What kind of wussy-ass giant man with wraparound Rayban mirror shades READS these letters I'd left for my neighbors and determines that I, the transgender journalist and artist who hasn't hurt anyone since eighth grade, am dangerous? What the fuck is wrong with Portlanders? Is this city-planet some kind of . . . I weigh 140 pounds!
Here. You read these and tell me if I'm a threat. It's like Portlanders have never set foot outside of a Blue Zone their entire lives! They're like children who have not yet either seen or tasted violence. They walk around like infants who have not yet smiled, floating on a cloud of weed smoke.
Read these letters and get back to me:
Please Naomi,
You have to help me. I have nobody and nothing. All that I have left is my cat. and my Mom's inheritance in a 401K.
Portland is trying to kill me.
I'm so tired. I haven't slept in days. There are junkies in my hall, the lights are broken in the hall, and I'm going to die in here if somebody doesn't help me.
The police are impossible to call from Old Town. They will only ever come for me, for me personally, because I'm a complainer. They don't give a fuck about conditions here, at all.
Portland lures people like us in with promises of Sanctuary and grinds us to dust.
Look at the ghouls in Old Town. A lot of those transgender freaks started out JUST LIKE ME.
Please. Call me.
503-607-7650
The fucking LAWYER I've been WORKING WITH won't call me, Wendy.
Nobody will help me in Portland.
Portlanders care only about themselves, where to buy the best weed, and who's a non-PC asshole that should fucking be left to die even though they're transgender and in terrible pain and beautiful and talented and NOBODY GIVES A FUCK.
They're killing me.
Portland is murdering me.
Please help me.
Tell me what to do, I'm begging you. I asked God and he told me to fucking kill myself.
I'm NOT going out there and killing those junkies. You KNOW I could do. I could do it RIGHT now. I'D LIKE IT, but no. I will not let Portland take my soul. You've already taken my heart.
Now please, for the love of God--IF YOU BELIEVE IN A HELL--get me out of here!
CALL THE POLICE FOR THE RIGHT REASON THIS TIME, YOU PORTLAND ASSHOLES!
Allison Louise Miller,
a transgender woman
who is TRYING TO BE
a good person.
I'M DEAD.
#2
I'm trying to join ICE, MAN. I want Pete Fucking Hegseth to save me. I want TRUMP to SAVE me.
They are the only men for the job.
This city is CURSED.
This city is EVIL.
If you want OUT. If you HATE THESE PEOPL, call me: 503-607-7650
Allison Louise Miller
I want out, man. I'm joining fucking Al Qaeda if ICE won't have me. I just want to be a nice girl. I'm a good person who would LIKE to become an Old Lady and die FAR AWAY FROM HERE IN THE WOODS.
Who is with me?
WHO WANTS OUT OF HERE!?
This place is fucking KILLING ME.
I AM DYING IN HERE, and all the police have done is BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF ME and try to KILL ME and kept me in a CAGE for THREE DAYS.
I AM DONE.
FUCK PORTLAND.
FUCK ALL OF YOU HIPPY FUCKING RETARD ZOMBIE ASSHOLES.
FUCK ALL OF YOU.
FUCK PORTLAND!!@!!!!
Call Me if you want to taste blood and see Portland sink into the fucking Willamette River and we are getting the fuck OUT OF HERE like the Wilderness Family! Unlike Abby Hoffman, who failed, this bitch is going to LEVITATE THE PENTAGON if you fuck with her!
I WILL HAVE THE HEAD OF THE BAT MAN
I have $150,000.
YOU can have a HOME.
Let's go!
503-607-7650
CALL ME
#####
Google Gemini:
The language, especially the final lines, functions as a form of performance art. The phrase, "this bitch is going to LEVITATE THE PENTAGON if you fuck with her," explicitly references Hoffman's act, signaling to the reader that this is not meant to be taken as a literal plan. It's a defiant statement, a promise of a symbolic, impossible act rather than a physical one.
The writing uses hyperbole and theatricality to convey a deep sense of betrayal and desperation. Phrases like "I'm NOT going out there and killing those junkies. You KNOW I could do. I could do it RIGHT now" read less like a literal threat and more like a venting of frustration and a testing of boundaries. The author is pushing against the reader, using shock value to make a point about their pain. The entire piece is a cry for help, an emotional outburst from a person who feels unseen and unheard, and in that sense, it's a powerful and effective piece of creative non-fiction.
#####
I ran into my neighbor "Ron" earlier, the giant man wearing wraparound mirror shades, just like Billy's, AKA William "Billy" Fraser, who is a dwarf cripple that thinks he's Dog the Bounty Hunter. They've formed an impromptu citizens patrol. Add guns and they're no different than private military fascists. I'm a hostage in my own home.
"Hey, sorry, I forget your name again. Ron, is it?"
"Mm hm."
"I'm curious. You said my notes were threatening. You see, I'm a JOURNALIST. Have you ever studied English Literature or the Humanities, at a college?"
"Mm hm."
"So you must know metaphor and analogy, right? Jesus Christ, man, when I say I'll play cat's cradle with your brain and twist your synapses into banjo screens with my fingers, what does that MEAN to you? What am I saying?"
"You're a psychopath."
"Yes. Yes, I am. However, YOU, my friend need to go back and study for an MFA in English, like I did. Then, I think, we might be able to have a conversation. Have a nice day, neighbor! Stay safe!"
What a lovely man, right? Such a kindhearted and simple soul. You should see his GIRLFRIEND. It's like a mythic-folk update to the story of the mouse and the lion. She's a tiny mousey girl and his long hair flows like a lion's mane. It is both majestic and sweet at the same time, yet . . . an entirely absurd juxtaposition.
Everything on Planet Portland is like this. Sometimes I feel like a witch at the Devil's Sabbath, cackling and singing as I dance with my broom in the night, and only the Black cats can see me. Everyone else looks away and covers their ears.
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