Lonesome Squirrel

by Steven Fishman

4: If You Blink, You Flunk


Inasmuch as I already knew how to bark and roll over, Peter Letterese decided that I should get trained. I was told that I had the "makings" of a good auditor. When, I thought, did he look at my stool sample?

I always considered myself to be a fairly astute scholarly type, but without "The Student Hat", which is a course on how to be a student, nobody else at the Mission of Fort Lauderdale agreed with me.

Although I knew most of it already from my other courses, until I was given a certificate, proving I was a validated student, I felt inadequate. Fearing that my insecurity would affect my overall sexual performance with runaways and working nymphettes on the street, I decided once again to allocate time toward what the Public Registrar of the Mission said I needed to know about life and livingness.

Most of the materials were already familiar to me. I knew the purpose of playing with clay, misunderstanding words, and how to yell out your name with conviction during course room roll call. But there were so many new concepts to learn, it was above all, staggering.

For example, I was taught all about "Dinky Dictionaries", or how to avoid looking words up in books that did not have the words in them. I had never cognited on that before. Also, there was a two hour drill on the Hubbard Communications Office Bulletin entitled "Setting Up and Using a Reel to Reel Tape Player."27 I owned one since I was twelve years old, but I understood that there may be some students on course from Slubutka who were deprived and inexperienced. Scientology is equal opportunity theta, open to people of every economic background, as long as they have or can get the money.

There was also the "Student's Guide to Acceptable Behavior", a Hubbard Communications Office Policy Letter which laid out some very important rules.28

For example, General Rule 6 states: "Students may only use the coin-box telephone during non- class periods." The Mission of Fort Lauderdale did not have a coin box telephone. The only time that Peter made me walk three blocks to the Fort Lauderdale Bus Station to dial the shoe store was when he was angry at me. Otherwise, he let me use his office phone.

Rule 28 states: "Report and turn in any damaged property or goods used on the course." I found out that such an order was meaningless. I tried to return a half-inch piece of clay that somebody stepped on back to the Courseroom Supervisor, but she didn't want it. It was perfectly useable. I don't know why the hell they put all those rules in there if they are wantonly ignored and broken.

Nevertheless, I got through The Student Hat with flying colors, and my next step was to do the "TRs", or Training Routines at the Miami Org. Valerie Naiman was selected by Peter to be my "coach", since we worked so well together when she was my auditor.

I had no idea what to expect. Valerie told me to sit down, three feet in front of her with my eyes closed. How could I trust her enough to do that? What if she decided to give me a good goose and in so doing, crippled me for life?

But there was no point in asking her anything. I would probably get a more direct answer from people resting in the cemetery.

"TR-Zero" was the first training routine that I did. I had to stare at Valerie for three hours with my eyes closed. I know you don't believe me, but that is really what the drill was all about. I wasn't allowed to twitch, move, or do anything except breathe. If there could have been some way to avoid that too, I am certain it would have also been in the drill. The purpose of "TR-Zero" was to "Be there comfortably in a position three feet in front of another person, to be there, and not do anything else but be there."29 I couldn't help but wonder what Valerie was thinking, while she was watching me for three hours. It was difficult confronting her for that long, because her underarms truly stank. You know how much fat people smell, don't you? Actually, the drill was harder than I thought. I flunked twice. The first time was because I had an itch under my eye, and of course I wasn't allowed to move or touch it. The second time was due to the fact that my underwear was riding up my ass, and I had to make an adjustment. Fortunately, these violations or "flubs" as they are called, occurred early enough in the drill that Valerie did not feel like deducting time for them. I surely thought that she was going to tell me to start over. I guess she was beginning to be "reasonable" with me. If I were her Case Supervisor, I would have flunked her for that!

After I effectively passed the drill with my eyes closed, Valerie wanted to start the second section right away, which involved my facing her for another three hours with my eyes open.

"Look, Valerie!", I interrupted. "I have to take a piss. Maybe you can sit for six hours without one, but I'll be damned if I could."

Taking the hint, Valerie praised me for my openness, and after I finished writing my Success Story and passing my examination, she called a half hour break for lunch. She might not care about going to the bathroom as often as I do, but it was obvious from her shape that she loved to eat.

