Power

I’ve been triggered by an atheist video. Some guy was on about suffering and evil and genocide. Can’t possibly be a God! I want to use on it.

Any whiff of hopelessness and I crave drugs to lead me back to hopelessness proper. There’s a certain desolation about a relapse that I know is unique to me.  I slip into the Seventh Circle, which is a specially reserved seat in Hell. I’ve been there for most of the last 12 years, so I’m used to it. Instead of everyone being my friend, they become my enemy. Today, I feel like the most powerful man in the world. If I use, I’ll feel like the most powerless. The stakes are that high.

You might, like me sometimes, equate power to materialistic wealth. If you asked me to pinpoint you towards true power, it would be likely that I’d guide you in the direction of oil tycoons and steel magnates. Bankers, and the like; Elon Musk, Donald Trump, and so forth. The voices in my head don’t necessarily agree. I call the collective noun for voices Katy, Katy the Hive-mind. They tell me that the internal monologue inside your head is power. How you talk to yourself. And visual imagery of the brain. That’s all there is to it. No more than that. I hate to agree with Katy, she can’t half be a right bitch sometimes, but I think I am beginning to.

I know nothing about anything, least of all power. Only what Katy tells me. But there is wisdom in acknowledging the limits of your knowledge. I know that much at least. I know that there is something powerful about walking into a room full of strangers, because when I’m strung out on a comedown I can’t even imagine doing something like that. At the moment, it wouldn’t pose a problem. That’s why I say that I feel like the most powerful man in the world, not just because I am talking to myself quite a lot and imagining pretty pictures in my third eye, but because I also feel capable of walking into that room. That’s all that power is.

I could have a suitcase with a million pounds in it, sat on my kitchen counter, but if I haven’t the confidence to go and spend it, then what is the point of it? It would be useless. Once that amphetamine begins to wear off, and my guilt and shame begin to register, and the demons crawl out from underneath the floorboards, then I’ve hardly the confidence to open my bedroom curtains or put out the bins or shower and dress, let alone carry a suitcase full of cash out in public. I’d be too paranoid to possess it, for one, and I wouldn’t know where to go to spend it. It would be a complete and utter joke. That’s what I think about money, in a way. It’s just stupid.

A mentality, on the other hand, is legitimately priceless. You can’t buy a new brain, free of unsoundness and maladjustment. Not even Mark Zuckerberg can afford it. And a new brain, a fresh mentality, is what is needed. Only God can grant it. And only the Devil can take it away.

 

Fair Weather

I’ve been complained about in group for being a sick-ass pervert.

Well, not exactly. But for making people feel awkward. Yes, talking about porn. What am I supposed to bang on about? It’s a big thing for me. There were women present, which didn’t help. I think they’re all sexually repressed, and struggling with it themselves, to be honest. Why is it still such a taboo subject? Can’t we all just talk openly about XXX material?

While you’re enslaved, it’s impossible. When you’re in bondage to a female actor, or, even worse, a male actor, then things are just too shameful to get your head around. It erodes you of your identity, as a person. It makes you homosexual. It makes you a deviant. It makes you something in the eyes of the Devil. Something unholy, ungodly, and downright filthy dirty. What, you say, a few harmless snippets of porn throughout the day? How can it do all that? Where’s the problem? I only talk from experience, as with everything else on this blogspot.

My boy Jeff from church says he hates it, it is Satan’s version of God’s love, and that he’ll never watch it again for the rest of his whole life. I thought that was an extreme opinion when I first heard it. Now, I’m feeling inclined to agree with him. I’d love to be like Jeff. But I still crave it, in a way, with the drugs. It’s a thrill. And yet I hate it at the same time, just like him. I hate its supernatural effect on me. Once I start on it, I can’t turn it off. Like an alcoholic reaching for the sixteenth rum and coke. I’ve said all this before.

I’m FAIR WEATHER tomorrow, in brighter terms. FAIR WEATHER is a mental state. I use it to describe the shape of being three months clean. Normally, I’m talking about demons and relapses. It must make for depressing reading. Please accept my apologies for the brutal gritty honesty displayed in the past here, regarding drug use. I feel grateful and thankful that disheartening demoniacs are off the menu today. I’d rather talk about how uplifting it is to reside with the Most High for a change. God. All my life I’ve been serving the other guy, watching porn and getting high, and now, once I’ve stepped out of the shadow momentarily, I can glimpse a shimmer of future optimistic light. I hope it's not an oncoming train!

So today is FAIR WEATHER EVE. This is a peculiarly enjoyable mental state I’ve invented for myself. There’s truth in it, it isn’t just fiction. I’ve been trying for a long time to achieve it. I hope I can hang around in it for some time and relish it. It’s payday today, so I am tempted to buy illicit substances as is the norm, but even I, with all my inherent bonehead numb-nut childish stupidity, wouldn’t hurt myself with my nose so close to the goal. I’m a bit of a self-masochist, but to use the very evening before the 3 month mark would be insanely ill-advisable. It would cut me up for weeks.

