in lower income neighborhoods.
Some power hungry police officer demands to search my iPhone after he notices I am video taping the MNPD who took three hours to respond to multiple neighbors call 911 after witnessing multiple violent assaults against two women and one man on Monday evening.
I called 911 after two people approached my window threatening my life for being a "cracker Jew bitch" and threw a brick through my window where I was working on two projects about Cointelpro as a driving force behind the Occupy movement that is being funded by The American Nazi Party and the Lucis Trust.
I was interviewing someone who had been involved with Nazi medical experiments and how it effected his four children who suffer with a variety of neurological and psychological problems that are typical of victims of Mengele's subjects.
I had just received notification from the copyright office (USTPO) in Virginia that my submission was approved and was thrilled to learn that my publications would be protected under trademark and copyright laws since I received several take down notices that my publications were being removed due to the sensitive nature (and knowledge) about the true purpose of organized, controlled opposition as a driving force to escalate domestic unrest designed to incite violence justifying a Police State ushering in the New World Order.
A cop came running after me, demanded to see my cell phone and after running my license to check for warrants (which seemed extreme) and finding none, he wrote up an incident report for "suspicious behavior" for video taping a crime scene, then releases the suspect claiming there is not enough evidence???
Refuses to take witness statements; refuses to reveal name or badge number and another violent criminal continues to terrorize and assault three individuals within minutes of being released.
No evidence? Check the fucking surveillance cams just above the the scene of the crime.
Hell, check MY surveillance cam! I don't leave home without it!
I was trying to de-escalate the situation with the local Police Department since I realize how much danger this city is in given recent laws to persecute Muslims and people who were not born in the United States 287(g)
However, after watching the violence erupting around me, knowing that I am the primary target [thanks to COINTELPRO agent provocateurs] and being questioned by the police about my twitter stream, I really don't give a fuck.
These people have no idea how they are being manipulated by disinformation agents, toxic living conditions and a system that is far more corrupt than even I imagined.
The "monitor" who controls the surveillance cameras clearly has some special deal with Metro because despite all the violence that broke out, he finds the time to threaten, harass and stalk me ignoring the fact that several residents threatened me after spooks came in and told people to stay away from me or they will "get in trouble"
WHAT THE FUCK? I have no history of violence and have never even been in a fight,I weigh 124 pounds and all these people are afraid of me? Do I "look dangerous" because I am quite certain it won't be long before someone makes another attempt on my life.
Much like Treyvon Martin, I was told police were on there way after a man threw a brick through my window and then chased me down the street.
I was on the phone with 911 the whole time screaming "HELP, HELP, HELP" yet the police claim they did not want to waste radio space to update status of my call to a Code 3. Are you fucking kidding me?
911 told me to return to the scene of the crime where I was assaulted a second time, and the cops didn't even bother to arrest him or take witness statements. In fact, the officer would not even step out of the car to speak with me because he did not like the way I was dressed.
Because no action was taken against the man that assaulted me and vowed to kill and my father (who just happens to be a former Fed) I constantly carry my iPhone because the cops claim they did not have enough evidence to arrest this man. They never bothered to check the surveillance camera and did not take statements from additional witnesses.
They did, however take issue with the fact that I placed a video on YouTube and were even more upset that I contacted a former colleague in the Mayor's Office who then requested an investigation. They sent two Lieutenants to my home; one was aggressive and disrespectful and was more interested in what book I was reading and my website than the facts of the case.
I was told that they would follow up with the other witnesses who would corroborate my story, and that a Special Operations Unit and Gang Unit would be contacted regarding the racial comments that became commonplace every time I left the apartment.
One man hung up Nazi flags, another started praying in Muslim and all hell broke loose in the neighborhood. I became a target because I was white in a Black neighborhood, and apparently that alone was enough to incite hatred among the other tenants and I feared for life each time I left my apartment, so the police told me NOT to leave my home. THAT IS OUTRAGEOUS.