I don't know where she went, but I always enjoyed the food at the Latin American Cafeteria, located on the 2800 block of Coral Way, approximately five minutes from the Org. They had home made chicken soup there, with large chunks of vegetables, potatoes and noodles. I loved their Cuban croquettes, and my favorite dish was the "Empanizado", a breaded steak with white rice and a delicious Spanish delicacy known as yucca. The waitresses knew me, and gave me extra pot roast gravy from another menu item called "Boliche" to round out the meal, which was no less than a serving for five. While seated on soft swivel seats in the U-shaped restaurant, I was entertained by artisans carving up ham and cheese sandwiches at 150 miles per hour. It was always quite a sight, and the most difficult part about going there was getting a place to sit down, since the prices were very low, the service was fast and competent, and the restaurant was consequently fully packed. Scientologists and wogs ate there alike. I wouldn't be surprised if even a few psychiatrists sneaked in the door without telling anybody, since the food was so superb.

But after such a fabulous meal, I felt like going to sleep. I realized that I should have eaten there before doing the first part of "TR-Zero", because, with the exception of the snoring which Jaime had once accused me of, I would have been able to "confront" Valerie with my eyes closed by taking a vigorous nap.

However, now I had to sit there for three hours with my eyes open and look at that obese piece of humanity.

"How can I just stare at you for three hours?", I asked her.

Expectedly, she did not answer my question.

"In TR-Zero section two, labeled "Confronting Preclear", she began by giving me instructions.

"You and I will be facing each other, with neither of us making any conversation, or any effort to be interesting. We are going to sit and look at each other, saying and doing nothing for some hours. You must not speak, fidget, giggle, be embarrassed, or even blink. If you blink, you flunk, and we will have to start all over again. You are to do nothing else but comfortably be there."30

"What do you mean, I can't blink!", I screamed in panic. "You are trying to make me crazy!"

I got up to leave the room. This was all too much for me to bear.

However, in the style of a fully proficient lady wrestler, Valerie blocked the door to the auditing room, picked me up by the neck, and threw me back down in my chair. She then repeated the instructions for the drill again, and told me to start.

"How the hell can I look at you for three hours!", I complained.

"Flunk!", Valerie clamored. "You spoke! Go back to the beginning. Start! Flunk! You blinked! Go back to the beginning! Start!"

Twelve minutes went by, as I sat stiller than death itself. "Flunk! You blinked! Go back to the beginning. Start!"

"Why don't you go fuck your flunks, you overstuffed fat pig!", I said, becoming more and more antagonistic by the second.

"Flunk! You spoke! Go back to the beginning. Start!", she repeated, not even reacting to my disrespect in the slightest degree. How was I going to get through to her that this drill was torture? Dr. Geertz once called me a masochist, but there is so much that even a worthy and reputable masochist can take! She was trying to turn me into some kind of obedient robot, controlling even my automatic nervous system, like my blinking.

But there was no use reasoning with her. Even if I was bleeding to death on the floor, she wouldn't acknowledge me with anything but a flunk and another start.

"What kind of monster can put me through this agony?", I thought to myself, as I tried to straighten the kink in my neck from where Valerie lifted me up like silly putty with her hand earlier.

"Flunk! You fidgeted!", she grunted with the coarseness of a boar with prickly heat. "Go back to the beginning! Start!"

It was twenty-four minutes into the session, and my eyes were hurting from keeping them open, and now I had to start all over again! There had to be a way to get through this drill. This was one of the most basic, easiest routines in Scientology, I had been told. Everyone I knew had gotten through their TRs. So what was wrong here?

I realized that I had been very unfair to Valerie, blaming her for her show of strength and discipline. After all, supposing I were the coach? Wouldn't I expect myself to demonstrate enough professionalism to get my own preclear through TR-Zero? Certainly I would. And here I was, fighting her, when we were all on the same side of Scientology, which is the game where everybody wins. I should be shot for being such a selfish bastard. She was there to help me confront life! I shouldn't have taken it out on her by using foul language and protesting so fucking much.

"What a real piece of shit I am", I cognited.

And so for the next two hours and seventeen minutes, I really started to "confront!" I completely blocked out the pain of the burning in my eyes from lack of natural fluid. But I didn't blink! I sat there, trying not to think of how stupid Valerie looked as she kept staring at me with her three chins and baboon's face.

"Why the hell should the coach be allowed to blink?", I wondered, until I realized that I had to suppress wicked thoughts like that, or I would fail the drill again via some involuntary reflex action of disagreement.

