A Truly Kafkaesque World

In my less lucid moments I have fantasies that are purely paranoid. Is it possible, I think, that my writings have embarassed important and powerful people in the government? If that is so, it works to my advantage. The last refuge of important people who feel threatened by the weak and powerless is to label them mentally-ill. "Why, only a severely disturbed person would persist in writing the things that he writes!" But that, as we say in the trade, is good for business!

In the end I am a victim. Just a victim. I am an innocent victim of a long-lived criminal conspiracy. I ask for no more and no less than any other victim asks for, namely, his day in court.

In some vague sense my Social Security disability payments are a kind of hush money. "Pay him off with monthly checks, and maybe he will be silent." My life is truly odd. I was victimized. My search for justice has caused a government agency to label me as entitled to monthly hush money payments. The more I claim I am a victim the more clear it seems to The Powers That Be That I am entitled to hush money. "We can't investigate your claims of injustice, we can only bolster the opinions of your psychiatrists that you are truly ill and entitled to even more money! Take the money, and be silent. Don't refer to any more government officials. That will make us angry."

That is my life, what my life has become. It is Kafkaesque in the extreme.

If this post makes me sound psychotic, why, in the end, that's simply good for business. My business. My paranoia.