The other tenants became more and more abusive and violent since they now had a new sense of entitlement because they knew the police would not take action.
It is worth noting that even after I left, the violence continued to escalate and one women was stabbed and several other injured in fights that broke out in the hallway. The cops still did not arrest the people who continue to live in the neighborhood, and some of them have shown up here at my new apartment to harass me and spread rumors.
The neighbors here have suddenly became abusive and overly concerned with my religion and it seems the writing is on the wall. They think my healthy paranoia is "suspicious" and I think their behavior is outrageous.
They constantly stand outside my window and scream at me and the "monitor" called the police on me after he threatened me and told me I was not allowed to go near a "white car." There were SIX white cars, two of which have no tags, so how am I to know which white car is the one who stopped me at the mailbox and told me that two men were knocking at my door and were here to beat me up?
I may very well be the next Treyvon Martin and if so, so be it. I am old enough and experienced enough to know that these people do not see the bigger picture~ that they are being used to as examples to bring down the police state and usher in the New World Order.
I leave these notes because I do not know if I will get shot at today, tomorrow or next week, and I think it is important to let people know that I have spent my entire life studying gang violence, and have fought hard against police corruption and discrimination so regardless of what happens to me, I do not want my work (or experience) to be in vain.
http://twitvid.com/TAZ47
I am one of the good guys, and if you can't see that by now... then take some time to look through some of my publications which are systematically being removed from the internet by groups like Anonymous, Lulz, and AntiSec.
This breaks my heart, but I am fighting a losing battle. I am starting to question my commitment and given the communities response~ I am not sure if they are worth the sacrifice.
That's all for today. This is the Daily Dose for today. Just me,
e
@ELyssaD
To learn FBI facts were nothing but lies. My signal is fading. Learn from me. The only thing that keeps me on the radar is F-bombs. I may be the spawn of Satan or the omen child my mother sees as her cross to bear; but I want to believe in something. Justice for All. I am here now to tell my story.
In Philadelphia, as in most big-city police departments, there is little or no money for informants. Yet cops on the street routinely pay $10 or $20 for information. "It adds up," says Blondie, who estimates that each of the officers in Five Squad was shelling out as much as $50 a week for tips. "I'd have more chance of being elected Governor than I would trying to get money out of the department for informants," says Blondie. "The bosses' view is that we had the best jobs. We wore soft clothes, worked our own hours and made tons of overtime. The brass viewed paying informants out of our own pocket as just a cost of doing business."
Shortly after dawn one day last week, about 200 policemen surrounded a three-story brick house in Philadelphia, "Surrender immediately," demanded an officer through a bullhorn. The shouted reply: "You'll have to bring us out dead." The speaker was Chuckie Africa, a spokesman for the house's residents, all members of MOVE, a radical back-to-nature cult that had staved off eviction for 15 months (TIME, Aug. 14).
The cultists screamed obscenities and their children cried, police used a bulldozer to knock down a wooden barricade and a crane to knock out windows. Firemen pumped streams of water through a cellar window, sending rats, dogs and people scurrying to safety. Suddenly, shots rang out. Police lobbed tear gas and smoke bombs into the house. After 45 minutes, the MOVE members —twelve adults and eleven children—stumbled out. The toll: one policeman dead; seven policemen, five firemen, three MOVE members and three bystanders wounded.
The cult members were taken to jail and charged with murder. The children were washed, deloused and turned over to city welfare agencies. The house was leveled to the ground by a wrecking crew.
When I first started writing, the internet it became a substitute for human interaction. Aside from Pepe, the computer had become my next best friend. Certainly better than any therapist I have ever seen. Writing through dark helped me to clarify and organize my thoughts.
My computer does not ask me stupid questions or blame me for taking too long to spit just the right words.
It does not mind if I stutter, take a break or tend to more pressing matters. The internet was simply another way to escape from the madness that surrounds me.
