By Shivani
Allison Mack might still be involved with many of her old sex-slave pals and other Nxivm addicts. She might’ve made an insincere plea bargain recital in court to repudiate Raniere, too.
Often an actor is aware of how to yank the switch of sincerity, or of any emotion, off and on, and one learns to get into the zone of doing so, shifting swiftly and very thoroughly. By definition, an actor’s task is to be convincing, to magnetically convey fictional feelings and behavior.
Is Mack merrily but ignorantly violating the terms of her home confinement? Is she still lost in her hallucinations of “spirituality” and of being someone who feels special, deep, ahead of her time?
Does the Shadow know? Is Macko still wacko? Through keeping track of Mack, and the Shadow does, it really looks that way.
Evidently none of the slaves are bothering to stay thin enough for their hero, Flabturd, anymore. That must be too much discipline to tolerate, without the availability of those cosy group blowjobs as a reward, like beagles with their long-awaited chewy toys.
When standing upon one’s head, one’s various fatty, bodily imperfections tend to sploosh out around the edges of the skeletal arrangement. There’s nothing sincere about Allison’s incipient double chin or that glop of fat, protuding from her waistband. Never mind her fatuous, upside-down grin.
Any of the defendants involved in Raniere catastrophe and waiting for their sentencings who have not partaken of any exit therapies to help themselves adapt have missed an opportunity to try, authentically, to break free. Any such dedication to therapeutic efforts (instead of still being hooked on Raniere, etc.,) would have improved their very questionable positions today, even just on paper.