by Steven Fishman
8: Does Anybody Have A Bridge They Can Sell Me?
The skill of creative selling was never far beyond the pale of the Org. But within the walls of positive postulates, it was nothing less than an art form.
Take what happened to me on the 25th of July, 1980, for example. Darrell Kirkland, the Courseroom Supervisor of the Miami Org, had already blown the whistle, and I was two minutes late for roll call. It had nothing to do with the course that I was currently taking. "Keeping Admin Working" was an excellent reference point on Scientology Administration, which is what "Admin" actually means. Dr. Geertz would have called it "motivational therapy", but you know those sick squirrels, always renaming everything with hard to understand misemotional false-purposed enturbulence. In any case, I was having a wonderful time demonstrating how to "remove distractions, barriers, non- compliance and opposition" with my clay gumbies. I enjoyed designing Play-Doh replicas of diaphragms, prophylactics and IUDs, since those were the only distractions and barriers I kept running up against on the streets of the physical universe. So why should I want to miss a course like that? It simply wasn't intentional!
But go try to explain that to Darrell. He was Mr. Serious, studying to be a Scientology Minister. The tardiness was only two minutes.
"I know I should be setting a better standard as a representative of the Guardian's Office", I explained, "but I just can't wear a watch if I have on a short sleeved shirt. I get this big rash from metal next to my skin."
And I wasn't lying, either. My old girlfriend Melanie, who I used to make love to in my mother-in-law's bed while Jaime's parents were up north in New Jersey, once gave me a cock ring that she bought in a store in West Hollywood called "Only Sexy Things"; and I had a red rash for two whole weeks. Strange colored pus came out of me, and I had to take antibiotics to cure it. It was a damn good thing that the experience happened before I became active in Scientology, because if I took medicine for any stupid reason within the last three years, I would have had to do the Purification Rundown, which is a Sweat Program that requires you to spend five hours per day in the Org's 140ø degree sauna for a month, in order to run the toxins out of your body. And it's a pain in the ass too, because I would have had to put all my auditing on hold, since you can't get any processing while you are being detoxified. Furthermore, it costs twelve hundred dollars, and for that amount of money, I would rather just stay sick and drink chicken soup, so I could spend it on being audited.
But how could I start telling my whole life's story about Melanie and her fetishes to the Courseroom Supervisor in front of the whole Academy? It was a lot more discreet for me to write it up as a Knowledge Report, which I did.
The beautiful miracle of Scientology is that they were able to turn the whole thing around. Darrell gave me an Ethics Chit, which is a "report of anything in violation of Ethics or DEV-T Policy Letters."41
The Ethics Officer was away at the Advanced Org of Los Angeles, so I was interviewed by my buddy, Laurel Chesnee, the Master At Arms of Miami.
If I were giving out hats, I would have called her the Mistress At Arms, because I hated to be chauvinistic, even around masculine women. But with an Ethics Chit in my hand, I did not want to take any inappropriate liberties.
"I can't believe you had the gall to be two minutes late!", she hacked, with gobs of cigarette soot seeping out from her tobacco ridden teeth.
"Look, I'll stay twenty minutes after course time ends, if you like", I pleaded. "But can't you see I've wasted fifteen minutes just getting routed up here to see you? Why can't you just forget about it?"
"Oh, right!", she clamored. "You want me to be reasonable and overlook your lateness. So what is your evil purpose this time? Do you hate the course, or do you just want to ruin Darrell's stats in the Courseroom?"
"No, I adore "Keeping Admin Working." It's a fine course. And I like Darrell", I insisted. "Laurel, I even love you. Honestly, if you quit smoking, I'd ask you out on a date -- "
"Shut the hell up!", she burped. "I don't need to be buttered all over the universe with your flattery. You don't even know where the hell you are in life. If you did, you wouldn't be late for course!"
"Okay, I know the routine by now", I acquiesced. "How many times do you want me to write "I will not be late for course"? One thousand? Five thousand? Until this dickweed pen runs out of ink?"
Laurel slammed a Dianetics book on my hand. I never noticed that the cover had artwork of an exploding volcano on it.
"Wow! The Emperor Xenu story!", I said to myself, realizing how the cover was a subliminal message which gets everyone to buy the book. "What a hard sell!"
"What did you say?", Laurel asked.
"You hurt my hand's cells", I replied.
"I'm not going to make you write anything thousands of times", she promised, sounding slightly non-standard. "I just want to know why you were late."
