What does it take for a county to ghost someone after they have been wrongfully ambushed by the county’s henchmen? What does it take to erase someone? To drown and bury justice under layers of silence and secrecy?

My story isn’t just about an unlawful arrest—it’s about a system so desperate to protect itself from a commoner’s exposure that it resorts to intimidation, erasure, and, perhaps, something worse. It’s about the shadows where the truth hides, the voices silenced by fear, and the unholy pact of power that keeps the “blue line of justice” untouchable.

But here’s the twist: their silence? It’s their loudest confession.

Silence Screams Louder Than Words

In the shadows of forgotten filing closets, a registry of Gwinnett’s failures in hiring practices and its corrupt justice system lurks. However, a force operates that not only upholds the law but guards a code—a blue line of justice that silences dissent and shields corruption.

I’ve tried every avenue to uncover the truth—lawyers, ABC agencies, courts, and police—each one turning into a dead end on Ghosted Rd… or maybe just dead, a ghost in the memories of those who cared. We’re not there yet, though.

Their silence is telling—and yet—it’s powerful. The mental cat-and-mouse game at play involves wondering about each other’s next move. I would like to think I’m quite predictable. “They,” on the other hand, are dangerously apt to do the unthinkable. But when answers are refused, I am actually given more—the freedom to write the truth of the matter unobjected. I have the upper hand in levying my questions to the masses and letting them stew in the same wonder I experience. And I can’t help but wonder: why would a county go to such lengths to silence me? What secrets are they so desperate to bury?

Gwinnett has ceded the floor. I intend to use it. When justice delays, it betrays. And in Gwinnett, it seems they’re buying time to rewrite the script.

The Truth in the Shadows of Us All

Gwinnett’s silence isn’t just negligence—it’s complicity. If their actions were aboveboard, the evidence would’ve been in my hands months ago. Instead, they’ve left a void. However, Gwinnett’s offense against me isn’t an isolated incident. While the full details remain out of reach, I’ve discovered that others have faced similar situations stemming from Recorders Court within the same timeframe.

In my search for a lawyer willing to confront this daunting county, I became aware of another case eerily similar to mine—an arrest linked to missing documents. This raises a critical question: was this negligence by a specific employee? A systemic issue?

Obtaining the full story will be no small feat, considering the uphill battle I’ve faced just to access my own records. Yet, with any luck, that individual may find me. If there are two of us, how many more exist? The evidence suggests a deeper problem—one that hints at Gwinnett’s inability to properly maintain records during that period. A single oversight is plausible, but a pattern signals something far more troubling.

But what if there’s more to the story that gives them reason to work so hard to cover this up? Join me in this rabbit hole of questions, and maybe see things from my perspective.

It’s not unknown that I write under an alias and that I associate with individuals who have been federally labeled “terrorists” and “militants.” I have received and written many stories from others across the nation who have spoken out against the injustices carried out against them. I guess it would be equivalently conceited of me to consider that only the handful of acquaintances and associates that I know—my mom and THE Crumpton himself—would ever read my writing, and even then, I wouldn’t credit them for actually reading.

But the reality check is that I see the numbers on the backend. I know the real expanse of my audience, and with that awareness, I feel much like Peter Parker, who once reminded us: with power comes responsibility.

If Gwinnett levied the power of record-keeping to someone incapable of the job, they owe every person infringed by it an apology, at the very least, and more for those they injured while “bringing to justice” for failing to comply.

Just the same—and no matter how fractal my influence may be—my responsibility is to deliver truth. It’s hard to do without evidence, but I’ve compiled enough of my own to know the truth with 100% certainty, with only one fact remaining: who?

Who would do such a thing? Is it truly a pattern, or is it a targeted ambush?

Shining Light on Doubt

When officers surrounded my home on the night of July 29th, 2024, it was an instant step into a reality I have often considered, but never wanted to confront. People don’t like truth. If any people hate truth more than anyone, it’s the police. I’ve never been shy about my stance regarding self-defense under any conditions. With the new tools Big Brother has such as Flock cameras to following the movements of individuals, this is even more exceptionally alarming.

However, while the statement “fuck around and find out” resonates deeply with me, it does not come with casual disregard for life. I have a brain, after all. I may not always use it before I say things, but that’s why I prefer to write. Even then, I’ll defer you to the First Amendment if what I write melts your sensitivities.

I’m highly introverted as a result of many years of trauma it would turn out (I wouldn’t suspect that surprises anyone in my audience, and it is certainly not a call or challenge for one-uppers or those in need of therapy). Being put on the spot does not lend itself to a shining moment for people like me—it’s overwhelming. So when the scene unfolded outside my home (four or five Gwinnett County Police cars flanking my house, along with a Georgia State Patrol vehicle, and officers moving in with precision—their positioning deliberate, almost SWAT-like)—my own sensitivities were a little triggered. It felt like my worst thoughts were becoming reality and this tactical show of force was designed to intimidate me into responding—in a predictable way, as I said I would many times before—you can imagine I was neither cordial nor graceful.

I don’t credit myself with thinking on my feet. I’m stubborn—especially when I know I’m right. But these henchmen put me on the spot, forcing me to think quickly about how I wanted to deal with their ambush.