But my evil mind did not turn out to be the cause of the problem. Because of the big lunch I ate, I had to move my bowels.

"I could easily control that", I said to myself, since I only had another forty-three minutes to wait before the drill was finally over. But my overt act was in failing to communicate that thought to my stomach, which inadvertently made a loud, rumbling sound.

"Flunk!", came the shrill piercing curse of Valerie's voice, causing my heart to sink somewhere in the pit of my large intestines. "You gurgled! Go back to the beginning! Start!"

"Oh, my God!", I exclaimed. "That wasn't my fault! I only --"

"Flunk!", she hissed, cutting my communication off. "You spoke! Go back to the beginning! Start!"

"Fine, but can I go to the bathroom first?", I begged. "As you can see, I have to take a real mean shit here!"

"Flunk!", she repeated, completely impervious to everything. "You spoke! Go back to the beginning! Start!"

"I know", I softly whimpered, admitting defeat. "I should have realized that --"

"Flunk! You spoke! Go back to the beginning!", she yelled at the top of her voice, with sweat pouring down her forehead in a rage of mad glee. "Start!"

All that time wasted. And with these cramps, how could I take it? Something was bound to go wrong. There's no way I could get through three more hours. Why was I such a failure? How come every other Scientologist was able to pass this drill?

Thinking about my dilemma, I started seeing right through Valerie, cutting straight through the layers of her fat, and suddenly, the room began to dissolve. The colors all seemed to blend together, and by postulate, I turned them into vegetable soup. It then dawned on me that I had once more exteriorized. I was out of my body, trying to prevent myself from going out of my mind, controlling the whole show from three feet in back of my head. I felt no pain, because it was just me out here, confronting the physical universe. I didn't have to do anything, or worry about the consequences of the body's reactions. It was only me, looking at this very strange sight of two lumps of fleshy meat facing each other. I moved around the front of the room to get a good look at my own shell. It looked rather dead. Could that be possible? No, it was still breathing. I thought "If I could just keep things going like this for two hours and forty-eight minutes more. Maybe if I could speed up time a little bit..."

Three hours went by like a herd of turtles, but I made it! With the little help of exteriorization, self- hypnosis, trancing myself out, or whatever really happened, I really got through TR-Zero, Section Two! Valerie, who had compassion after all, gave me a bottle of Murine Wash to pour into my eyes. I thought I had a headache, but I was too numb to feel if the pain was actually mine. There was a possibility that the "somatic", or unconscious pain, was Valerie's.

Nevertheless, in my Success Story, I wrote a personal message to Ron, telling him what a fantastic coach she turned out to be.

"I couldn't have loved Valerie more if she were my very own sister", I told him in the note.

"Don't be so propitiative by flattering me so much", Valerie warned me as she read my Success Story, albeit thoroughly all aglow. "Don't forget that tomorrow we do TR-Zero, Section Three!"


I had never made a study of the customs and folklore of Spain, so it struck me as odd when I read in the Dianetics and Scientology Technical Dictionary about a little known practice of "setting rabid dogs upon a chained bull" for the sport known as "bullbaiting." As Ron applied this to thetans, I soon found out that "bullbaiting" in Scientology meant "to attack or torment, especially with a persistent insult, criticism, or ridicule."31

TR-Zero, Section Three, is named "Confronting Bullbaited." As you may have suspected, my next quantum leap into the wild adventure of TRs involved the impossible sounding feat of staring for three hours at a coach who is insulting you, embarrassing you, and humiliating you with the unrelenting gusto of a teasing bully.

When I was a child growing up in an environment that held in high esteem the virtues of both spectator and participatory sports activities, there were boys my own age who did not understand or appreciate why I found it more pleasurable to hunt for praying mantis cocoons. They never knew the satisfaction that I derived from carefully placing these sacs of insect eggs under the sofas and armchairs of those friends and relatives who gave me a hard time. Within a matter of weeks, thousands of tiny baby insects would hatch and invade their homes, and I got a big old charge out of it.

So I never appreciated why the neighborhood kids enjoyed beating me up a lot. I did not have very much empathy for them either. I assumed the justification that their overtly aggressive behavior like punching me in the stomach and kicking me in the head might render them unemployable in later years. I was so relieved to find out that there might be a job for these now-grown-up bratty punks as professional "bullbaiters" for TR-Zero.

In their absence, however, there was no doubt in my mind that Valerie Naiman would be an adequate substitute. She was all geared up to pounce all over me. She had that look of chewing me up and spitting me out written all over her thetan puss.