"I don't carry my watch with me on warm nights", I explained.
"What the hell does that mean?", she inquired, as if I were trying to give her a prefrontal headache.
"I can't wear metal on my arm", I sighed. "I break out in this great big rash which doesn't go away."
"Oh my God!", Laurel screamed. "Who's your auditor?"
Beads of perspiration poured down from my brow as I swung into a wild panic.
"Why? What's wrong with me?", I quaked in a pool of fear and apprehension.
"Who is your fucking auditor?", she repeated, very much fixated and unapproachable.
"Val Naiman", I cried. "Am I going to die? What is the matter with me?"
My hands became numb. I felt a tingling sensation which rushed through my nerves to the pit of my spine. I always knew I had some fatal disease, because I never felt sexual pleasure in stereo. When I ejaculated, the semen only appeared to come up through one tube, even though I had two testicles like everybody else. Somehow, I only felt the orgasm on one side. My neck began to pound because Laurel was hiding something from me. It had to be my feet. They were very cold. Jaime always laughed at me for going swimming with my socks on. I wished I had studied neurology instead of political science in college.
"You've got Metalosis!", she shrieked. "You've got to do the Metalosis Rundown before you step even an inch back into that Courseroom."
"How long have I got left?", I wept.
"About two minutes to take this Routing Form to the Registrar and sign up for the Metalosis Rundown", she barked. "Oh, and tell Marnie that I'm out of cigarettes."
"What do you mean, "two minutes?"," I wailed. "I've been fighting the same two minutes all night, and now I feel these horrible somatics, and my elbows just stalled out. Do I have metal poisoning, or what? Laurel, you've got to tell me! I need an Anacin!"
"Do I have to walk you downstairs myself?", she growled. "Yeah, I will, 'cause I need some cigarettes. And if you dare take any aspirin, I will make you drink a jar of liquid soap until you throw it all up. Get your confront up, bozo! Do you want me to write up all your whining in the Ethics Report? You'll be sacked from the G. O. as a sub-apathy sad effect flake."
"I just want this numbness to go away", I implored her. "Is there any kind of antidote?"
"Yeah, go kill a psychiatrist!", she suggested.
The Metalosis Rundown was the best fourteen hundred dollars I ever spent the shoe store's money on. Laurel audited me herself, since she got the commission for recommending the service, and there was no one else that knew the first thing about doing it. She was so fabulous to take such an interest in me!
The auditing was part of the "Expanded Dianetics Series II", and I was checked on the E-Meter in a "Listing and Nulling Session" which assessed my reactions to the words "bodies, babies, sex, doctors, trouble, upsets, sexual oddities, illnesses, ovaries, wombs and guts",42 as well as many others.
I found out that while being born, when the obstetrician helped steady me through the birth canal with his forceps, and by that action he threw into view or "restimulated" an old mental image picture or "facsimile" of a painful death in a previous lifetime from a gunshot wound. Apparently, pictures of the bullet fragments lodged beneath the skin of the body that I once occupied many lifetimes ago were put into my full range of perception by the cold shock of the doctor's forceps. This vivid, engramic sequence at birth had resurrected an unconscious fear of anything metallic next to my skin. The rash from the watch was my effort to de-intensify the charged, unflattened, emotional reaction to the fatal gunshot wound sustained in one of my old bodies. Whenever I felt the sensation of anything metallic, I equated it with the doctor's forceps, as well as the shattering bullets penetrating my spine. That was why I felt the numbness in my extremities, my nerve center, and my spinal chord when Laurel even just mentioned the word "metal."
When the Metalosis Rundown was complete, I no longer had any reaction to wearing a watch, because the bullet wound did not have any further command value over me. Even though I finally finished the course of "Keeping Admin Working, there were still some days that I came to class late. Unfortunately, Scientology does not have a rundown to handle heavy developing traffic on Interstate 95. Luckily for me, the sanction of writing "I will not be late for any of my courses" five thousand times eventually kept me out of trouble and prevented me from being forced to do anything silly and time consuming about handling my irresponsibility. I recall one staff member who questioned the authority of the Ethics Officer, and she had to stand at attention in a broom closet for sixteen hours. What a dope! You would never catch me doing anything so stupid as talking back to an Ethics Officer!
It doesn't usually rain that much during November in the City of Fort Lauderdale, but on the 8th, it was torrential. Jaime never got out of bed to let the dogs out for a walk because it was Saturday, and General Hospital wasn't on. Of course, by now she was also watching One Life To Live, but that was only on during the week too.
