I copied and pasted my reply to a Facebook friend who I forgot I had here because if my eye had not been already sore and tearing I would have been crying as I wrote to her. My friend in the U.S. Secret Service I know really respects and cares about me. He said he hoped Trump would pick me before he picked Pence who is healthier. My agent friend said that he would be my LEAD ( the MAN who blocks any bullet meant for me) and he ignored my answer that I would ORDER that no man sacrifice for me. When I occasionally call I am careful to ask if I am interrupting his mission but when I have cheer in my voice he notices and I tell him to be careful when protecting the Vice President or wherever he pops up. However if I had actually achieved my delusion of grandeur in case I was shot and in pain I would have just wanted him to pull his little .38 and put one in my head. He has been in my little mobile home and seen the papers everywhere on my dining table, sofa, etc. and heard me say "I can't read it but I know who you are" when he showed his big badge. We talked about "hitting the ground" at the sound of a gun shot and I said I could though I really could not. I recalled President Ford's look when he hear a shot. He had no physical space to drop down between the crowd and the armored limo he was about to enter. When Ronald Reagan was shot his first words were "Someone pushed me". When I flew off my motorcycle over a truck and tore my knee down to the white bone I felt no pain and did not even bleed during the 30 or 45 minute wait and while being stitched so tight that my leg was jerked off the steel surgery table. The next day the shock had worn off and I could not lift my head off my pillow. The news made a big deal about Trump walking back to the campaign microphone after the Secret Service had rushed him to safety. The incident was over and ANY MAN would have done the same. Military Troops hear and see bullets hitting all around but after the situation is secure they get up and walk away. During elementary school and part of high school I was "chicken" but that suddenly ended. SCROLL INSIDE THE WHITE AREA BELOW TO READ MY WORDS FROM FACEBOOK
Good night kind sir
IT IS THE NEXT MORNING AND I AM STILL REACTING. I AM ALMOST 70 SO PEOPLE CALL ME SIR DUE TO AGE. EARLIER THERE WAS AN OCCASIONAL SIR JUST BECAUSE I WAS A CUSTOMER. I HAVE BEEN THANKED (MEANING IT WAS KIND) FOR GETTING SOMETHING OFF THE TOP SHELF OR ONCE JUST SITTING WITH A WOMAN FOR SECURITY UNTIL HER HUSBAND RETURNED. BUT NEVER BEFORE HAS SOMEONE CALLED ME "KIND SIR" IN ONE BREATH. Men have feelings too and so many women including my mother have hurt mine. In fact I once took my step father's shit when Mom stepped out the door and said "Don't make trouble. You'll cause a divorce". Also I did not even know she had been pregnant or when she miscarried but one day she suddenly told me it was my fault. So that's how I learned delicate diplomacy including when to use my step father's last name and when to use my real father's last name. My step father was an Army Corp Sergeant who built bridges for Patton's tanks. He had a nickle size scar from a bullet just grazing his arm but he was not there on D-Day. Military Basic Training was just a repeat of what step Dad had put me thru except for the fun of the easy obstacle course which left no blisters or tears like a gymnast gets on his hands and I did chores. In Basic there were RED FLAG days when the Base Commander ordered small red flags raised meaning no strenuous activity due to high temperature. It was 100 degrees but I was not sweating and thought it a candy ass precaution. Mam, please copy & paste this to your page as a thank you for you Great Words "kind sir". Share it so the People know my a bit of my life's pain. It took 48 hours to type the flashbacks which I have forgotten again. When I was campaigning for President yes I wanted to earn a retirement out of poverty by age 73 but after the one term my body was good for I wanted to be free of my Secret Service to walk down the street and say "Hi" and know I was LOVED like my cousin Abe did when the Public sidewalk was right outside the front door of the White House. I did not know how many Libtards there are who would have harassed me even after I proved myself. Now in some of my 40 messages to Trump asking for an advisory job to enact my own agenda indirectly thru Donald I said that I wanted to work in a back room out of Public Sight of my usual red, swollen eye lids from too much computer and sometimes slow awkward steps. I want the People to remember me like the doctor who asked if I was an athlete when he saw the bulging blood vessels in my feet. Now I look like I have been buried for a week and started to decay. About a wek ago two women actually noticed and helped me put my groceries in the trunk and return the cart. As I walked away from a cashier I think I heard "I don't know. Should I call an ambulance". Donald, Melania and Ivanka have sent not one word of HOPE for the job since well before the election nor has his staff though I tried for the same Office with no money or even a secretary and gained millions of People's confidence by working 7 days or nights per week with just my computer and in spite of the eye pain and somtimes blinking to see thru puss with one eye. The TRUMPS always have a camera on them when they interact with the poor or sick but I am proof of the TRUTH however I am invisible. Christ will hire me after he heals me. My last email on the official www.whitehouse.gov asked for two weeks in a good hospital like Bethesda Naval with lots of cool medicine in my eyes and bandages to keep it dark and headphones with smooth jazz, Jackie Evancho and other good music to keep my mind busy. NO ANSWER. Donald, while you sleep I hurt and worry about additional things like getting my fiancee to America since I have not had a date since 1984 (you can afford to buy me a bag of them). So sometimes like the last few days I suddenly wake after a few hours sleep and cannot go back to bed so I get on the computer, my only window on the World and occasional entertainment if I can stand the pain of a few minutes on YouTube. God Bless your prayers.
I have a recent photo of you sitting in a chair in Saudi Arabia. You look elegant and give off powerful vibes. It prompted me to think of the following.
To my knowledge you come from a small farming village in Europe. Hence in order to be compatible with Donald you had to be taught the traits of a Lady such as which fork to use and when, just like Katherine Hepburn in "My Fair Lady". Now I heard that when they finally started to teach you how to sit like a proper Lady you got fed-up and said "I ALREADY KNOW HOW TO SIT, my dog taught me". I hope you enjoy the humor. When I was screaming in pain in the ER they kept telling me to roll over so they could see the wound. But the mattress on the gurney made it hard to roll over against gravity, so I said "I know how to roll over, my dog taught me".
I had another joke but am in pain and forgot it. I sure wish I could get an answer about getting an advisory position. I have been jobless since 1979 but am more than qualified. I am on all search engines & Google Images but Bing has the correct URL for my eBook. My whole life is ruined but I hope to earn a retirement out of poverty by age 73 after just one Trump term. Afterward I can consult remotely for his second term. I came very close to asking the Mafia to tie me to a chair and inject me with heroin, Digitalis or Seconol and maybe punch me in the face so it looked like murder. Otherwise my insurance won't pay for a graveside burial. My name is on the family stone and I want to be with the only family that loved me. I would also like to be in a good hospital for maybe 2 weeks, like Bethesda Naval, with my eyes bandaged and a lot of medicine in them. All I need is headphones with good jazz and classical music to keep my mind busy while in the dark. It has been so bad that I was blinking the one eye I could open to see through the puss and finish my post. Twice I was screaming in an ambulance and 3 days in a row I went to the ER with lesser pain.