Maybe I wanted to believe they had the wrong address (they’ve done that before!), because I truly could not think of one thing I had done to find myself surrounded on this scale. Maybe by the time they made their quick decision to tase me instead of shooting me, it was because they were starting to realize their role as pawns of something bigger—or maybe they thought I was too cute to kill—who knows? Yet I can’t help but wonder: how many others have fallen into their trap? How many acquaintances of mine are now ghosts because they didn’t fit the narrative?

Take Jason Patrick, for instance. Just ten days after my arrest, his life ended in a tragedy so haunting it feels impossible to ignore the connection. He reportedly jumped from an overpass, allegedly struck by multiple vehicles below. But those closest to Jason don’t believe the official story. Whispers of foul play and loose ends tied too neatly swirl in the shadows of his death.

What does this have to do with my arrest? Jason Patrick was in Oregon. I was in Georgia. Surely these are unrelated incidents. Or are they?

Jason’s death raises questions too big to dismiss: Was he silenced for knowing too much? Was his fate sealed by the same forces that came for me? Jason Patrick lived what could be called a vigilante life. He believed in the Constitution. He believed in justice. He believed in exposing corruption. And he practiced helping others in their time of need. There are many great things to say and that have been written about someone many refer to as a “patriot.” Sadly, there is more written about a man with the same name that the controlling forces refer to as a “terrorist.”

Jason and my history goes back to our work together for Zen In the Car—a blog platform hosted by Daniel Louis Crumpton out of Warner Robins, GA. We called JP our boots on the ground because he fearlessly entered any of our missions in the faces of those we alleged perpetrated the real crimes. Our front line man rushed to the scenes of the Bundy Ranch incident, the Oregon Wildlife Refuge takeover, among several other historical moments of our time. However, the spin on these stories portrays no hero. They weave the narrative of a villain for our nation.

He’s dead now and can’t deliver his side of the events that occurred that early morning. His death is as mysterious as he was, though, and I wonder if he knew it would leave us with this question, or if it truly is what many of us already think. The telling of his passing will unfortunately remain nothing more than a story of inconvenience on the highways and byways of Oregon—an attempt to minimize the greatness of a person who truly tried to make the world a better place. A world that will never know—and worse, think less of when they read the chronicle of the event from those who control the narrative.

Just How Deep We Go

Was I a failed attack? It wasn’t considered at the time until JP’s death came into question, but it has to be asked if we were meant to meet our demise to send a message—a warning to others?

To say the least, DLC, JP, and I were all very close at the time. And if ever one of us needed a message sent, it would be that we’d all one day be subjected to a threat. It is understood between us that those meant to bring about enlightenment and truly expose corruption will remain in the end. So maybe it was just his time, or maybe I didn’t go the way it was planned. Who knows?

Why should I suspect something like this at all? It’s hard to say coincidentally when you don’t believe in coincidences. I believe all things happen for a reason. I don’t believe that we all have a purpose. Some of you are just NPCs idly going about your day, caring only about that which immediately affects you. I’m not judging, just pointing out a fact. Nothing Crumpton or I are doing with our writing immediately affects you. It can, however.

I think it’s important to note that the loopholes leading to my arrest lie in the fact that in 2016 I pled no contest to a speeding ticket—I paid a fine, served some volunteer hours, and took a defensive driving course. When you do this, it actually opens the door for them to lose your paperwork and justify an arrest eight years later. I guess you could always go with ‘not guilty’ and make them work for their extortion, but I didn’t want the aggravation of that in 2016, and they made ‘no contest’ sound like a good option. Now you know. Take their time, make them spend the money.

What about Crumpton? Well, Crumpton is still hard at work exposing the corruption of the Warner Robins justice system—calling out local judges and sheriffs during election season. Coincidentally, Daniel took up this passion only a couple of months before a (corrupt) neighboring county’s police showed up at my door referencing an invisible warrant for my arrest.

It’s not far-fetched to believe that in the state of Georgia, sheriffs form acquaintanceships with other county sheriffs and police officers throughout. I would even venture to say that connections between agencies are not so unheard of that someone couldn’t have targeted JP after failing to check me off the list, knowing how close he and Daniel were.

The Burden of Proof: Calling All Hands

I’m left with a heavy truth, one that gnaws at the edges of reason: Did I escape their trap by sheer restraint? Did Jason Patrick truly take his own life, or was his death another story rewritten by silence? As I piece together these fragments of negligence, intimidation, and devastating loss, a clearer picture emerges—silence isn’t just complicity; it’s the soil in which corruption thrives.

Every unanswered email, avoided call, and missing piece of evidence isn’t merely negligence—it’s an indictment of a system engineered to bury the truth.

How long does it take to rewrite a narrative to justify the unjustifiable?

How many more ghosts will Gwinnett County’s henchmen create while hiding in the shadows?

Their silence may seem protective, but it’s only made their guilt more deafening. As they stall and spin, I’ll keep writing. Writing to honor Jason. Writing for myself. Writing for all the unseen, unheard, and unjustly silenced.

Because the truth? The truth doesn’t just speak—it roars. And it doesn’t stop until light shines on the last shadow of unexposed realism. As much as the evidence suggests a deliberate falsification of a warrant for my arrest, I must acknowledge the possibility of a mere clerical error. After all, even the most damning signs could be explained away. But just like any diligent investigator, I feel compelled to follow every lead to its logical end. So, regardless of whether I’m right or wrong, I’m putting this out there. If something foul happens down the road, at least it will have been said.