There was always a stack of mail for Ultrasonic Precisions, Incorporated, my corporation that had no function or purpose other than to get junk mail. The larger envelopes could not fit in the mailbox, and were drenched from the sopping rain. Coming home from the shoe store on what was always the busiest day of the week, I was tired and irritable. I grabbed the mail, and when I opened the front door, the dogs made a dash for the yard. For the life of me, I don't know why they wanted to go out, because even a blind person could play "connect the dots" with the mounds of canine stool samples that decorated the rug, if through no other means than by the smell. I was very annoyed, and I hated to start cleaning it up, but what choice did I have? Nobody else was there to do it.
After three shovel fulls, I sat down on the sofa to catch my breath, only to find that my clothes were now soaked in cat urine. With the front door still open, the dogs came mindlessly charging in, loaded with clumps of mud and wet dirt, very eager to kiss me and show their affection. My daughter Arielle was crying, and no one was paying attention to her. Jaime was in bed dreaming about Rudolf Nureyev. The shoe store had been very aggravating that day. You see, my father only hired retired shoe salesman from New York. They all had aggressive overbearing personalities, and took it very personally whenever a customer "floated out", or wouldn't buy a pair of shoes. One of them, Barney Wachtel, hid a woman's old shoes in the back of the store, just to get the lady desperate enough to buy a pair of new ones. Another salesman, Johnny Marks, angered an elderly matron by putting rubber cement glue inside the back of the left shoe that he was trying to sell her, right along the inside of the heel, so that it wouldn't slip off her foot. Apparently he didn't have the right size to fit her with. The customer started screaming, and had it not been for my communication skills which I acquired in Scientology, I would have never been able to straighten it all out.
While reflecting on the days events and changing my soaked clothes, the dogs, who had not been fed all day, got into the garbage, and scattered it all over the kitchen floor. When I started screaming at them, Jaime cursed me in a belligerent voice for waking her up.
How much worse could my day be?
"It will only get better", I whispered to myself, catching my breath enough to put out a positive postulate for the rest of the evening. It took two more hours to straighten out the mess of the first ten minutes. I was too exhausted to make myself dinner. Instead, I grabbed three green olives and some Streit's Gefilte Fish, and went into my den, where no dogs were ever allowed. It was there that I found a fifteen thousand dollar check in the mail. The First National City Bank securities class action lawsuit settlement payment had been sent out to all the claimants. Life was finally starting to turn itself around!
Peter was ecstatic! My upstat was a phenomenal win for all of us. There was such excitement in the air. Barbara called the Org, and Leah Abady told me to come down there immediately, so that I could sign a five year staff contract as the Fields Financial Planner of Miami. I explained the need to segregate about three thousand dollars to pay some personal bills, and although Leah was not happy with that part, she agreed to let me do that after talking on the phone to Peter. Kevin impressed upon me the need to pay for my auditing with "real roses", which is a euphemism in the Guardian's Office for cash. I was not permitted to show any transfers from my checking account to the Org from the proceeds of this settlement, because we were at war with the suppressives of the planet, and our entire operation had to be very covert. I felt like James Bond, with all of this cloak and dagger stuff, and it was a powerful source of excitement for me. For the first time, I felt like one of Ron's Loyal Officers who was actually getting the job done. I had successfully converted MEST into theta, and that was a far bigger miracle than something as ordinary as turning lead into gold. What the fuck did those alchemists know? They weren't Tech-trained, on-purpose Scientologists, working hard to expand the Third Dynamic like I was!
The biggest bonus of it all was that I now could go up the Bridge, on the Road to Total Freedom! My first auditing step was the level called "Objectives", where I learned how to touch objects in the auditing room, and how to really move my body by getting in communication with those objects.43
If you ever need to definitely locate an ashtray and know with certainty that you truly have found one, do your Objectives. They may not be giving me any FSM commission credit anymore for recommending you, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't do all that you can, in order to get these powerful gains in life. Just look at what you can accomplish here. You can touch the ashtray, and allow the ashtray to touch you. The End Phenomenon of these processes was such that I was much more in present time or "nowness", and by doing that, I was far more able to put order into my own environment.
Leah Abady ran the following auditing command: "Look around the room and tell me something you could be."
Well, I could be the chair, the table, the window, the Dianetics book with the picture of the volcano on it, the empty bottle, the E-Meter, and of course, what I wanted to be most of all, the ashtray.