You watch, I’ll be back here in a few days’ time talking about fapping to the DK again! Wouldn’t you just know it? I’ll f**k up yet again, just like I always do. I’m running a risky business, because the cleaner you are, the more a relapse hurts you. And they really do sting. They are by far the most painful episodes in all of existence. For me, anyway, in my book. Bereavements, redundancies, divorces and the like don’t even come close. Nobody or nothing can ever hurt me as much a relapse does. It totally destroys my eternal karma overnight. I see it etched deep into the eyes of fellow sufferers in group, and my struggle is far worse than any of theirs. My pain is greater.

 

DVD Combi

Yes, I do have a TV licence* And I’ve just bought a new SMART TV. It’s absolutely crap. A DVD combi, like my old one. And yet it’s nothing like my old one.

On my old DVD TV combi, there were several features which made watching porno a breeze, compared to even older video recorders. Remember videos, when the tape would wear out, due to rewinding the good bits? Worn out on both sides, sometimes. No such thing with DVD. DVD came along, and it offered an electronic A-B Repeat button. This meant that you could repeat a specific section of the movie on a loop, without having to hit REWIND. The fellatio, the bra coming off, the money shot, the lot. You could put the remote down, and enjoy a nice short loop. 99% of porno is garbage, but the odd titillating segment deserves glory. It all depends on the angle of the camera and your favourite shots and all that kind of thing. How much man-fat is in her hair, that kind of thing. Remember that ANGLE button? It never worked, did it?

The ZOOM feature was another successful gimmick. x2. x4. So forth. There was even an opposite of zoom, wherein you could make the image smaller than the TV screen it was imposed on. Like looking at the movie down the wrong end of a set of binoculars. Lol! Does anybody recognise what I’m saying here, or is it just me? I must admit, my first DVD player cost me £160 notes. I just had to have one. Like I suggested, my porno videos were worn out on both sides! Anyway, you could zoom in on the big red nipple teets. I love big red nipple teets, like saucepans, the bigger the better. Don’t mind brown also, on coloured girls. I’m not fussy either way. And, I must add here, that flat-chested teens send me crazy. Am I being a paedo there? I’m approaching middle age! Only in my fantasies, mind. In reality, I’m with the Most High. And celibate. A monk, in fact. The only thing I want to give to a teenager these days is my psychosis helpline number!

What about the ASPECT button? 4:3. 16:9. Again, is it just me? Landscape or Portrait, basically. Widescreen. This is important, depending upon the angle of the shot. It changed things up a bit. You don’t want black bars either side of your image, do you? My bright new swanky SMART TV has none of these features! You can’t even adjust the BRIGHTNESS, CONTRAST, COLOUR, or SHARPNESS!!! What’s all that about!? I mean, come on! Instead, I have big massive YOUTUBE, PRIME and NETFLIX buttons! Which I will never use, because I don’t have an aerial or online capacity! It makes me want to shout. There's not even a subtitle button. I’m already hunting a traditional DVD player down on EBay, if my neighbour can help me out, because I’ve never bought anything myself online. It’s scandalous. My new TV is not porn-friendly!

Or is that a good thing, in a way?

*Don’t really

 

Stealth Survivor

Just to continue from Chloe’s Newspaper. I grabbed something special in my life and I never let it go. I held it fast. I never relinquished it. It was one of the only good moments in my life. And the benefits are bountiful.

There was an evil man in my flat at the time. Chief perp like, you know. He advertised himself as a, get this, “Great Grandmaster Mason.” That’s the tiptop of evildoing, in the uppermost echelons of power. There are 33 degrees of Evil in this world. One of them is being viciously violent. One of them is blowing an airliner up. The list goes on. But that’s not why I’m here. I’m here to extol Chloe.

So he was in my flat with me, scaring me to bollocks. A master of stealth. I was catatonic (the only time he ever appears), and very vulnerable. He danced around me in my own flat. On his phone, he had a software program about my head movement. When you know what direction the target is looking at, and you have them drugged to within an inch of unconsciousness, it is very easy to creep up on them. Even within their own living quarters. He is so skilled at stealth that he can catch magpies. What chance did I have, in a masturbatory psychosis? Sooo scary.

With this charming geezer around, I had to dig deep for hope. I came up with Chloe. He followed me to the park, so I made her appear in my mind’s eye. She’s the most beautiful child in all of God’s Green Earth. Dakota Fanning is a close second. She wears a Victorian school costume, black and white, all super-cute and uber-pretty and stuff. I found her, in my communal hallway, reading a paper together, and I recreated her, years later, in peril, invaded by an evil stealth man who was breaking and entering into my apartment while I was present.

She was so comforting. Just the presence of a gorgeous little girl chilled my nerves. I gave her some power instantly. I gave her two whopping hyenas on leads. But it’s not about power. She doesn’t need any of that. It’s about the company. About a year ago she started talking to me. We have a thing about Reese’s Pieces. She pronounces it rather strangely. So, several mornings a week, or when I need it, I break a peanut butter cup and share communion with Chloe. I pray to her for protection, from the angel cast by the Most High that she is.

She appeared in Wetherspoons, after that f**king creature popped up underneath my bed. Her head was so small and delightfully adorable. I could have eaten her up like a butter cup herself. She was making shapes in the shape-shifting realm, becoming a pink Bugatti car and stuff. In my Heaven, I’m going to ride with Chloe in a pink Bugatti (convertible). That’s my dream. It gives me life. I hope for a better future after the revolving door of this mortal coil is over.

