It's all the fault of Robert Albert Roy, Pamela Diane Asmus nee Roy but never uses the surname she was born into but kisses "The Bank of Dad's" ASS (as that queen who has a beard of a wife he married six months after my mother's alleged suicide -- BUT SHE DIDN'T KILL HERSELF. Pam and Rob did. It's so blatantly, glaringly, offensively and whatever else you morons reading this as I type it and trying so hard to block my wi-fi and bluetooth signals so I won't be able to publish this entry becasue THEY ARE ALL GUILTY AND SUCK AND HAVING SO MUCH DAMN FUN doing their felonies and a lifetime of physical, emotional, and every abuse you can think of.
FUCK 'EM!
Robert Roy has made an "irrevocable" and sad series of decisions that have set this in concrete permanently and forever.
Nothing.
Ever.
Never again.
Won't see him, talk to him, go to any holiday meals which are really roundtable humiliation and degradation comedy sessions he's organized. Last Thanksgiving, I was the "prodigal son" for hours while everyone gulped down gallons of somewhat expensive wine (for Wisconsin Cheeseheads, cases of that crap must have made the world's biggest cheapskate and liar squirm and get very pissed off at his "wife" Glenyss Gilliam but that bitch (Robert Roy) doesn't ever dare speak up, say anything in return or fight with my "stepmother the wicked, fat, selfish, knitting, lying, eating "whale" as Robert Roy refers to her behind her back ALL THE TIME while sucking dick and even thoubh she's divorced from... TrakasALL CLEARLY ORGANIZED HATE AND CRIMINAL ACTIONS AGAINST MEI couldn't care less.
No one will ever tell me or use passive-aggressive abusive manipulation to tell me or convince me to do anything.
Especially those idiots.
They get off whenever i name them.
Then act like "huh? what? You're crazy."
Fuck 'em.
If Robert Roy thinks he's making progress or accomplishing anything other than guaranteeing I will be totally apathetic, numb and igore him for the rest of my life -- espeically on holidays -- than he's a lot dumber than everyone thinks he is.
He wants it to be exactly the way it is. Do or say whatever he wants (while misspelling most of it), laughing, being a jerk and embarrassing EVERYONE everywhere he goes, especially the son who fucking hates his guts and believes with 100% certainty that he ended my mother's life. Killed her. Murder. Surprise. Blunt object. Gas. Match. Needles. Inject vodka. .43 blood alcohol level? Bullshit.
He paid off the Funeral Home Director of some town 85 miles south and west of Sedona where my mother "died by suicide."
When she finally divorced his mole covered albino ugly piece of shit ass,`````
Everyone who continues to do this is full of shit and they know it. So do I.
This nust end.
i won't ever kill myself.
I remind people who knew Diane Marcus Roy of her so much it literally pains them. So they stay away from me. They can't take the guilt.
They -- Pam. Rob, Karen Cullen, Brian Marcus, Stan Marcus -- killed her.
She was not mentally ill.
Robert Roy told everyone in the last two years of her life that "she's crazzy. She's lost it. She's gone certifiably nuts, I tell ya!"
The jerk nearly killed her with his own hands and blunt objects many times as I was growing up and I witnessed the first almost homicidal rage that Robert Roy had when I was 3. I was sleeping upstairs in our Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania home and jumped out of bed when I heard my mother's horrifying shrieks. It is the most vivid memory of my early childhood. I never heard a sound like it and ran downstairs to see my father beating my mother all over the first floor. She was crying and begging for mercy and her life. "Rob! Robbbbbb! Please stop. The children. Upstairs..."
Barely able to breath as Robert Albert bastard going to hell for sure Roy piece of fuckkng shit. You, too, "Justice Keith whoever the fuck you is liar who is NOT going to check in to rehab tomorrow at nine as she claims, ran at me with a huge knife and barely missed my neck while threatening to kill me. I ran out of this stupid ass Forest Park condo with all the nosey, spying "Denny wi-fi" neighbors without shoes on or a belt because Lance Keith has plastic surgery and loves to bottom only didn't even suck me as promised and now asking for another "point" but won't contribute a goddnamed cent like everyone else using fake names and fake hair and stuttering and lying and FUCK YOU.
I will stop now. You all know the rest of this bullshit story.
What do you want?