I cognited that I could survive nostalgically for the next seventy-six trillion years as a beautiful but sad ashtray, with a heart of glass. The only serious problem about being an ashtray was that I didn't like cigarettes put out in me. I really got heavily into the synthetic personality, or "valence" of the ashtray, and I began to feel the anxiety of having lit cigarettes being extinguished on parts of my body. Another dilemma that I felt was how an ashtray could exist for such a long time without making love. I felt like a worthless possession, not even good enough to be a sex object. Finally, I threw the ashtray on the floor in disgust, and told Leah Abady how much I hated myself. But then, I soon began feeling sorry for my predicament of being an ashtray, and went through this three hour grief charge of crying and running sympathy for myself, until I was on the outside of my body, looking in. Leah commanded me to get the idea of what it was like to be "poor me", lying there on the floor, broken into little pieces. When I finally realized how much better it was to be a thetan, the world looked so much brighter. After all, as a thetan, I was this great big fabulous nothing! I could create my own galaxy if I wanted to by saying, "Let There Be Ashtrays!" Can you now see how much power there is in Scientology processes? It's so much more important than ordinary things like making a living.
After my five year staff contract was signed, I noticed that it had been approved by a staff member named Ellie Bolger, whose post was the Fields Financial Planner International. This lady, Peter told me later, was his new senior executive. She had taken over the post from Joyce Popham, who I assumed was promoted to a higher position within the Church.
It was such good news that Ellie wanted to meet me! I was ordered to go to Flag at once, and I jumped at the opportunity.
It never ceased to amaze me how much progress had been made since the last time I went to the Flag Land Base. There was toilet paper in my room this time, and it was a relief not to have to go out to the convenience store to buy some. The flood in the fourth floor hallway had been repaired, and they had gotten rid of all of the mosquitoes in the dining room.
When I saw Ellie Bolger for the first time, I was escorted out to the cabana area of the swimming pool of the Fort Harrison by one of the cute messengers of Flag Reception. Ellie was chewing on a raw carrot, looking over a briefing sheet containing data on Jay Rockerfeller's investment portfolio in the Philippines. A majestic female in her late thirties with short blonde hair and a deep tan, she looked like she could have been anybody's party doll in the late 1950's. But this was 1980, and we had a planet to Clear. There was little time for looking back.
Now that I think of it, she bore a striking resemblance to the actress Sharon Gless from the television show, "Cagney and Lacey." She had the same type of hard, sunburnt legs with the faded freckles that would give her a good dose of skin cancer in thirty years. But by then, Jay Rockerfeller would be President of the United States anyway, so it wouldn't make any difference.
Chewing gum while breathing through her nose, she squinted up at me in order to prevent the sun from blinding her gold discs.
"Yeah?", she greeted. "Who are you?"
"Fields Financial Planner of Miami Steve Fishman reporting in, madam", I answered militaristically, in the same upstat Sea Org demeanor that was all over the Flag lobby like bacteria.
"I'm not a madam", she replied, taking the gum out of her mouth and sticking it on the pole of her beach umbrella. "Don't let me forget that", she added.
"Forget what?", I inquired.
"My gum!", she stated, as If I were a real jerk. "Sit down!", she ordered.
"But the chair is wet", I explained.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Sit down anyhow."
"Well, I came here from Fort Lauderdale as soon as I heard you wanted to see me", I began.
"How's Peter?", she queried, raising her knee to support her chin. "Is he still running back and forth between Fort Lauderdale, San Francisco, and New York?"
"He always seems to be at the Mission", I said.
"Don't underestimate him", she praised. "Letterese can wear a hundred hats at once. He knows that his career isn't in that dinky franchise. That Bruce is a real turd. You know, Ron doesn't like the idea of franchises stopping preclears from going up the Bridge to higher Orgs just to keep income in the Missions. Pretty soon there won't be any more franchises. You're in the G. O., aren't you? Isn't that what Leah told me?"
"I'm very proud of it", I beamed.
"Well, you've got to set higher ethical standards for yourself now", she nodded.
"What improvements should I make?", I inquired.
"Well, first, your Org Board really sucks", she chastised. "Do you want a carrot?"
"No", I said politely.
"No, I already ate", I smiled.
"What did you have for lunch, dead animals or live ones?", she remarked sarcastically.
"Are you a vegetarian?", I laughed.