Again, we both had to sit and face each other for three hours. As in TR-Zero, Section Two, I had only to "be there comfortably", but this time it was Valerie's hat as coach to bullbait me into a flunk by whatever means she could think of. A laugh, or even a smile on my part would make me vulnerable. Then we would have to start all over from the beginning.

If Valerie did not have her ethics in solidly, she could have been mild with me, so that I could pass the drill and go on to the next training routine. But that would have been "non-standard out-tech", meaning not what Ron wanted her to do. Toughness was what the drills called for. However long it took me to pass did not matter. I was Valerie's "Valuable Final Product." If she turned me into a droid or a complete goon in the process, so be it. Should it become necessary to stay the night, she had her footies and her thermos with her. I was prepared for that from the Life Repair, so it would not come as a complete shock to me.

The first thing Coach Valerie had to do was find my "button", or that which made me react. Insulting me was not upsetting in the least. In fact, I rather enjoyed it. There was nothing wrong with her calling me a "filthy scum bag sex degenerate pervert prick", because she was nearly right. I just wasn't filthy, that's all. But that was no reason for me to show any emotion, and I didn't. After twenty- five minutes of insults later, Valerie decided to try something far more effective. She knew she could get me to flunk by making me laugh.

The sight of staring at her continuously while she had her index finger about four inches up her nose was not something I could easily overlook. I tried to control myself, but to little avail.

"Flunk for suppressing a laugh!", she said staunchly, pulling her finger out and wiping it on her blouse. "Go back to the beginning! Start!"

Several minutes later, she made a weird face and pretended to gag and throw up on top of my head. I burst out laughing and she flunked me. We started again.

This time, she waited forty-five minutes before doing anything. All of a sudden, she put her pinky over her left nostril, and blew her nose on the floor. The unexpected surprise of that made me both hysterical with laughter and violently upset at the same time, because I knew that as comical as the outburst was, we were back to square one.

Her next maneuver was making funny faces at me, but somehow, I kept my composure, and I did not become affected by it.

"You know, Steve", she began, "I truly love death."

That statement coming from nowhere made me grin, and in my honesty, I flunked myself. But Valerie flunked me for flunking my own flunk.

"Only the coach can flunk the student", she stated admonishingly.

Fifteen minutes went by. Valerie contorted her body and tried to watch me while she was upside down. I successfully ignored her.

"When are you and your family going to come over to my house and lick my toilet?", she asked.

I burst out loud from the stupidity of that, and I had to begin again.

Then I thought I was on a roll. I had survived two hours of watching Valerie floss her teeth with a pencil, put a mascara brush inside her nose, and scotch tape a dozen paper clips to her face. But when she told me that she wanted to have sex with my mother, I cracked up laughing, and after five hours into TR-Zero, Section Three, I had to start all over again. But the thought of she and my mother in intimate positions together made me laugh uncontrollably, even when I did nothing more than look at the fat ugly thing sitting in front of me. But as a good coach without mercy, she trampled hard on that "button", flunking me every two or three minutes.

"Does she like the top or the bottom?", she asked. I could not stop imagining that absurd picture.

"If either your mom or I get pregnant, you'll have to support both of us!", she continued, promptly flunking me for the slightest indication of a smirk.

I was into my fifth hour at this already, and I was very thirsty and had to go to the bathroom. There was no use asking her for any liberties, since she would flunk me and I would waste more time. I had to find a way to tune Valerie out.

I mocked up some pictures of a gruesome, horrible scene in my mind, of cattle being slaughtered in a factory farm. No matter what Valerie said that was funny, it was not going to get past this "visio" or mocked-up mental image photograph that I created of dying cows. As an animal rights activist against factory farming, this was the only thing I could think of which would make me angry enough to ignore the originations of my coach. I kept the sound of her insane remarks below the shrieking of the suffering cattle. I added the blaring brass of French funeral music to this as a "sonic", or sound within the picture. Since I had bad cramps from not going to the bathroom, I permitted myself to feel the writhing agony of the discomfort. I mocked up the smell of rotting flesh, and for good measure, put in the taste of hot vinegar. However, I soon ran the risk of getting flunked for crying, as I felt evidence of a tear in my left eye from this disgusting combination of these unusually cruel perceptions. Nevertheless, I was able to hear Valerie's voice seeping through all of the confusion at the exact instant that I tried to tone any of it down.

