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www.mylifeisart.com TM

the value of life is measured by its beauty



(c)  patrick gysemberg

chapter 63

learn how anissa rapes the Belgian social security system

chapter sixty three

learn how Anissa rapes  the Belgian social security system

Life goes on, does it not? Even if I would be doing nothing, the clash of cultures would just be going on, would it not?  Inevitably.

I have been quite busy lately, working on my latest art project that gets its finalization this Saturday. I had to paint about seventy portraits of some well known people, to be displayed in all the shops of the city of Herentals, a small but nice town in the middle of nowhere, where people still know each other by their first name, where they still have respect for one another, where they do not walk on the streets, endangering themselves,  but stay at the boardwalks;  where people still enjoy life without hatred nor violence. A town where I have been born some infinite years ago.

So I kind of lacked the time to write my story into completion; I lacked the crucial minutes to finalize the brutal endings of what still needs to be done in connotation to my script. The next weeks will be fundamental and decisive in what needs to be  accomplished in my crummy life, even if it does not alter a fuck or convert a shit around places.

Before telling you finally what is written in this letter mr Moipatron and Anisa had sent to me, I do need to tell you, before i forget about it, about the despicable  and even disgusting way Anissa had found to rape the Belgian social security system in her advantage by a fake illness.

The story (short, because I really have no intention to waste any more energy to this low life creature)

Anissa had a car crash. She had no injuries. From others she learned that many people suffer from a "whiplash", when hit by another car. Now she is pretending she has it too, with eternal fatal damage to her neck, so she can be declared “ disabled for life ” in the Belgian social security system, in order to receive a lifetime payment, or extra bonus according to the funds that protect and support the victims of car crashes who suffer real eternal damage to their body. Now she desperately had been trying to be one of them, although she had been in perfect shape and nothing had been wrong with her neck. How do I know this? She had been so stupid to tell her little scam, as being one of the many scams she pulls of in life, to Veronique, who had been quite shocked about this.

My question to you: how can such an unworthy person, with such  obvious devious  and wrongful social behavior,  be helt responsible for the daily transactions of millions of American dollars? Easy! Because she is protected and supported by her direct superior, who has other benefits in keeping her on board this sinking ship. The same way mr Dujournot had been protected by Martin for all those past years.  It is all quite simple and effective. Just see that you have your protection in the managerial line up and you can pull off about anything. Anissa, mr Moipatron and mr Dujournot are all living proof of this statement.

The day mr Dujournot had found  his Italian stallion with the shining boobies,  as she loved riding on his rod whilst he just laid down because of his bad leg, as she had been a woman who always wanted everything in her life under strict control, even her frequent  and brutal orgasms, Anissa’s poor love  tunnel  dehydrated  as a river in the Grand Canyon.  Her four lips, resembling a crunchy, slightly burned roast beef, got stuck together so intensely over the past months, that she really needed some medical care as she couldn’t even get a regular or even small sized tampon inside, not even with the adapter.

Anissa never ever had found her G spot, she had no clue whatsover where to look for it. Moreover, the day mr Dujounrot went of with his Italian furie, her clitoris had schrunk and closely looked like a yellow raisin. In fact, to be completely honest, it was a red raisin; since she had been a Moroccan girl all of her life, born out of two Moroccan parents;  even if she wanted so desperately to look like a genuin Belgian one, she knew, at the end, her skin would always give herseLf away. As would her reddish raisin, of course, if someone would be looking for it, that is. It has been rectified that her former husband , "wandering eye", never had found her G spot neither, nor her schrunken reddish raison, for that matter. he just plunged his willy into her as if he would give it a fine rubbing treatment, not considering the vulva it happened in at all. He did not bother about some lost hidden knobs, waiting around some place to be touched. He did never knew how to handle  the female precious parts.  He did not care less. to him her love tunnel had been nothing but a jar to waste his cum, when he felt the urge.

Time to reveil the content of this letter.

moroccan inprisonment

do you know what gives me most pleasure at the time? thanks to anissas horrible behaviour, i have now a splendid new job, with lots of terrific new colleagues to work together with, showing me every day again that there are still "normal" people with warm hearts in this world. And do you know what else? lots of my new work mates are of allochtone origin! racism up your ass, Anissa!

all those left in the surroundings of anissa now still have to endure her ridiculous behavior, she is nuts, you blind fools!!!! She should be in prison or in a mental hospital, put away for ever, next to britney, may be? stardor would pay for the flight to the usa. the room is already booked. 

Or even better : Stardor has recently bought a small lookalike company called "Simbas" in Morocco and is sending Anissa off to this place, letting her simple mind believe that she should get things reorganized....She does not have a clue that this is a setup and that she, upon arrival, will be put in a Moroccon mental hospital in Ouarzazate, next to monsterlike creatures, as she is one herself, to be forgotten by mankind...justice at last...justice at last....Neither does she know that her filthy character will not be able to impress other Moroccans, as she will be just one of them...surrounded by other similar mindsick individuals, thinking they are in charge of something (small Napoleons)...they are not even capable of being in charge of themselves...losers to be forgotten at last...

she is not even worth to be called "human". Just plain trash...........that is what she is.

(she had been playing just once too many times with the red headed inflamed dick of mr Moipatron as his wife had gotten suspicious, as his seed production had dropped dramatically because he had spoiled most of it all over and in Anissa's mouth (since her pussy had dried up, remember) , back in the warehouse, left corner, behind the half emptied container where they had found their lovespot.)

chapter  64  final one

The letter said that they could not help me since it had all been reduced to my word against theirs, the so called "bosses", since there was no real proof or evidence provided by me. I could not believe what I read, so I read it again, and again….they want proof, they do not believe me, they question my honest remarks and sincere complaints, they may even think I am a liar, liar, liar, liar,liar, a real genuine liar, this is something I cannot live with…no sir, this is not what I am made of, this is not me, I am definitely not a liar…what is this?

So I will provide them with real proof, when I kill myself, would this be proof enough? When someone kills himself to emphasize the seriousness of the complaint, would this count as a valid proof? This seemed to me at that moment the best and only option I had left to choose.

I bought valium, temesta, (easily on the internet, properly delivered within 2 days in an anonymous box)and two bottles of whiskey, 18 year old Scottish whiskey, only the best for my last journey….you know the brand...sure.

I slept very well, very well indeed, so indeed, I slept, and slept,  till I woke up in the hospital bed, after some days of total black out. huh? what is this? Where am I? am I in heaven? of course not, you twit.

Shit, what kind of ending is this?

The best part of all this, is that this incredible non existing story, based upon a true story, yes indeed, really had turned out as I predicted in my previous chapters.

Annissa was fired indeed after the PREDICTED debacle in Morrocco; I encountered her years later in the Carrefour in Borsbeek and she had become a enormous fat and disgustingly ugly looking woman, the one you always try to avoid, still making public loud phone calls whilst shouting as if nobody else was in the supermarket. Time can be soooo incredibly brutal on someone, thank god not only to me. Anissa had become her deserved share too. And it had become a huge share.

So I do not have to vaporize her. Yet. not yet.

in my next book I ll eat her heart, raw....whilst she is still alive....till the heart stops beating and her poisoned blood stops spraying around. messy stuff. 

the end.

finalization of novel on Thursday the 16th of Mai 2013, almost eight years after first starting this novel


this is a fiction novel

this is a fiction novel

all described in the previous pages is part of a fiction novel and any possible resemblance with an actual and existing situation or real physical persons are merely pure coincidental, non valid and thus not existing.

 Life is often worse than fiction ever can imagine.

patrick gysemberg -----  action painter for a better world

2009 _ 2010