Before I knew to how to attach formatted, edited, spell checked versions of documents, I would often begin writing in cyberspace only to find that I addressed it incorrectly, or worse, copied the very last person I would want to know exactly how I feel.
There have been times when I have accidentally hit send a little too soon. When I review some of my past journal entries written online, it is easy to see the raw emotion that pours out of my soul into the physical world. There have been countless times I have found myself so completely caught up in the writing process that I get stuck to the keyboard for hours (sometimes even days) and yet there I am—- asleep at the keyboard— again!
Writing "live" can be dangerous—it is far too easy to come off as a raving lunatic who cannot hold one train of thought long enough to keep the web browser from timing out!
If only I could retrieve some of the messages that hit cyberspace...
Will I ever be able to coexist peacefully? Play well with others? I still work at my own pace— sometimes in my own world, always in my own head... I like to think I might flourish in some other man's world and tell myself I could exist in some other reality—but those who see through me know this is my last defense, and however sad, I must believe that if I am to go on.
However, be warned that I may, someday, somewhere, decide to stick around for a while. Could you be my neighbor? Would you be my friend?
Could you? Could I? Can I ever stop running and being afraid? What must I do, what I must learn, or who must I become to make you believe that such social grace and honest beauty have always come naturally to me?
When will this act ever subside? I developed an entire persona based on fear alone. How very sad. The cheerleader that never was. The child that never knew safety, peace, or security. A woman who existed in a world of silence— until now, I suppose.
Somehow, I must learn to embrace the fear. The fear of being discovered for the person that I am rather than the person I often pretend to be.
Regardless of the mask we put on when we go out in public, we all feel insecure, lonely, isolated, and afraid at times. Unfortunately, for me, I feel that way more often than not. I live with the kind of self-doubt that most people outgrow in early adolescence. The older I got, the more isolated I felt. Shouldn't I have outgrown this by now?
So now I have to become the person I used to be. The person I was meant to be. The person who existed long before the realities of life set in. Someone with hope, someone with a purpose. Someone who believed woman who existed long before the shadow of fear and failure ruled my every waking moment and took over the sleepless nights.
Yes, I can. Sometimes.
Fear.
Fear of believing that I deserved to be loved and never finding it. A human being entitled freedoms, and a woman who knows how to make choices. I am already stronger than I ever wanted to be.
I was blessed with strength.
Strength! Who the fuck wanted strength? Who wanted fear? Who wanted freedom???? There are people who love me-- they may not know it yet-- or may have forgotten me by now, but I need to stay put and live within my own skin again for a while just to see how feels.
Just stop running.
I have been challenged in ways that most people cannot even begin or understand-- and for me I must accept that there simply is no justice. So as I am, there is nothing that can replace what I have lost, not inside myself. I do not believe in revenge.
How ironic. How bazaar. Tragic. No one else cares. Who gives a shit? Why seek revenge for its own sake? How would that help? Nothing can replace what has been lost, not within myself.
But what if you are right??? What if--IF-- it is possible to let go of my anger? What will become of all that rage and turmoil I carry around with every waking moment? Can I exist peacefully within my own body? And what about the pain? I mean the hard the hard-core physical pain that hits me when I am most vulnerable? Can I live with the pain?
Can you promise me that it will have been worth it in the end? And, what if, after all is said done, I find myself to be an old woman with no friends, no ties, just a worn out memory of myself as I used to be—or who thought I might become. An old woman who lived far too long and too hard to realize that her act was done one-half a century ago.
Can you make it all worthwhile? Can you live with such responsibility?
Can I ever recapture enough of my former self to become a sexual being rather than innuendo? Can that person coexist in the same body that has brought me so much pain? Will anyone ever sift through the grime to find me? Will they ultimately feel it was just a waste of time? Will he hate me for it? Will he hate women as a result?