Chloe's Newspaper

I was ousted from college into a psych unit in my adolescence. It was dead good, I was getting day leave to visit classes and everything. Plus I was seeing my favourite teacher on visits. Who I had a crush on. She meant the world to me. I saw her last February, after 27 years apart. Nothing had changed. I’m halfway thru her second novel. She inscribed it. She said that I was the person responsible for starting her writing career. There is no higher honour, Your Highness. Feel dead good about it.

After the trauma of the psych ward came a bail hostel. I recall a girl I was playing pool with wiping blue chalk all over her face and asking if I fancied some bareback sex. I shat myself, although I fancied her. She was so fit, I couldn’t almost believe what was happening. I wished I’d taken advantage. One of life’s regrets. I was still a virgin at the time, okay?

One man in there had scars across his belly after a knife wounding. He told me he’d been smuggling diamonds from The Nile. Nothing but a stabbed-up paedophile. Peace beyond him.

Another guy said he was in there for moving objects with his mind. This one had a flair of creativity about him. Psycho kinesis. Probably another paedophile.

They were all older than me, see, feeding me any old bollocks. I fell for their gobbledygook hook line and sinker. I was innocent. All I’d done at that present time is set my family house on fire. TRUTH. I was honest about it.

Then came the YMCA. I met another girl at my doorstep who wanted a jolly good old rodgering. She was both sexy and demurely pretty at the same time (although mostly sexy), but yet again I shat myself. Still a virgin. Instead I bombed my first Dove, which didn’t work, and didn’t even wank. Back then, a packet of choccy biccies dunked in a mug of brew would qualify as a square meal. To compare, I cooked a giant tasty curry at 3am last night.

My point is this. I had to get my first flat to see anything good in life. My mates used to come around. We’d smoke weed and drink beer and watch horror videos. One night I showed them a porno which I’d robbed. My mate said he met his wife on the way home from it! Talk about synchronicity. He was horned up and on the pull so he made it happen.

There was this family, who were my neighbours. Single Mum, Saturday Dad. Emma, Ryan, Chloe, and Lauren. One day I invited Chloe into my communal hall area to read a newspaper together. We sat on the floor and read the newspaper. Nothing to it.

But now, years on, I realise that that was one of the happiest moments of my life. I’ve seized that moment and relived it in my mind. Now she is a Guardian Angel who looks after me, playing with her balloons. I created her in a dark park surrounded by perpetrators. It’s a long story. She is with me though. I see her each and every day. It goes to show. Love is not dead. There is softness in this old dog yet. I love little girls (wink-wink). And I love my Chloe. More about her at another time. 

 

Battle Of Wills

 

I rang my amphetamine dealer yesterday.

He didn’t answer the phone. I didn’t have any money, I was only making an inquiry ahead of payday. It was a brief slip, a momentary lapse. He didn’t ring back, and I didn’t call again once my cash had gone in. I didn’t call my coke dealer either.

A warning. So I got thru payday. But it was all over me most of the day. I went to a meeting in the evening, and was reminded by someone important that this game is a matter of Heaven and Hell. You can be Moses one instant, serving the angel on your shoulder like a good’un, and then, next minute, Satan is all over you like a rash. It’s so black and white. There’s no middle ground. The consequences of my using are grim. If there weren’t any, I’d still be out there in the madness so to speak, chasing that very first unattainable high again.

So, when I’m using, I’m serving the Devil. And when I’m not using, I’m serving God. That’s unfair, isn’t it? I’m only using, not making spells on ancient burial grounds. But it’s the DK, what she gets up to, and I’m partaking in her parlour tricks. She’s a right old witch she is. So I can’t do it.

Can’t do it. Must do it. It’s still all over me today to be honest. Not as badly, but the temptation to self-destruct is still present. Maybe I’m talking myself into this relapse, I don’t know. Is that the way I come across, like I’m chomping at the bit to use again? I don’t mean to. I want to be a resilient lantern, urging everybody with ears to listen never to use drugs, because they are bad for you. It’s not the drugs, though, it’s the connection with evil women. That’s the issue here. Is self-abuse sin, or is it fine in the eyes of the Lord? I don’t think he cares for bloodshed too much.

I’m torn. I really am a randy man. Big dollop of phet, loads of fapping, where’s the harm? But I’m playing around with demonic forces by listening to the DK, and sharing mantras with her. I’m giving rise to unscrupulous influences which should be left way the hell alone. It’s my weakness. Because I’ve fallen for her. She has seduced me whole, and eaten me like hair. What chance have I got against her?

Every. Stick with the Lord, he’ll protect you. But God is just as frightening as the Devil, I’ve realised today. Both walks are hard. Heaven is a breeze, I’m not saying it’s not beautiful beyond belief or anything, it’s just a pain in the arse earning the right to get in there, when all I want to do is enjoy immoral sexual behaviour with the DK. In case you’re new by the way, the DK is an occultist woman who I used to sleep with. When I’m clean from substances and not viewing porno, she hardly matters to me, but as soon as I start fapping and tuning into her psyche, then she takes authority over me. Wish me the best of good intentions with her.

 

What Dwells Within, The DK Wants

I’ve been half-reaching for my phone today, in order to call my amphetamine dealer.