The method which I found to be the most workable to handle the final hour when Valerie was getting very desperate to have me fail, was to create the sound of loud drums and cymbals, in order to drown her out completely. To this I added monotones in my own voice.

"Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah!", I kept repeating in my mind to accompany the percussion instruments. However, I nearly froze when I realized that the "Blah blahs" also had the potential to be funny. In order to avoid any thought of creating any silly pictures or noticing Valerie, I mocked up a scene of Jaime being tied to a barbed wire fence and whipped by a mad psychiatrist. This sequence fascinated me, and I kept looking at that mock-up until I fully exteriorized. Once out of the body, I was able to postulate or command intention to end the session, and shortly thereafter, in what seemed like a matter of seconds, Valerie gave me a final pass on TR-Zero. It was finally over!

I had gotten through the process called "Confronting while Bullbaited" by once again escaping from having to confront it. I had no idea that getting the preclear to exteriorize was one of the purposes and "End Phenomena" of the drill. I thought I was doing something wrong. When Valerie told me that I handled it fabulously, I wrote a very enthusiastic Success Story, which was so well received by the Director of Success and Examiner of Miami, that I was allowed to read it at the eleven o'clock staff meeting. The resounding applause made me so happy that I had an instant erection, which I was later able to share with a Brazilian hooker who was thumbing her away up to Fort Lauderdale on Dixie Highway.


I took a day off from my training, since Jaime wanted to go out with her friend Wendy to watch the male strippers at the Crazy Horse Saloon on Biscayne Boulevard, in North Miami Beach. Wendy Weil was a lesbian veterinarian who, besides passing kidney stones for her own amusement, enjoyed taking Jaime to places like that, in the hopes that the stimulation would get Jaime sexually excited enough to allow Wendy to fondle her and do whatever most women of that ilk do together. I told Wendy repeatedly that nothing of either sex could arouse my wife, who was totally numb and frigid. But, in her pitiful state, it might do some good just to get her out of the house, if for no other reason than to permit me to clean it up on Freddie's night off.

It was also worthwhile to be able to spend quality time with my daughter Arielle, as we cleaned the house and listened to cassette tapes of L. Ron Hubbard together. However, after a short time, I realized that two year old children can't sit still long enough to do TR-Zero very well. Also, there were probably a few words in Ron's "Philadelphia Doctorate Lectures" that Arielle didn't fully understand. I wrote down a memo to ask Denise at what age children can be started on Scientology training, so I could bring my daughter into the Mission for some elementary processing.

Meanwhile, back at the Miami Org on the following evening, I prepared myself for TR-1 by going to the bathroom right before my training, and not drinking any liquids at all so that I would not have the urge to urinate during the drill. I was gearing myself up for a long, hard night.

Much to my surprise, however, all TR-1 consisted of was reading passages from the book "Alice in Wonderland." I particularly liked the "mad hatter", since that was the function and state of mind of the Org's Director of Personnel Procurement. I passed TR-1, which is appropriately called "Dear Alice", in twenty minutes, fully able to read passages from the Lewis Carroll novel "naturally, without strain or artificiality, with no elocutionary bobs and gestures, and easily and relaxedly."32

TR-2, or "Acknowledgements", was another simple pushover. I was taught the proper way of saying "Good" and "Thank you", and on special occasions, to use the phrase "Very Good", whenever I acknowledged anyone.

"An acknowledgement", Valerie read, "is a stop to communication."

Although I had been taught the appropriately mannered phrases of answering people in conversation when I was three years old at the Franz Siegel Nursery School of the Bronx, I had not had a refresher course in twenty-seven years, and I felt it couldn't really hurt. In TR-2, I was told to vary or change the acknowledgement by using "Fine" and "Okay" once in a while, since there was a tendency in Scientology to become too robotic. Even if that happened, of course, we did not want to alert the world that we were boring. Even "Rondroids", as our enemies the psychs called us, could afford to be spontaneous and interesting. No matter what, at least we had to stay one giant step ahead of the wogs.