So I call on you: witnesses, survivors, anyone who’s walked this same road—find me. If there’s one of us, there are surely more. Together, we can unearth what’s been buried, demand accountability, and ensure that the ghosts start speaking.

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The Aftermath of State Sanctioned Intimidation

Your society can label me for speaking loudly about liberty and justice, but even your cage won't silence me--you just handed me a captive audience. 

Mental health dominates conversations these days, with everyone acknowledging the critical importance of well-being and the myriad factors that contribute to our collective struggles. Despite all the dialogue, it feels like we've missed the mark. If you think things are getting better, I have to wonder what you're really looking at. We talk about mental health in the abstract but rarely address the raw, unfiltered experiences of those living through trauma. And while trauma knows many faces, I can't speak to anyone else's experience. I can only give you mine—and that's probably why I had to go through this recent experience.

Right now, I could probably be labeled for many things depending on which government-funded agency you asked. No matter what labels make up the story of my past to others, I really want to address the things that have brought me to this state of mentality where I stand against corruption and for freedom—at any cost. After all, money is all they want, right?

Even as I write this, my heart feels like it's caught in a vice grip, crushed under the weight of every beat. A lump hangs in my throat, seemingly trying to suffocate me; the weird shot of emotionally-pained heart and unshed tears build up; my hands tremble uncontrollably; a light drizzle of sweat expands over my on-fire body as it attempts to lose control in an all-out panic. If I can keep it together, great! I'll make another day. But if I'm unsuccessful in minimizing my anxiety and stress, it's a war with myself I don't even want to describe.

But here's the thing—I’m not alone. This is the reality of countless individuals for many reasons, but all point to some form of PTSD. We’ve reserved this term largely for former military—whose indescribable experiences have left them more than battle-scarred—but the truth is trauma is derived from all stages of life and experiences we’d never consider. It's as if the whole world were walking on eggshells and didn’t even know it.

We’re conditioned to believe that state-funded medical care is a solution, but all it does is give corrupt governments a bigger hand in violating people, leveraging their authority to assign crippling labels that discredit and silence individuals. They don’t want us to have purpose—they want us pliable, controlled, and broken. Cognitive dissonance ought to fall under mental disorders, but then someone would have to acknowledge that we’ve built our world on a show of contradictions designed to replace the ancient sense of purpose—the stuff that made conquerors like Caesar formidable foes. Those who can’t be convoluted by overreaching governments are targeted by other means—drugs, alcohol, poverty—demands of the state meant to infringe upon their rights and manipulate them into submission.

Dusphemeo: A War on the Non-compliants

We’re not far from 1984. The Brave New World that threatens us preys on the weaknesses of mental health because now they’ve found another way to silence individuals—labels of disaccreditation and questionable states of mental being. Obviously, people like me who stand for constitutional freedoms are not mentally right. We're still fueled by purpose and mission. Whether you believe in it or not, this isn’t just my fight—it’s ours.

Government overreach disguised as protection and care has left me (and countless others) scarred in ways that words cannot convey in such a way that you will truly feel what I'm going through unless you've experienced it yourself.

Perhaps that's why this happened. I write so much about the experiences of others, that I may have become numb to the pains of my own past—considering others have experienced far worse than me. However, my PTSD isn’t just from a single event—it’s the result of a lifetime of interactions with a system that sees individuals like me as threats rather than citizens, a system that was designed to manipulate us into compliance.

When I say a lifetime, I truly mean since the young age of as far back as I can remember. Not only from those involving my dad but at 10 when a friend of mine built a fort in the only lot that had trees in south Florida. We had a campfire that was highly offensive to a passer-by who claimed to be a cop only after he chased us through the woods and then by car into a parking lot and started grabbing my friend and me--the story of my life encounters being simply that my 'accomplices' couldn't run fast enough. Such as that time when the neighbor kid and I decided to skip school and instead walked to Toys-R-us to buy marbles with our lunch money. Toys-R-Us was still closed at the time, and we were instead accosted by mall security who promptly called the police who took us to school. I don't know what punishment my rich neighbor kid paid, but I was grounded for '2 months' (which truly only lasted until my parents were tired of me in the house--not long).

From 11 to 18 years, I think I was relatively behaved and wrapped up in school and sports. Then I got my first car. I loved driving, and I loved driving fast. I probably got this (queue daddy's girl syndrome and eye-roll) from my dad. He used to take me for motorcycle rides when I was really young. I still carry a scar from his bike's muffler. 

My parents and their insurance carrier were probably pretty happy once I went about on my own, as those early years behind the wheel would be laced with multiple speeding violations and responses from police officers that would include everything from professionalism, dad lectures, police simply yelling and demeaning me for being a poor human being for driving fast, and even outright sexually violating me. The latter is why I was more than happy to leave Tallahassee. Maybe one day I'll grow the balls to tell that story, but right now it still cripples me to think I was ever so vulnerable and defenseless. 