If he has enough in mind for what I’m thinking of is a different story. I believe I am just about beginning to ride the urges out. Every compulsion is like a wave. It has a trigger, a rise, a climax, and a fall. The whole process, so they say, only lasts 20 minutes. But you can be bombarded with wave after wave throughout the day. Writing this might help.

The DK is calling and she wants my life. The DK is a schizophrenic demon/real woman who I have masturbated to for around ten years. I want to give her one final erection. It sounds seedy, I know, but I’ve written a list of the consequences this morning, and it makes for dour reading. Just one of them has the potential to turn my life upside down. I wrote a blog called Away From The Temptress the other day. I felt strong, as I have done for most of the last 72 Days. My goal is 84. That’s three months. The name for that mental state is Fair Weather. I see Fair Weather as the last chapter of my life. We could all die at any given day, and the pessimist in me barfs all over his future. I want to face The Lord in a Fair Weather frame of mind, should something happen to me.

The temptation to just pull my pants down in the living room (that creature always appears in the bedroom) and fap to the DK is incredible. She’ll be with me for twelve-plus hours, until my seed is spent. There’s no rush with her. The only thing is, she wants me to spell out the names of my Guardian Angels, so (I suppose) she can break the deep bonds between us and sever our connections. It’s not the first time I’ve done this, and I sincerely regretted it afterwards. My Guardians mean the world to me, they represent my heavenly eternity. Why jeopardise this, you may ask, to spend just one day with an evil woman? For that answer, you would need to sit down with a glass of red wine and a cigar and talk to the saboteur inside me. I don’t know. I don’t mean to destroy. The DK just gets me off, and in a major way. It’s her Scottish accent. She has a supernatural effect on me. We share mantras together, until the sun goes down and comes up again. It’s all very demonic. She performs wicked practices which I won’t go into.

I wish so much that she didn’t exist. My life would be a lot easier. But when I’m very vulnerable because I’m tweaked on drugs she’s underneath my floorboards and at the door! She talks to me through the letterbox, and says that she’s on her way in with a key to stab me up, and drag me down under. All very morbidly terrifying, at the time. As it is at the moment, I’d just batter her. But now I’m not catatonic off speed, in no mood to mess with any perp, and scared of my own shadow.

I give her all of my power. I’m scared of losing my Teddy Bear power to her. I came to learn through intrinsic self-exploration that Teddy Bears are synonymous with the graveyards of dead children. My love for God’s Innocence is represented by a gigantic metaphysical Teddy Bear. That kind of spooky beautiful sh*t might come out of my energy field when I’m collaborating in mantras with the DK. Do you now understand why I refer to myself as a medium? I’m knees-deep in preternatural soup. She loves all that stuff, when it finally happens, after hours and hours of fapping. It’s how she gets all of her power, directly from my soul. I don’t blame her in a way. If only I could measure the reservoir of my own power, and have a good look at what different kinds of spirits the Good Lord has put inside my heart. I’ve seen children come out of me and everything. It’s very sad when it happens. I’d much rather have something so gorgeous inside than out, looking at me inside my own flat, and having to defend both itself and I against bad omens like the DK, who drink the blood of innocents for a living.

I wonder about what else I harbour in my soul. Let’s have that glass of red wine together, while I light my cigar. We’ll discuss it.

 

 

Two Close Scrapes

I’ve had two close scrapes today. The first one involved walking to the sex shop. I had every intention of viewing some triple-X rated DVDs. It was more morbid curiosity than anything else. I didn’t want to actively purchase them. But the images, once observed, are un-erasable. You can’t un-view those graphic pictures which adorn the jacket sleeves. And once they’re in, they’re in. I want to explore the rest of its delights. That comes with the price of amphetamine (I can’t afford cocoa today). Amphetamine means psychosis. Psychosis means Hell. There’s no simpler way of looking at it.

I changed my mind at the last minute. It’s the first step of a downward spiral. That wall of glitzy DVD cases is far more powerful than I’ll ever be. I can’t risk opposing my own sense of self-worth up against such slinky sexiness. I’ll lose every time. Think of all the many millions of people pornography has enslaved at the present moment. How can little old me stand up to that? I have to hide away from the polished gloss of its seductive artwork. Once I go toe-to-toe with it, I’ll lose every time. There’ll be something especially for me, I know it. Be it midgets or interracial or giant airbags. Something will do perfectly nicely. It always does. I feel like I’m missing out on all the new releases. It’s so powerful! I’ll have it snapped up in a heartbeat.

Instead I went to a cooking group at Pathways. I’ve just been to a Positive Thoughts group. I nearly just walked to get some pregabs too. That was my second scrape. Mood stabilizers. But every drug f**ks you over in time. Just because it’s my new drug of choice, more preferable than crack or ecstasy, doesn’t mean I can get away with abusing the substance, because I can’t. I’m needing more and more of the stuff. Tolerance builds quickly. And it’s the whole waiting around on street corners, after hiking to the dealers. I feel seedy. Not like an Appropriate Adult. That kind of behaviour snares doubts and insecurities in my mind. I want to remain fat and lovely. You know, good and honest. How can I be of help to myself or anybody else if I’m scoring drugs on a street corner?