Can I ever learn to accept my physical pain without feeling compromised as a woman? Can I ever learn to accept my emotional mind without feeling compromised as a human being?
Do not tell anyone, but I can remember what it was like to enjoy sex. At what point can I allow myself to long for the sensation of human touch without being too optimistic? I don't want to get addicted. Sex will never be enough for me. I dream of loosing myself in a man's body. I dream about complete and absolute absorption.
I shall find mediocrity! Keep your labels interpretations and judgments to yourself. Control your need to soothe my fragile psyche or your need to "cure" me. I must find mediocrity. There in, I hope, lies the self. The everyday, the lull, the common person: rhythmic sanity and flattened affect. Dulled emotions and satisfaction. Satisfied, dull, boring, everyday. God—please!!! Where do I sign up?
Yes— okay— sometimes, it scares me to be so utterly alone, but what purpose does that serve? Even I know how despicable self-pity is in others and in myself. Especially for someone "like" me-- whatever that means! Great—so not only am I sad, but now I am feeling guilty too. And ashamed. And embarrassed. And Fear. And nothingness
Sometimes I wish others could understand the silent, peaceful, uncomplicated absolution that dawns with acceptance and resignation.
My goals have become so convoluted, yet here I sit, 13 years later, and my computer is still my best friend. My search for mediocrity continues. I am still looking for comfortable safety and a place of solitude before I can fulfill my "destiny"... to become whatever it is I was meant to be. Before I was reduced to nothing more than a shell of a person beaten down the Powers That Beat.
A journey on the road towards (Maslow's) self-actualization. Is it too late to build the strong foundations I lacked as a child? To feel secure enough in my physical surroundings and trust that my most basic needs will be met. Can I successfully transition into a world of unknowns without any understanding of the world as it is?
Maybe others have taken this path before me-- or maybe someday, someone might inadvertently wander into this sanctuary I call home. A place where nothing seems as it but exactly the way it is supposed to be.
Look at us-- who we are, what we do, and how we survive... all the people everywhere... All of us with limitless potential yet none of us know it-- irreverent disregard for what is real and complete disrespect for the rules that have thrust upon us.
This is the easy part-- restating economists and social scientists of days gone by-- so it is here that I can rest my head and my tired fingers. Why do I feel this shit? I actually *feel* this shit. As I sit and write (and eventually hit delete) I am bound to the streams of consciousness-- irate bouts of ranting and raving-- knowing how easy it is for people to silence such carrying-ons.
Upon writing my first piece ever-- a poem about motherhood, childhood, and the woman-child, my mother tried to have me committed. What a reality check! At 22, 1 put side my fear and wrote a simple poem for myself, to myself. It was straightforward, simple and direct, and almost landed me in an insane asylum. Are my words that dangerous? Are my feelings so far beyond the norm that I need to be removed from society altogether?
Yes, with a copy of my journal in hand, my mother's shrink showed up at my door-step to express her "grave concern" about my perception of reality. Not the first time, and it definitely would not be the last. As the years went by, I learned that my words would be used against me as a testimony to my madness. Only after years of therapy have I come to understand that it was not my words that were so dangerous, it was my ability to use them correctly. Perhaps it was not my sanity that should have been called into question...
I called my first piece, "On Not Being Able to Write." So simple, so eloquent, and so honest. After that little encounter, I learned about secrecy, symbolism, and self-censorship. I learned to write in riddles, live in puzzles, and think in circles. It kept others out-- but left me afraid. Afraid to be seen for who I am. Afraid of how my words were being received and how they would be interpreted. And now that things have come full circle, I am making a welcome return to honesty and a much needed reprieve from my riddles.
Let there be boundaries. Let them be impenetrable, secure, and bold. Obvious boundaries-- this is my path-- and you may not come with me. You must learn to find your own!
I think I shall buy a paint-by-numbers kit at the toy store. Simple. Impossible-but only because I can not paint!!!!