These were hardly the last of interactions, just the early ones. I was the member of the family that took Dad up on not-really-a-challenge, but proving you could get more than one speeding ticket in a day. At any point, anyone could easily believe I'm the problem, but speed does not mean reckless--it just means faster than the number they put on a sign on the side of the road. I'm not the asshole zipping in between lanes, or the jerk cruising in the left lane under the speed limit preventing others from passing. Like many other laws that have come into existence under the umbrella of "for your safety," many traffic offenses are a means of extorting citizens, pushing control, and extending overreach of the state into our private lives to justify further execution of violations against our rights. 

Case in point matters with my parents that would ultimately end my utter hope for believing in our justice system and instill an understanding that if I wanted justice, I would have to get it on my own. 'Heroes' and henchmen walk a thin line and, at the end of the day, they sit at the same table to break bread together and make deals. They allow innocent people to become the victims of horrible crimes just to 'get their guy.' To make matters worse, the real 'bad guy' isn't even made to suffer for their crime. Instead, they get a slap on the wrist and are put back into the world to attempt murder on other innocent people who get in the way of their agenda--a real-life sin-city.

These encounters didn’t just leave physical scars; they rewired my brain. Every day is a battle between who I was before and the person I’ve had to become to survive. Trust is a word that no longer holds meaning for me. I see the world through a lens of suspicion, always bracing for the next attack, the next betrayal by those in power. It's exhausting, and the constant state of alertness drains the life out of even the most mundane tasks.

I wasn’t born with this fear. It was carefully curated through years of unfriendly encounters with the police, judges, and other figures in life that we're told to trust. Starting from an early age, each incident, each harsh word, and each moment of intimidation has added another layer to the anxiety I carry with me every day. Now, I can’t even relax in my own home. Even my daughter who witnessed the event has her own traumas she's now dealing with.

I hadn't been graced with custody of my daughter for the larger portion of my almost 10-years-ago divorce--despite multiple requests by multiple counties to investigate child neglect among other concerns. However, upon her coming to live with me in 2022, we were accosted with the demand for legal documents as a means to keep her out of school. Then after being kicked out of school for behavioral and paperwork reasons, the school's social worker had DFCS show up at my home to inspect what was in my fridge and question my kids on whether or not I was an abusive parent to them. Where did all of this come from when not a single thought was shed about their safety when I brought to light evidence of concern? 

In the two years of her living with me, my daughter has experienced events in which a call to the police as part of doing the right thing only turned into dismay at the lack of give-a-fuck by two counties of police. 

Now, my daughter, who witnessed police carry out their orders, and then read the report of events, now carries her own scars. I see the fear in her eyes when she hears the sound of a siren, or when a stranger knocks on the door. It breaks my heart to know that my fight has become her burden. Her childhood--meant to be filled with innocence and joy--is now tainted with a fear she should never have known.

Whenever a car’s reflection shines across my room, I’m jolted with panic, wondering what agency has pulled into my drive now? Who's coming for me now? My dogs bark, and my heart races because, whether it's a jogger up the sidewalk or six police cars pulling into the drive, their defense mode is triggered in the fashion of a bark that says whatever it is, it's unwanted.

Getting into my car just to get groceries is no longer about getting my adult chores done—it feels almost criminal and calculated in risk. I have to plan my route around cameras throughout the town because who knows if this will be another day a camera triggers an assault by heavily armed officers, ready to kidnap me under the guise of the law? The vulnerability of feeling like all I can do is take what they give me and succumb to their demands or be subjected to the flames of their accusations is a crushing weight. The idea that they win before the battle even begins is defeating. Corruption has brought this about. Nothing less.

This is not just my reality; it's the light version of everyday life for individuals targeted for pursuing a purpose that doesn't align with the Brave New World. My purpose is to expose the system designed to keep us in line, to keep us fearful, to keep us quiet. Fear won’t silence me. I'll walk into these flames alone, but I welcome you to join a witch.

Georgia on a Witchhunt? Shocking Gwinnett Arrest Proves Georgia Targeting Moms

Hall Co. Buford, GA -- July 29, 2024. I have never been one to be kept in line. So when the sobering reminder that we must always be on guard showed up at my door on this Monday night--4-6 Gwinnett county police cruisers (no lights-no sirens) and a state patrol car parked in my driveway)--I didn't exactly show up ready for the foreshadowed fight ahead. Quite frankly, I left the gun in the nightstand, and my phone/camera on the kitchen table.  

A lot has changed for this writer since I last picked up the pen against the brutality of the police state. I divorced my then-husband,  rode the roller coaster of custody battles and dealt with DFCS (Dept of Family & Children), public schools, and courts for a variety of reasons -- but the most obvious and apparent of them being simply that I'm a good person. Georgia doesn't think so and has gone to great lengths with the employ of all the agencies at their disposal to try and prove it. Unfortunately, each time, they end up with egg on their face. They will again, but this is just the beginning of that chapter. 

Age and Wisdom be Damned! If Karma Doesn't Punch You in the Face, Know I Want to!

As a mother of three, my first and foremost duty is to protect my children from harm or peril. Most mothers understand this intense maternal instinct—an unspoken, relentless drive that compels us to shield our families from harm, no matter the sacrifice. It's a force that unites and empowers us all and can be used to keep us in line.

As a witch, the first dedication to my charge is to be a custodian of balance and harmony, using my knowledge and abilities to protect, heal, and promote positive energy. That may include rituals, spells, and other gestures of power and energy that some would consider ineffective--and we can debate that another time. 