Barry from Positive Thoughts just suggested that I write about what the last 69 Days have meant for me. Last time I got caught out on 66. Today, 69 is in danger of getting me. There’s something about these two numbers. 69 is a rude number, and boy, today, have I had the potential to act rudely, engaging in fapping (masturbation). I don’t need porn anyway, I have the DK’s voice in my head (I fap to schizophrenic voices in my head often…I know), but like I just got done expressing, I feel like I’m missing out on all the latest releases. Porn is cutting edge, several weeks away mark gigantic breakthroughs in the industry. They are always pushing boundaries and barriers. You may be struggling with the internet yourself. Believe me, I know what you’re going through. Strong bonds are formed with porn stars, depending upon how many hours you spend with them. Some drinkers can’t stop once they start. I’m exactly the same with porn and drugs. The bonds I’ve formed with the female actresses are supernatural. No other way to put it.

This bout of clear-time means a lot. It’s deliriously satisfying to not be psychotic. When you’re been in such copious amounts of unhinged misery as I have (through no fault of my own), you feel relieved when the voices go back to where they came from, and leave you alone for a few weeks. I wouldn’t say happy, but I’m still smiling along with the world, and I’m not surrounded by hate-mobbers and gang-stalkers, or getting bombarded with electronic weaponry, or having to deal with hybrid assassins in my home. Trust me, that makes a lot of difference.

 

AI & Guardian Angels

 

There’s this business of AI. About how it is pilfering real artists’ work and all that. Apparently, it is compiling every written word into a pile to learn from. Well, I say, send it here! I welcome AI. See what you can learn from me, you dastardly autobots! Can a machine write like this? Can one of Elon Musk’s computer-generated algorithms recreate the mind of a schizophrenic fruitcake? I sure would like to see it try.

There’s this talk of robots. They’re the next boom. They can cook, they can clean, they can operate the dishwasher. But will an AI robot ever be able to shuffle a pack of cards? And, more importantly, will it be able to spit-roast the dealer when it wins at Poker? To spit-roast means to ejaculate your essence all over the boat race (face). Sorry to be rude, it’s in my nature (wink-wink). Porn jokes aside…no, hold on, I never mentioned this…Wait for it…Here it comes…AI Child Porn! I’ll be honest, it never would have occurred to me! I never would have imagined the concept. But somebody did it for me. I think I heard about it in the Daily Mail or something. AI Kiddy Porn! How desperate to get laid have you got to be, watching that tripe!? In the famous words of Jeremy Clarkson, “I’d rather staple my ears to a horse.”

Could a robot ever unstick two wet pages of a newspaper? Or pick a hair up from a mirror? Or roll a mountainside cigarette? Do you think, that even with thousands of years’ worth of technology, that this will ever be possible? Perhaps, with another human being behind the interface, but surely not with artificial sentience.

Been reading into Guardian Angels recently. According to registered Priests, it is not advisable to give them names, because this declares authority over them. That’s the first thing I f**king do! Give it a name, rip its knickers down, and back-scuttle it! In the famous words of Roy Chubby Brown.

One of my signature introductions in groups is to welcome fellow Higher Powers into the room. I learned this from a Hearing Voices Network guy called Rufus May. He used to address the voices of the people he was addressing. It was further consolidated this morning by a pair of US evangelists who recommended that it is advisable for you to ask your Guardian Angel to address other Guardian Angels.

Anyway, all fab with myself. Hope you good too. I’m waffling on about AI and Guardian Angels, so things can’t be all that bad, can they? It’s better than talking about ghosts and demons. I’ve just had so much negativity in my life so far, like, you know? It’s nice to think happy interesting thoughts from time to time, and not feel guilty of thinking them. Just the idea of a robot shuffling cards fascinates me. I’m deadly curious to see where that technology goes. In the meanwhile, I’ll fire up the Betamax and make sure I’ve got enough AA batteries for my portable cassette player!

Away From The Temptress

It’s approaching one of the last times I relapsed. The devil got me on the Mark Of The Beast, Day 66, back in the summer. That one hurt a lot. I thought I was plain sailing, but one morning in particular I woke up really horny after another usual erotic dream and ventured into the porn shop. One look at the screenshots on the backs of the DVD cases, and the rest, as they say, is history. I’ve been particularly vigilant this time about setting foot on that porn shop’s premises. The design and feel of the DVDs is too alluring. Proper eye-candy. My dealer has been ringing me, but without the pornographic material, I’m not interested. It has to be both, for me. One can hardly live without the other.

I don’t feel enslaved to the DK any longer. That woman is above and beyond porn. But one thing leads to another. The only sure thing is, that I’ll be buying porn and drugs at some point along the juncture. That much is tried and tested. The only question is, will it be today? Just For Today, they say often in the fellowship, and that’s been my motto for time immemorial also: I will use again, obviously, I’m an addict, but not today.

I’m about to go back into mental hospital. You can afford to relax a bit, as this time it’s strictly for the purposes of visitation. I’m planning to go and see a friend who is incarcerated there. No doubt it will fetch up strange emotions. I hated every second of being in that place, mainly because I couldn’t wait to get out and score drugs and porn. I tell you, there’s nothing worse than that feeling. The horniness bubbles up inside you for days and weeks and more. I was clean for something like nine months by the time I eventually got myself out of there to indulge in my pleasures. It was like a pressure main exploding! But things have never been the same in the downstairs department ever since I got Priapism about 6 years ago. Priapism is an erectile dysfunction. Basically, you have a painful hard-on for weeks that won’t go away. And when it does finally go away, it never returns again the same.