"Thetans aren't supposed to eat!", she reminded. "They're supposed to get the job done! Now, I've changed your Org Board. Who the hell ever organized everything under HCO?"
"I don't know", I answered.
"Probably some son of a bitch SP", she muttered. "I'm going to leave Peter in charge of HCO, which is Division 1, and I'm putting Barbara Fawcett in Division 3, or Treasury; and Denise Franklin is Distribution or Division 6."
"How does it change what I am doing with Financial Rescue?", I asked, unaware of what changes if any had just happened.
"Not a damn thing", she responded. "These carrots are harder to chew on than suppositories. Are you sure you don't want one?"
"I don't like carrots", I disclosed.
"You don't know what the fuck you like", she clarified. "I know the name "Financial Rescue" has to go. That's all I need is for some Trilateralist infiltrator to find out what's going on. You don't know what Diana is like when she is pissed off."
"Diana?", I inquired?
"My senior, the Fields Executive Secretary International, Diana Horwich. You don't ever want to make her mad."
"Isn't that Ron's daughter?", I wondered.
"She's the best piano player I ever heard in my life!", Ellie reported. "Have you ever heard her play? You can play also, don't you? I read that in one of your folders. What was that about New Orleans?"
"Why are you reading my folders?", I demanded to know angrily.
"You work for me, dipshit!", she expounded. "How else did you expect me to find out if you were sent in by the psychs as a plant? Of course I read your preclear folders. I know all about that straight jacket wife of yours too, but the only thing I care about is your production. Got that? I don't care if you blow up the Federal Reserve Bank, or go to Washington to jerk off in front of Nancy Reagan. If your stats are up, I'll kiss you on all four cheeks. If they are ever down, there isn't a place you will be able to hide from me in this or any other universe. I'll come after you, and it will be a lot more painful than castration if you ever make me upset. So don't ever ask me about what I do with your files. You have no secrets from me. Every time you are out there wiping your ass, I will be watching you."
"I'll never disappoint you", I promised.
"Good!", she acknowledged. "Now go get me some an Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice sip- up. I hate talking so much."
I waited for Ellie to give me some money for the drink, but she didn't.
"I don't think I have any change for the machine", I hinted.
"Oh, that's okay", she snapped. "They'll break whatever bill you have at the front desk. Get yourself something too."
When I came back, Ellie was busy doodling swastikas on a photograph of the late Nelson Rockerfeller.
"You only brought one?", she whined, never having indicated to me before that she wanted two containers.
"Well, do you want me to get you another --"
"Men are always selfish", she observed. "Don't bother this time. What I wanted to say to you before is that I don't like calling the hat of sending the claims in by the name of "Financial Rescue." I don't know why you interrupted me when I was telling you something that important. Why did you do that?"
"I can't remember what I said", I told her.
"And you expect to go back ten trillion lifetimes in your auditing?", she sneered. "If I were upstairs in my office, I would have you write up a Job Endangerment Chit for not being able to recall something we were talking about not less than ten minutes ago. Do you smell nail polish?"
"It's that girl over there", I pointed out.
"You see what kind of crap goes on here? They think Flag is some kind of hotel for meeting rich guys", she scolded. "I come from a very wealthy family of old money, and I was taught breeding and manners, and I never once acted like nouveau riche white trash. Never mind. You keep changing the subject! God, you are aberrated! Who cares about what that girl is doing! Now just pay attention! I'm not going to call it Financial Rescue anymore. I want you to always think one step ahead of the squirrels and SPs. You're doing class action lawsuits, so I am going to refer to your operation as "Acting Classes." That's the way it is going to be from now on. And you're going to be playing for higher stats, too. You're competing against Carl Frey from Chicago. Whoever brings in more money during 1981 will have the higher stat. You know what you have to do whenever there are any changes in the form of your Org, don't you? Go write up your hat. Peter did his already. You were busy auditing in Miami, so I overlooked the delay. By the way, how did your Objectives go?"
"Fine", I answered. "Ellie, do you mind if I write it up inside? It's pretty hot out here."
"Are you some prima donna that's afraid of a little radiation?", she asked.
"I'd rather work inside", I answered. "It's really warm the way I'm dressed."
"If you've got a problem with the sun, take about five thousand milligrams of Niacin. That will run it out. You really should do the Purification Rundown, no matter what your Case Supervisor said. Meanwhile, go write wherever you feel more comfortable. This place caters to spoiled brats who have to be audited for six years before they can take responsibility for anything anyway. Why don't you just go ahead and be one of them?"