In my thirty years as a practicing witch, embracing the wisdom and strength that come with this path can be rewarding and uplifting; but it can also be challenging. The label of "witch" carries the weight of misunderstanding and prejudice. Despite the love and protection I offer my family, society sometimes sees me through a lens tainted by ancient fears and modern ignorance. That's fine. To each their own. 

However, this is where the challenge comes in, because although I am recognized for my commitment to my path, I am constantly under fire, as if the forces that be want to test my dedication. Of course, as any logical person would do, the scale of response will generally take over to ensure confrontations are minimized to more necessary times. Like a bee protective of its stinger, I know what picking up the battle sword means for my well-being.

Unfortunately, it also lends to the misinterpretation of what exact measures I might take to defend my person, my beliefs, and my family. Let me be clear. I live in a stand-your-ground state, and when prompted by necessity, I will stand my ground. 

Single-mom-hood aside, the natural condition of any woman pushed to the edge by a society that has forgotten the true meaning of justice is one I couldn't think anyone would want to FAFO about. But queue Gwinnett County Police--it's not the first time they have been the subject matter of my content, and by the looks of it, this will not be the last.  

Echoes of the Past? The Matrix Says Corruption 

Flashback to fall 2016. I got a speeding ticket in Gwinnett County and was subjected to going to court about it. The judge must've had a vendetta against Caucasians, cops, speeders, or all of the above because he very biasedly accused the police of profiling an African American kid who was charged with some random traffic offense and additionally blasting "Fuck the police" through his stereo system. That kid was made to feel like a hero of the day, as the judge promised to get him wrapped up quickly. 

After emptying the courtroom of other victims of the state, I was finally called to stand. There was no mercy extended, no suggestion that the police were profiling me. No, in fact, I was instantly accused of being a negligent person who travels at triple digits everywhere I have to go and the judge had 'something for me' indicating a punishment so severe it begged for an explanation, but never got one. I paid a hefty fine, was "sentenced" to pick up trash on the side of the road for community service, and was required to attend driving school. I complied. I did everything they demanded and walked the paperwork right up the clerk windows for handoff once completed. Case closed, right? Wrong. Let's get back to Monday night, 2024. 

Do you remember that scene from The Matrix when Neo sees the deja vu of the cat, and everyone instantly knows something about the Matrix has been changed? Turns out there was a traitor among the heroes, and that's kind of how this was.

It had already been a long day. I'm a single mom working six jobs and I'm heading to the local grocery store at 6:17p.m. I have an easily triggered spite for driving in traffic, so I take some backroads that go by a prison. I would also take this road home to avoid the traffic trying to turn left onto the highway I live on from the typical, people-filled road. Little did I know, this simple act would trigger a series of events straight out of an Orwellian nightmare.

I get home, get groceries put away, and I'm about 5 minutes and a dog walk away from calling it a day when my otherwise quiet evening was shattered by the pounding of fists at my front door. I'm not expecting company and anyone I would expect knows to come to the back door (I have a silly phobia of front door interactions due to the facing the highway, so when the lock broke in the locked position years ago, I never bothered fixing it). A glance out the window showed five Gwinnett County Police cars, a Georgia State Patrol car,  and 3-4 cops surrounding my house. I'm immediately thinking: What the fuck is this? These fuckers are either lost or looking for a fight tonight.

Becoming Public Enemy Number One.

As noted earlier, I did not grab proper protection when I met them outside the backdoor. That's as much as I can equate to trying to keep my cool because I was not nice from the start when they questioned who I was. As many fights as I've picked and uncomfortable stops I've endured, this was by far the most excessive show of force directed at me that I've ever experienced. To say it was a bit overwhelming is an understatement. After a short squabble with Officer NSync about names, he tells me the whole unit is there to arrest me. 

Nope. I'm already triggered. More cops are swarming in and surrounding me. Those are not words you want to use around me, especially when I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that there is NO reason for Gwinnett to have a warrant for my arrest. In the most convoluted cop-jargon-filled way possible, the officer explains that my car tag was scanned on a FLOCK camera, and I popped up for a warrant. I take a seat on the stoup while I feel the clench in my chest, thoughts flood in every direction, and I have no clue what the heck the cop is going on about. A warrant? For what? Illegally scanned my tags? Why is Gwinnett in Hall County? Where's Hall County Sheriff on this? When did I go to Gwinnett today?

With four police in front of me, they tell me my 2016 speeding ticket that I had long put behind me wasn't satisfying enough on their end. They lost proof that I completed driving school. 8 years ago. Of course, they'll not confess they lost anything and it's my problem to deal with, now... eight years later, with not so much as a mailed letter from the county in all those years to say "hey, we don't have this." Is it any coincidence that I did a mass cleaning of documents and computer files at the beginning of this year due to storage capacity and verifying that all my stately contracts were fulfilled? When you get this far down their rabbit hole, you'd be surprised what you'll believe when it just lines up.

Everything I Need to Know About Police, I Learned From Police

Cops are the lowest forms of criminals on earth. They do everything criminals do, but they get away with it because there's an entire system built on extorting citizens that backs up these henchmen. There's only one truth about police, and that is: if their lips are moving, you can bet your ass you're being lied to. 