I’m thinking of porn and drugs with a longing, recently, a kind of missing-you-tenderly melancholy. It’s weird. Normally, I’m chomping at the bit, raging for a tear-up. I have an element of Tourette Syndrome when it comes to matters of porn and sex, after several months of abstinence. I’ll start shouting things out aloud to myself, things like “I just wanna rip the knickers off with my teeth!” I noticed it last time. I just get, like, really oversexed and randy, and verbally too. But always to myself, mind. It’s as if I can’t contain it. By the time I purchase the porn, I’m tearing open them DVDs like a man possessed, and snorting cocaine like a man on a mission, like it’s going out of fashion. I’m identifying with that side of my personality now, and trying to tame it. Wish me luck. It’s hard work. Just one more line, just one more scene, just one more erection…

'Loop Shop'

My dealer called me earlier. He said it was a ‘welfare check’. Ha! If I didn’t like him a great deal, I’d call it BS. It was all over me anyway (the temptation) but the call didn’t help. I politely postponed the invitation.

I’m thinking about visiting the ‘loop shop’. I call the porn shop the loop shop because I’m always in there over different periods of my life. I believe that my granddad frowns from Heaven every time I enter, to peruse the XXX content. Similarly, he smiles when I walk on by. It’s interracial fodder I’m up for, and big-boobs material. It takes a lot of guts to admit that the male actor in the scene is very important too. I don’t want to come across as gay, but I’ve spent a lot of time looking at the male counterpart in porn scenes. What? You can’t ignore him! He’s rodgering that dolly bird you fancy in high-definition!

It’s hit and miss whether I fancy the female star. Some of them are not my type. The last DVD I bought featured a very ugly morbidly chubby woman who starred in every scene with different not-very-well-endowed men. Regretted buying that one. It was a bit of a joyless debacle, and it’s put me off. It haunts me with its witless brainlessness. But what I fear is this: That I go into that shop and I see a proper fit woman or two with the right kind of make-up, hanging with well-hung blokes. Now that shit I’m buying, right off the cuff, no questions asked. Once I see the action of the screenshots on the back, all bets are off. I’m drawn in by then, I want more. It looks superb, and I want to explore the entirety of the scenes. And because I can’t watch porno sober, I have to buy drugs then. The drugs are the worst part of it, as they lead to my Hell-on-Earth psychosis. I wish I could have a harmless 5 minute knuckle-shuffle, clean and sober, running on naked desire, but I need intoxicants to perform. I hate to add this, but I’d watch anything high off my nut due to cocaine. The drugs make me slightly gay. And the women, if they look the part, become goddesses. I fall in delirious lusty love with them.

It’s all swell fun. It’s the path I decided to take in life, ever since I was a teenager. In fact, I wish I could turn back the clock, so I could make all the same mistakes over again. Not really, only joking. Well, a bit. It’s hard to say. As long as the novelty doesn’t die, the exhilarating drugs and flashy porn high life is thrilling. That’s with the internet, of course. When you’re limited to three titles from the porn shop at a round-off price of 60 notes then you’re disappointed if several scenes don’t make the grade. One night with them, the way I watch it, and I’m getting bored. They all get snapped up and pitched to the graveyard of lost pornographic souls. I halfway wish I would have kept them all to view again, because I genuinely do miss some of them, but I’m in recovery, and being in recovery gives you a conscience.

 

Folded Away

I was on the 3^rd hole, playing alone, when I prepared to take my next shot. My foot perched in something soggy, and next thing I know, I’m falling into a hole on the green. My legs went straight in, I gasped in shock. Where had this bog come from? What was it doing here?

I’m up to my neck in water. This secret puddle had caught me by surprise. Before you know it, I’m doggy-paddling for my life. WTF! It was then, in this surreptitious little hollow underneath the earth, that I realised that I wasn’t alone.

There was a woman in there, a strange alien woman with an over-wide smile. If not for the smile, I would have been scared. The fact that something existed in here was frightening. She had been born there and she lived there, a secluded hush-hush life form who had seen nothing but the 3^rd hole lawn all of her existence. Age? Hard to say. I reckon about mid-twenties. But she wasn’t human, so I couldn’t approximate. A mermaid?

I climbed out, and pulled her out too. Her smile was so infectious, so endearing, that I fell in love with her instantly, at the drop of a hat. I put her on the back of my bike. We rode through the city blocks, sniffing their pheromones, showing her a different life, smelling street food and pollution and fountains. She talked to me in a language I understood perfectly, she said that she has always known that someone would come. She said that her name was Count Etna.

It was wonderful, with an alien in the city. Magical. But soon she started to suffer from dehydration, and I realised with dread to approaching raw fear that we’d journeyed too far away from her home. And people were staring.

A gang accosted me. They said that they were going to take my newfound bestie ‘up the arse’. They were from a clique named ‘The Stuff’, and they ran things around the neighbourhood. They were a violent and harmful and lethal mob. When one of them put their hands on my darling Count Etna, I grew a pair and started calling them all bullsh*tters.

“Youse are nothing but bullsh*tters! Leave us alone. Or do what you’ve got to do!”