She was testing me. I could feel it.
"Don't forget your gum", I said. "I don't want to have to write you up for leaving it on that umbrella pole."
Ellie looked at me and gave me a big smile.
"I think you and I are going to get along just fine!", she laughed as she stuck the wad on my shirt.
Things went splendidly during the next several months. Valerie audited me on my next level of the Bridge, which was called "ARC Straightwire." In these processes, the auditor directs the preclear to recall mental image pictures which recovers the actual times, places, and objects in memory. It is like stringing a wire, much on the order of a telephone line, between the thetan and his standard, direct memory into the past.44
"Recall a time that was really real to you", Valerie commanded.
"When I was a sperm in my father's penis", I answered.
"Very good", she acknowledged. "Now recall a time that you were in good communication with someone."
"When a prostitute's tit was in my mouth and I was humming the "Star Spangled Banner", I replied.
"Excellent", she exclaimed. "So what I want you to do now is to recall a time you really felt affinity for someone."
"Well, I loved my Aunt Jeanne when she gave a dollar bill to every kid in my fourth grade class so that they would all like me."
"Okay, now recall a time you knew you understood something", she said.
"Let's see", I figured. "The last time I understood something was in Scientology. I know my post, my hat, the eight dynamics, the ARC triangle, the --"
"No, before you ever heard of Scientology", she directed.
"Before Scientology?", I gasped. "Hell, I didn't understand a thing during my entire life! No one understood me either. Not my wife, not my parents, not the shrinks. Well, I'll be damned! I never understood a thing during my whole life about any of them either!"
"Go back to the most recent time before Scientology that you understood something. Recall that time", Valerie commanded.
"I don't see anything but blackness", I said with my eyes closed.
"Very good", she acknowledged. "So now just recall a time that you really understood something", she repeated again.
Before me I saw pictures of death. The first thing that came to mind was an image of when I was dying in my last lifetime, and I told that to Valerie. I had somatics of choking and nausea. It was milk! How could she do this to me again? Didn't I get tortured enough with her stinking milk during the Life Repair Rundown?
Apparently ARC Straightwire Auditing took up where the Life Repair left off, because now, Valerie was very intent on knowing the content of these pictures that I was looking at.
"A very beautiful woman with a French accent is serving me milk in bed", I reported. "I am in this thatched hut, in a tropical setting laden with orange flowers. On the table next to my bed is a copy of a newspaper called "Le Monde Du Papaeete"."
Valerie had me repeat it to her several times.
"What's the date of the newspaper?", Valerie asked.
It was hard to see. I had to change my body position several times in order to focus on it. Finally, I could bring into view the words "12 December 1948."
For the next four hours, Valerie and I put the pieces together. I kept calling the woman "Gubby", but this was only a nickname. Running through the incident over and over, I cognited that Gubby's real name was Gabrielle Kusvitz, and that she was my wife.
The milk was full of poison. In this incident, I was being murdered.
"Recall a time you really understood something", Valerie repeated, over and over again ad infinitum, as my hands were glued to the soup cans of the E-Meter, unable to stop my gagging and coughing. I was trying to vomit up a sea of milk in the process.
"I understand now", I said. "She poisoned me."
But that's all I could get out of the old pictures. I didn't have the vaguest idea why she did it. But it finally made sense! I hated milk from the instant I was born, because of the fatal experience of my last lifetime. Now how could any mindless psychologist ever figure that out? This was absolute proof that the medieval practice of psychology did not work. My aversion to milk was no allergy. I was poisoned by another bitchy wife! While writing my Success Story, tears flooded my eyes and smeared the ink on my paper as I thanked the Church from the bottom of my heart for L. Ron Hubbard. I could have gone on for the rest of my current lifetime without ever solving the mystery of the milk! If I had paid ten million dollars for this auditing, I still would have been cheating the Org. The gift Ron gave me, as well as mankind, was too priceless to contemplate. Not only did Ron de-intensify my reaction to milk, he took away my entire fear of death! I finally cognited that death was nothing more than dropping one body full of rotten milk, and picking up a new one with a vow never to drink the stuff! Even in death the camera keeps rolling. The soul is just one big video vault, and ARC Straightwire was a method of taking the dust off of some of the forgotten tapes! There wasn't anything I wouldn't do for Ron. I was one more step closer to Total Freedom now.
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