No warrant was shown. Officer Pedo-looking-motherfucker looking like he stepped right out of the 80s with his mustache and gut hanging over is to the side making threats about my need to cooperate, while Office Latin-Leguizamo is on the phone, "confirming" the warrant. "If it's confirmed, you're going to jail," he says as if he's doing me a favor for double-checking, or something? Where is a black cop to fill out this DEI convention?!

 I told them exactly what I thought about their overreach of authority, especially over a piece of paper from eight years ago. They didn't like my attitude. Surprise. And whatever authority was around at that hour of the evening signing off on warrants apparently didn't either and decided I was going to jail, or that's what Officer Latin-Leguizamo promised as he hung up his cellular device. 

The supposed confirmation came through, but I know it's beyond bullshit, and I'm counting the ways in my head when they moved to arrest me. The law states I have a right to stand my ground and defend myself against wrongful arrest. I'm outnumbered in this pickle, though, and these guys can simply go fuck themselves in my mind if they're not going to listen to why they're wrong. I get up and turn to go back inside. They charge at me, taze me in the back, and tackle me down, now inside the doorway over my home. Yes, you read that right. They tased me over a piece of paper from 8 years ago. I presume my adrenaline is up because I only feel a pinch. 

As we're all on the ground, and me possibly sitting on other cops in my doorway (I really don't recall because I became fixated on one of them), I hear my daughter and dogs behind us in the kitchen. Compliance is not an option at this point. The matrix just changed to give these agents the upper hand. One of the officers has me by the forearm, and that's the only one I'm focused on. 'Get out of my house, don't scare my dogs, I'll comply.' He doesn't get up. Cops don't like being told what to do, go figure. I make it clear he's a threat to my dogs (one is a protective pitbull). I tell my daughter to take the dogs to her room and lock the door and I can't see her, but I presume she has the dogs by the collar. 

We sit there still on the floor inside my doorway--A/C freely cooling the outer world like I'm made of money and these kids were born in a barn. I repeat to the cop to not scare my dogs, and that I'll comply if we go back outside--him saying things like "don't resist" although there's absolutely no resistance. We're all literally there trying to figure out how to maneuver out of this position without losing our hand of advantage. There's none for me with four cops grappling me. 

We get up and I'm pushed outside while they cuff me too tightly. They have no clue about dealing with someone who has anxiety and panic attacks, but I'm trying at this point to keep my mental together. It's pissing off Officer Latin-Leguizamo that I won't just sit on his hood. I want to pummel every one of them for their ignorance and lies and the jeopardy it was putting me in. For the past crimes carried out under the umbrella of protection police walk with--the blue code of justice. And what was my crime? Whose vendetta was this really? 

No female officer present. No Miranda rights read. No Hall County Sheriff presence. No warrant present--because no warrant ever existed. 

EMS came and checked me over despite my refusal. A protocol because the officer shot me in the back with a taser. I guess I should be grateful he pulled the non-lethal weapon considering the stories I have covered. Another officer also caught taser. Literally, he caught it in the finger. Karma, if you ask me, and I hope he had to write a long report. 

I was put into the backseat of a cruiser and carted off to Gwinnett County Jail.

But Wait! There's More!

It was going to be a long night, and it would begin with the quietest car ride to jail.  And not to breeze over the facilities and friends I made, but my cash bond was set for $400. Yep, cash bond. More paper for them to lose. My parents, bless them, arrived with cash at 2:15 AM to bail me out. But because the police found me "a bit mouthy" on arrival, they made my parents wait over two hours before releasing me. I made sure everyone was aware of the reason I was locked up. I wanted that to stew in their minds about how they locked up a single mother over a certificate of completion for driving school from 8 years ago. The wheels were spinning in some of them, but the point was not making it through. They took my money and released me around 4:20a.m.  

The next day is hell after having been up for 30 hours straight. We realize I never received any details about my court date, so we call Gwinnett to find out more. "Renee" informs me that I didn't pay a bond at all, I actually paid a fee, and there is no court date.  What fuckery is this? Now it's just a fine?! After a thorough reflection of eight years of police interaction (more than a dozen stops for random infractions from speeding to the pink lights that can't be on my car), including multiple background checks, involvement with another county search and rescue team where my background and discovery for any warrants was conducted; AND an investigation by DFCS, there's no way a warrant on my record went undiscovered for 8 years. It outright didn't exist before Monday night, and the police didn't just decide after 8 years to come knock on my door about it. I have been living at this address the entire time. It's not like they couldn't have come before 8 years. I had driven up the local road many times before, and never had a FLOCK camera pop my tag. 

Contacting a lawyer was enlightening as one of them told me the warrant was still open. I could be arrested again at any time for the SAME unreal warrant. He provided the information for contacting the Clerk of Courts who further tried to milk me for more money by suggesting I could go back to driving school, or come down and talk to the judge (drive through the gauntlet of Gwinnett for round 2? I'm good, thanks!). I also contacted the school I attended who informed me that they don't keep records past five years. So to add fuel to this fire, the county falsified a warrant to come after me for a crime that THEY had no way of proving against me. I guess they also forgot that the burden of proof is on them, and I have two witnesses who can testify to my having completed the sentencing issued by our racial judge. 