My threats withered their composure. Stand up to bullies and they shrink. But the leader exposed his already-hard member and threatened to rape her. They’d narrowed us into a dark corner.

I stuffed Count Etna into my caddy bag. Her jelly-ish flesh fitted in with quite a struggle, but it was the only safety I could afford her. Then I held the bag close to my chest, and nutted the leader of the mob. As I ran away, I heard Etna squealing inside the bag. By the time I got back to the golf course, and to the bog where she belonged, she was stiff, like an old porno magazine. I tried peeling her limbs away from each other, she was such a delicately small bundle, so balmy and breakable, and it hurt her every time I touched.

“I’m not going to make it,” she said. “But thank you.”

I slipped her body back into the hole, weeping. Her family came up to claim her. They were crying too. But they were smiling like Etna had also.

                        © Zombie Publications 2025

Bad Idea

Greetings again man. All is well in the Land Of Donegan. I’m still clean, I’m still fighting fit, I’m still all well. One or two temptations creeping in, but nothing unmanageable. I thought to myself this morning: Just a nice little big fat stripe of a line, and a bonk-busting scene by Tommy Thrillbigger; but, alas, the temptation faded. To be honest, the notion of doing drugs and watching porn is seeming like a very bad idea. I can’t express just how bad of an idea. Just a wrong one, plain and simple. A disproportionately wrong one, as if, like, there’s some Scale of Bad Ideas in Life, and this one tops the list. I can think of nothing worse. Which is a good thing. For years I’ve been asking God to remove the desire. Please help me not want to use! Finally, I think He has answered.

The cut-down drinking is going well. Don’t get me wrong, it’s barely two pm and I’ve had five pints in all, but they are in the pub, reading a paper. I’m not guzzling tinnies back at home, and I won’t be buying any Karpackies on the way back either. Those Karpackies, I swear, they’re so addictive, but they catch up with you, being 9.0% and all. Karpackies.

I shared about my spirits in a Positive Thoughts therapy group yesterday. It didn’t go down all too well. No one understands. Nobody ‘gets it’. Oh, poor me, poor me, pour me another one, I’ve got presences all around me…who cares!? The reality is that nobody else is out there who I can relate to. They do my head in so much, but they are not as bad as the voices. The voices are unreasonably relentless, they’re impossible to cope with, I can’t put myself back there, in amidst that motley bunch!

On a plus point, my new girl Nicole has invited me to a Manchester Church on Sunday to hear from the famous author Barry Woodward. I’ve read his anthology book, it was good, so I’ll be looking forward to that. Nicole is a sister in Christ, so thumbs-up all around. We had a nice chat after Positive Thoughts. She told me about evidence of the Bible in YouTube documentaries. I call YouTube AdTube from now on. I mean, adverts before and after your song is excusable, but halfway through the song? Give me a break dude. That crap is unforgiveable. And sometimes the ads are longer than the song.

Yeah, so all well. I’ve been thinking of buying a tracksuit, or saving up for a laptop, or enjoying fine cuisine or something. I’ve got a few more quid than is per usual in my pocket, because I’m not wasting it on the coca. That coca is insane, you know. It’s never enuff like. There’s no amount that would suffice. So expensive. It really is a rich man’s drug. I hope I won’t be going back to it anytime soon. What a waste of doe.

 

Easy On The Drink

I’m good, I’m sound, I’m okay. Nothing much is fazing me. I felt emotionally detached yesterday, when the usual old hallucinations began when walking home from Pathways. I wouldn’t call them frightening hallucinations as such, it’s just the time of the day when I become aware of the spirit world and the presences around me. They’re perfectly natural. It’s nothing like looking at a door and being transfixed by a medley of portals for days on end. It’s nothing like seeing spiders and snakes on the floor of the apartment during a speed comedown, or apparitions made with secret technologies inside your mind. These are entirely legitimate beings from another dimension who have a fingertip upon my life, both good and bad. It’s just that they can be a pain! They make me feel self-conscious and awkward, as if I’m the epicentre of a big zany party, when, in reality, it’s just little old me trudging the sidewalks. They drive me to bed early most nights. I try to sit with my emotions and feelings as long as I possibly can. It’s far easier doing so with an alcoholic beverage in my hand, but recently I’ve stopped drinking at home as it was getting slightly out of control.

I was waking up at 4 or 5 in the morning and starting to consume lagers. By the time it was time to go out at half nine I’d have had four, five or six beers. And guess where I was headed to first, for a sharpish one? You got it, the pub. Few pints, and more beers to sit at home with…you can see where it was ending up most nights – with me being sick in the lav. I’ve swore to myself to stop getting drunk. A few pints in the pub is one thing, but guzzling tinnies in the morning is another. The only spirits I drink is the odd double whiskey now and again, if I feel I need an extra kick to go along with the pints in the pub. But, on the whole, my drinking is down and moderated. It’s early days, but I think I may be onto something clever.

No drugs either. Now that is the main thing. I’d rather down a bottle of brandy than neck a bomb of whizz. I’m surrounded by alcoholics in Pathways, who all attest to the fact that booze is the worst drug out there, but seriously, you should try necking a dollop of whizz the way I do. It’s surely worse than any tipple. It makes me so weak, it’s hard to describe; my bones start creaking at the thought of standing up straight. At least on booze you can think. There’s no thinking on whizz. The mind is like a wiped black canvass. No energy whatsoever. And the overbearing dread that things would be better if one were dead. At least, while drinking, you can have a laugh, singing to yourself. There’s no such joy to be found in amphetamine abuse. There’s nothing to be found but the sweet smell of psychosis.