How dare you act superior and "as if" you have nothing to apologize to me for -- EVER -- and like I'm the jerk or asshole ruining your life.
Get over this bullshit "game" or whatever this organized crap is. No one goes through this much bullshit for this long with this much intensity and so much taken, stolen, destroyed in the name of who the hell knows what because they suck.
Period.
Grow up. Be a man. Pam -- take your children and your messages -- "Kevin, pour gasoline all over your body and light a match" and go to hell where you belong.
Fuck everyone.
Go to hell. All of you.
I am better. You don't give a shit. Barely about yourselves.
I give up.
Don't contact me ever again.
Enjoy your "sourvenirs"
Fuck you, too, Oprah.
And everyone involvled int the "intervention." Etc. The armed robbery. All the violence. I couldn't make this shit up.
Not mathematically possible.
John Park.
Rob Roy.
Pam.
Dead.
They get off whenever i name them.
Then act like "huh? what? You're crazy."
Fuck 'em.
If Robert Roy thinks he's making progress or accomplishing anything other than guaranteeing I will be totally apathetic, numb and igore him for the rest of my life -- espeically on holidays -- than he's a lot dumber than everyone thinks he is.
He wants it to be exactly the way it is. Do or say whatever he wants (while misspelling most of it), laughing, being a jerk and embarrassing EVERYONE everywhere he goes, especially the son who fucking hates his guts and believes with 100% certainty that he ended my mother's life. Killed her. Murder. Surprise. Blunt object. Gas. Match. Needles. Inject vodka. .43 blood alcohol level? Bullshit.
He paid off the Funeral Home Director of some town 85 miles south and west of Sedona where my mother "died by suicide."
When she finally divorced his mole covered albino ugly piece of shit ass,`````
Everyone who continues to do this is full of shit and they know it. So do I.
This nust end.
i won't ever kill myself.
I remind people who knew Diane Marcus Roy of her so much it literally pains them. So they stay away from me. They can't take the guilt.
They -- Pam. Rob, Karen Cullen, Brian Marcus, Stan Marcus -- killed her.
She was not mentally ill.
Robert Roy told everyone in the last two years of her life that "she's crazzy. She's lost it. She's gone certifiably nuts, I tell ya!"
The jerk nearly killed her with his own hands and blunt objects many times as I was growing up and I witnessed the first almost homicidal rage that Robert Roy had when I was 3. I was sleeping upstairs in our Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania home and jumped out of bed when I heard my mother's horrifying shrieks. It is the most vivid memory of my early childhood. I never heard a sound like it and ran downstairs to see my father beating my mother all over the first floor. She was crying and begging for mercy and her life. "Rob! Robbbbbb! Please stop. The children. Upstairs..."
Barely able to breath as Robert Albert bastard going to hell for sure Roy piece of fuckkng shit. You, too, "Justice Keith whoever the fuck you is liar who is NOT going to check in to rehab tomorrow at nine as she claims, ran at me with a huge knife and barely missed my neck while threatening to kill me. I ran out of this stupid ass Forest Park condo with all the nosey, spying "Denny wi-fi" neighbors without shoes on or a belt because Lance Keith has plastic surgery and loves to bottom only didn't even suck me as promised and now asking for another "point" but won't contribute a goddnamed cent like everyone else using fake names and fake hair and stuttering and lying and FUCK YOU.
I will stop now. You all know the rest of this bullshit story.
What do you want?
How dare you act superior and "as if" you have nothing to apologize to me for -- EVER -- and like I'm the jerk or asshole ruining your life.
Get over this bullshit "game" or whatever this organized crap is. No one goes through this much bullshit for this long with this much intensity and so much taken, stolen, destroyed in the name of who the hell knows what because they suck.
Period.
Grow up. Be a man. Pam -- take your children and your messages -- "Kevin, pour gasoline all over your body and light a match" and go to hell where you belong.
Fuck everyone.
Go to hell. All of you.
I am better. You don't give a shit. Barely about yourselves.
I give up.
Don't contact me ever again.
Enjoy your "sourvenirs"
Fuck you, too, Oprah.
And everyone involvled int the "intervention." Etc. The armed robbery. All the violence. I couldn't make this shit up.
Not mathematically possible.
John Park.
Rob Roy.
Pam.
Dead.