This brings us to day 2 of the ticking clock in which Gwinnett and Hall County have left to respond to my open records request. I am, stressed beyond explanation. Anxious. Terrified to leave my house. My likeness can be tracked on cameras across the state. My car tag could be scanned by cameras and cops for no reason, and I could be kidnapped by the police and extorted all over again. 

Legally, I could fight back--to the death. As a mom, though, my first duty is to protect my family. And that means complying with these henchmen, even when I know they're wrong despite my right to stand my ground in the State of Georgia. This is also the reality of living in a surveillance state--a brewing war between real good and evil. Where your every move can be tracked, and a simple trip to the store can turn into a nightmare and lifelong trauma. This is the future, folks. This is Big Brother right at our doorstep. This mother witch knows that the fight against such insidious evil requires both mystical and practical action. I stand ready to challenge the system, to confront injustice with not only the power of my will but also the strength of my voice and unwavering resolve. 

Are you ready for this? For your sake, I hope all your past tickets are in order. 

More to come as this story develops.

Kidnapped by Police: Georgia Needs Moms

In Georgia, if you want to make a lady blush, remind her of the peach she is. But beware, she can be quite the sour peach, as well. And when the state known for its southern hospitality, beautiful landscapes, and delightful peaches comes under scrutiny for carrying out a modern-day witch hunt, you can bet your biscuit, the tarts turned targets will get sour.

Destroying the lives of women one single mother at a time, Georgia judges seem more devoted to casting stones to keep her silenced than they are in protecting women, children or rights. Supported by the cavalry of DFCS, CPS, and police and sheriff departments across the state, the question has to be asked: Is Georgia ever going to step into the modern day of respecting equality among women, or will it forever be casting biblical stones of judgment and oppression?

Let’s cast the light of flames that have been lit under these Georgia Moms.

Monica Rivera: A Divorce Hijacked by Activism

We all have that one conspiracy theorist friend. And maybe he operates a legal cannabis platform remotely from the comfort of his home that you’ve been staying in while you and your ex work out your divorce. This was the scene for Monica when she and her husband decided it was time to part ways and they had a young boy together. Due to the cost of procuring a lawyer, it was stressful enough for Monica to defend herself against the unwarranted attacks of mental and verbal abuse levied upon her by a narcissistic man-child and his questionably-pedaling-pedo-mother. Of course, mom, because she has ties to the judge, who likely doomed the case from the start on account of his complete despise for Daniel Louis Crumpton, a well-known local activist who thwarted Judge Lukemire’s brother in a political election and continues to call out corruption in Warner Robins on the Zeninthecar.com War-Town Times Blog. 

In Warner Robins, being friendly with the neighborhood crusader of justice only paints a target on  your back. Monica’s legal nightmare wasn’t just a custody and alimony circus. No, it was a full-on carnival of absurdity. It seemed like her lifestyle choices—supporting the Constitution and fighting for freedom—were considered criminal offenses in the eyes of her ex and his dubious family (her ex’s mom’s YouTube channel, featuring her tied up in revealing negligees and filming kids in bathtubs, was more acceptable than Monica’s advocacy for civil liberties).

Monica’s case was marred by biases, and her rights seemed more like checks on a list to be revoked.  Her custody was unfavorably split like a dictated vendetta with her ex-husband after demands to separate herself from Mr. Crumpton were refused.

Tyshyra Dent: The Price of the Protest

Tyshyra Dent -- This Douglasville mom decided to take a stand against police brutality. What did she get for her trouble? A one-way ticket to legal hell. Tyshyra’s arrest and subsequent treatment were a stark reminder that in Georgia, the First Amendment might as well come with a footnote: “Subject to police approval.”

Imagine protesting for a better future for your children and ending up in jail. It’s like the universe’s worst joke, except the punchline is a violation of your constitutional rights. Tyshyra’s experience begs the question: Is standing up for justice a crime in Georgia? The authorities’ response seems to be a resounding “yes.”

Tyshyra Dent’s encounter with the Atlanta police on October 29, 2021 could be the plot of a dark comedy if it weren’t so grim. Here’s how it went: Dent, a passionate activist advocating for civil rights, ends up in a confrontation with the police that escalates into accusations of excessive force. Now, this isn’t your typical "cop pulls over for a broken tail light" scenario. No, this was a full-on spectacle where the pursuit of justice seemed to be the real crime. What began as a dispute in a convenience store was escalated into a full-on attack by officers which left Tyshyra with head and body injuries.

Dent’s case was not just about bruises and broken trust, though; it was a testament to how activism can secretly put you on a list with local law enforcement that lands you in hot water. Instead of receiving support, Dent found herself facing a system that seemed more interested in punishing her for her advocacy than addressing the alleged brutality. The irony? Fighting for civil liberties became her liability, as if standing up for human rights was somehow a ticket to getting more of the very treatment she was protesting against.

In a city where being an activist might as well be a crime, Dent’s struggle was overshadowed by the absurdity of a legal and police system that appeared to be in competition for who could be more out of touch. Her rights seemed less like a guarantee and more like a buffet line of bureaucratic red tape. The entire ordeal was a harsh reminder that sometimes, the fight for justice can feel like a battle against a system that’s more interested in maintaining its own mess than fixing it.

As of the latest updates, the legal proceedings related to Dent’s case were ongoing. The outcome of the lawsuit and the results of the internal investigation were yet to be fully determined. The case continues to be a focal point in discussions about police brutality and systemic issues within law enforcement.