Valerie was delighted that I could get through two full TR drills in one night. She rewarded me for my "upstat" by allowing me to organize the books in the Org Bookstore the way I knew that they should be arranged, which was by height, or size place. To show my appreciation for that privilege, I also volunteered to clean the showcases with Windex. I had wanted to fix up that public area of the Org for some time, but I was not given permission to do it until I had fully proven myself worthy of the opportunity. I was finally allowed to contribute my aesthetic potential to the Org, and I wrote a letter to Ron, thanking him for enabling me to enhance the beauty of the bookstore displays. You won't understand the ecstasy of contributing to the betterment of Scientology's image until you actually do it. In the meantime, you can fantasize about it, I suppose.

Life was so exciting for me now, I even went to the Org on Sundays. Jaime did not notice, because most of the time, she did not know what day of the week it was. They all seemed the same to her, except that she missed seeing "General Hospital" on the weekends. Do you think I wanted to stay home with a piece of crap like her? In Yiddish, there was a word that my mother used to use in order to describe Jaime. It was a "Shtoonk", which technically means a lazy, filthy person who lays around all day doing nothing. It was a unique experience to word clear and demonstrate on the clay table what a "Shtoonk" does, which I had to do when I wrote up a Knowledge Report explaining why I was unable to bring my wife into the Org for auditing. The one thing you don't do in Scientology is to show contempt for Ron's policies by bringing suppressives in for services, even if you unfortunately happen to be married to one. On the other hand, I was not going to let trash like her impede my own progress up the Bridge to Total Freedom. Perhaps I should have felt more sympathetic to Jaime, and therefore you might feel that I was cruel and heartless by ignoring her. But honestly, did you expect me to stay home with a pail and shovel and pick up after four dogs, five cats, six hamsters, a rabbit, and an insane wife? It was a losing proposition all around, because they were crapping faster than I was sweeping. At least if I had a job in the circus, walking behind the elephants, I could get paid for it. Our home already smelled like a shit house. It was bad enough that I had to sleep there in any event. I didn't feel that it was fair to have to spend my free time there too.

Besides, I was anxious to do TR-3. The drill called for me to ask Valerie the question, "Do birds fly?" Valerie then had to answer the question by saying "Yes", "No", or "I don't know." All of those were valid answers. I then had to acknowledge Valerie's responses by saying "Good", "Okay", or "Thank you", and ask her the same question again, over and over.

If at any time Valerie did not answer appropriately, or if she answered my question with her own unrelated question, I was supposed to say, "I'll repeat the auditing command", followed by another round of "Do birds fly?", starting again.

If I did not correctly handle her inappropriate answer, she then had the obligation to flunk me. After asking "Do birds fly?" for three hundred times without a flunk, I had to run "Do fish swim?" for another three hundred times. When that was done, we started all over again, but this time, in TR-4, Valerie bullbaited me instead of answering "Yes" or "No."

"Do fish swim?", I asked.

"Only up your nose", she answered.

"I'll repeat the auditing command", I said.

"Flunk! You were suppressing a laugh. Go back to the beginning. Start!"

"Do fish swim?", I asked again.

"Not on Tuesdays", said the coach.

"I'll repeat the auditing command", I told her.

"Flunk!" That was a valid answer", she grinned. "Go back to the beginning. Start!"

"Do fish swim?"

"Do you like to eat fish?", she asked.

"Yes. Do fish swim?", I repeated.

"Flunk!", she shouted. "You took my bait. I didn't answer your question."

"But I do like to eat fish!", I protested.

"Flunk! You're still caught on my line. I never answered your question."

"The bait is for the fucking fish!", I screamed. "Now do fish swim or don't they?"

"Flunk, flunk, flunk!", she moaned. "Go back to the beginning. Start!"

It took four and one half hours to finish TR-4. Valerie kept talking about dead fish, birds eating fish, flying fish, and worms that both birds and fish split for dinner.

Just when I thought I had it all down, she tripped me up by asking "Does Fishman fly?", and as I laughed, she flunked me, and I told her to go fuck herself. When I finally passed the drill, she sent me to the Ethics Officer, who told me to write one thousand times, "I will not say "Go fuck yourself" to my auditor."

When I finished, Valerie asked me to write a Success Story, and demonstrate with clay how writing my overt up on paper for one thousand times was a major "win" for me. Like an idiot, I admitted that in TR-4, Valerie was not my auditor, but my coach. So I had to go back to the Ethics Office and work until four in the morning, writing one thousand more times, "I will not say "Go fuck yourself" to my coach." But do you know what? It was the best thing I ever did, because it completely broke me of the habit of cursing at Valerie ever again. You don't know how lucky we are to have Ethics in Scientology.


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