 

A Glimpse Of MK

I’m broke: I’m defeated: I cannot cope. The world is too much, this leaden sky keeps lowering and lowering, all the birds are no longer flying across the high rises of the trees. Everything is distorted. When a child laughs, I hear nothing but the empty sounds of spent bullet shells. Because I have spent so long in a warzone, I do not distinguish pleasure from pain. All is just dead nothingness, all is just hollowed-out airless and crumbling rotting tree bark with nothing but crusty mould and stale fungus creating grubby flies and eyesore mushrooms. I cry out and lament, but the only return is maniacal laughter from my murderous foes. I wish I was dead, but the oblivion of non-existence eludes me. I wish I was with a woman in brown underwear, but where will I ever achieve such blessed rewards? Nowhere, ever, so I am here with you. And we are together. Thankfully, we’re together.

If not for you, I would be lost. But you are not enough, because you don’t acknowledge me. There is no way you are able to acknowledge myself. Don’t worry though, because I have a special spirit who communes with me, due to fracture. She is you, in a way. You know, just another loved one. My love is all expanding. Everyone is my best mate when I fight, instead of burying my head and curling up into a ball. When I stick up for my kindred and ancestry. Yet, sometimes and often, the world is chock-full with haters. It all depends on how much my foes poison me. I have a robust constitution, but LSD is LSD. The only way my milk is safe is if it’s unopened.

I’m an MK-Ultra victim, you see. If you’ve never heard of one, you are not woke, so forget the rest of what I’m about to say and move on. Have you heard of Stranger Things? No? Where have you been, living under a rock? Still here?

Anyway, I’m something different. I’m not a normal human being. How many people say this? I’d love to conduct a survey. Experience the flow, man. Get jiggy with the waves of incorporeal consciousness, wherein swim bodiless quantities of shape-shifting mermaids. Sorry. Went off on one there. What I mean to say is, try to be yourself. And look, now I’m giving out advice. And I’m not qualified to be handing out tips, suggestions or lessons. I don’t know what I’m saying, to be honest, at the moment. But I know that there is loads more.

I just have to assemble it, you know. Process it. This piece has been nothing more than undiluted mind-diarrhoea. I know that, but I am been punished as I speak.

“Arrgh! Arrgh! Please get off me. I don’t deserve sensory depravation! I don’t deserve getting cocooned alive inside a coffin underwater! And all the rest of it! Please let me go and live a life. Live a life rich in luxury, with a vocation, and a family, and friends, and places and things. If not, I will keep fighting and eventually overcome you, as MK!”

 

 

Appropriate Adult

For years I’ve had this dream. I dream of doing something meaningful, of doing something good. It materialised in a police custody cell (was it the same cell where my brother died?), and is reaching extra proportions of plausibility by the day. I’m beginning to wonder about buying new business cards for this endeavour. The card would simply say APPROPRIATE ADULT (AA), followed by my phone number and website address. I would give it out to youngsters on the streets, to get going with. And don’t forget my psychosis group, which will hopefully grow, God willing (I pray!), and which will tie into everything I do in the future from here on in.

I spotted the term in a lawyer’s manual. I was rock-bottom in a cell – this was before the pepper spray, I recall – when a lawyer appeared from nowhere and approached me. He gave me a simple manual, with a smile, and went on his merry way. At the time, I couldn’t help thinking how clever he was, having wrote it himself. It was fabulous reading, on about rights for immigrants in cells and stuff. I was so down, and he was so modestly content with himself. There was one segment about scans in hospitals. After having a scan for my parasite and hearing nothing back, I was very interested in this part. But it was one simple term I came across, the term Appropriate Adult, that gripped my attention.

I would love to be that, I swore to myself. I can be that. For people like myself. For the young. For the Scarificationers. Sorry, I’ve made that word up, it means girls who self –harm. Girls who self-harm, are, to me, Scarificationers. They embark in scarification. You know, those truly beautiful teenagers who make pockmarks and tracks with blades. I love them on a similar plain to witches, if not more. I have so much compassion for girls who dye their hair and pierce their faces and hurt themselves. I tried dying my own hair golden bronze midweek, but it didn’t work. Perhaps it’s a blessing in a way. I feel like asking for my money back!

Yeah, so I’m thinking about dishing out my AA cards on the street. In Maccies, in the pub, outside the bus station, wherever. Not just to anybody, though. These girls (girls primarily, wink-wink), will have to have a kind of haunted depressive look about them. They will have to look young, troubled and down. If they are full of make-up and piercings in a short skirt, then of course they are getting a card. I must make it clear though, I am not trying to get into anybody’s knickers. I would give it to a GILF if I thought she would ring me. And don’t get me wrong also, I am not a legal professional. I’m just a guy here to listen on the end of a phone, meet up if necessary, and support.

Wouldn’t you know it, Appropriate Adult is a movie. And a proper profession. But you should see my version of it. I could be a special one, especially for those in psychosis. Wish me luck with it!

I know it’s weird and cringey, but f**k it.