Tiwanna Woods: The Cost of Housing Advocacy

Tiwanna Woods, this Atlanta mom on a mission for affordable housing, might as well have been battling a dragon. Instead of swords and fire-breathing beasts, she’s fighting an impenetrable bureaucracy and discriminatory practices. The result? A legal and social quagmire that’s as frustrating as it is absurd.

Tiwanna’s struggle illustrates a grim reality: Advocating for the less fortunate can make you a target. Her case was a clear message from the powers that be – “Don’t rock the boat, or we’ll make sure you sink.” And yet, the question remains: Who benefits from silencing voices like Tiwanna’s? Certainly not the families she’s trying to help.

A dedicated activist fighting for fair housing, Tiwanna ends up tangled in a bureaucratic nightmare. Instead of her advocacy leading to progress, it feels like she’s been thrust into a Kafkaesque loop where fighting for a basic human right is treated like a crime. You’d think pushing for decent housing for your family would earn you a medal, not a mountain of red tape and legal headaches. But in the world of housing in Atlanta, it seems like standing up for what’s right is as risky as playing a high-stakes game of Monopoly, except with real-world consequences and zero chance of passing “Go.”

Woods’ battle against discriminatory housing practices wasn’t just about securing a roof over people’s heads—it was about fighting an entire system that seemed to view her activism as a threat. Rather than being hailed as a hero for advocating for those in need, she’s been met with legal obstacles and institutional resistance that only highlight the disparity in the housing system. Her efforts to improve affordable housing options have been met with bureaucratic barriers and an unsettling amount of resistance from those who benefit from the status quo.

In a city where advocating for affordable housing can seem like a call to arms, Woods' struggle underscores the absurdity of a system that prefers to maintain its own chaos rather than address real issues. Her fight is a stark reminder that sometimes, pushing for justice can feel like an uphill battle against an entrenched system more interested in preserving its own flaws than in making meaningful changes.

As of the latest updates, Woods' legal and advocacy efforts continue. Her case remains a powerful testament to the challenges faced by those fighting for equitable housing and serves as a crucial part of the ongoing conversation about reforming housing policies in Atlanta.

Mary Hooks: A Protester’s Punishment

Mary Hooks, co-director of Southerners on New Ground (SONG), has a story that’s all too familiar. This single mother’s protests against immigration policies and police violence turned her into a target for legal intimidation. Apparently, in Georgia, using your voice means you’ve got a bullseye on your back.

In 2020, during protests related to police violence and immigration, Mary Hooks faced significant legal pressure. The intimidation included aggressive surveillance, legal threats, and public scrutiny aimed at discouraging her and her organization from continuing their advocacy. This form of legal harassment often involves attempts to stifle activists through legal means, rather than direct criminal charges. Her "crime"? Simply exercising her First Amendment rights. Mary’s activism, aimed at confronting systemic issues and advocating for marginalized communities, was met with a harsh and unsettling response.

Her ordeal underscores a troubling trend: when peaceful assembly challenges the status quo, it seems to become a criminal act rather than a fundamental right. It was a harsh reminder that the right to protest is selectively upheld. When did peaceful assembly become a criminal activity?

Her activism, deeply tied to her role as a mother, reflects a broader struggle where fighting for justice and equality is met with intimidation and legal hurdles and makes us wonder: How far will they go to silence dissention from mothers?

April Ross: Reforming Justice, Receiving Injustice

April Ross, a Gwinnett County mother and criminal justice reform advocate found vocal criticism of local law enforcement practices didn’t earn her any friends in high places. Instead of receiving accolades for her advocacy, April faced a slew of legal challenges that seemed less like justice and more like a calculated effort to silence her.

April’s efforts to address and reform the flaws within the criminal justice system have made her a target of retaliation, illustrating that the system’s tolerance for criticism is as thin as it is unjust. From legal threats, harassment and attacks on her credibility, her case underscores a troubling reality: when you stand up to push for systemic change, the response can often be an aggressive crackdown designed to intimidate and suppress dissent. It’s a stark reminder that in a system where the status quo reigns supreme, challenging the system can come with severe consequences.

These experiences highlight a disturbing trend growing in the state of Georgia against their motherly population: Retaliation against those who seek to improve the system. When advocating for justice makes you a target, it raises serious questions about the system's commitment to change. For these mothers, it seems that challenging the status quo, no matter how flawed, often results in personal and legal repercussions. It’s as if the system prefers to maintain its broken state rather than embrace the necessary reforms that these courageous women are fighting for.

The Real Crimes

These women’s stories paint a troubling picture of a state where constitutional rights are more like suggestions than guarantees. The real crimes here aren’t the protests or the activism; they’re the abuses of power, the retaliations, and the systemic bias that seeks to keep mothers like Monica, Tyshyra, Tiwanna, Mary, and April in their place.

Georgia, it’s time to ask yourself some tough questions. Why are you so afraid of strong, vocal women? What are you so desperate to protect that you’d trample on the rights of those who want to make things better? Maybe it’s time for a change. Maybe it’s time you realized that you need moms like these. They’re not the problem; they’re the solution.

Georgia needs moms – brave, outspoken, relentless moms who refuse to back down. Because in the end, their fight is for all of us.