dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession

dark am i, yet lovely, a lily among thorns, majestic as stars in procession
WHY DESTROY YOURSELF? WHY DIE BEFORE YOUR TIME? THE KEEPERS OF THE HOUSE TREMBLE. DESIRE IS NO LONGER STIRRED. DO NOT CONFORM ANY LONGER TO THE PATTERN OF THIS WORLD.

Sunday 17 March 2024

Kacie Castle

Kacie Castle

57hrs:20mins till blowout. My mate Jay used to say that when working back in the day at Excel Logistics. When approaching the end of a shift on a Friday he would go around openly declaring, “It’s T minus 2 hours till blowout.” Blowing out means getting off your head. That used to make me laugh, because not only was he not ashamed of it, he blatantly went round letting people know the script.

I’m very similar, at the moment. Just over two days until I blowout. I can hardly wait, I’ve hung on two weeks while being skint. It’s like a release date from prison, using is, when it’s been a while. An escape from the norm, a departure from the prosaic. Leaving humanity behind, as Rich Piana says, and going beyond into the blue never-never. Two weeks straight (bored and skint) can feel like a long time.

I’ve got a hot date lined up with Kacie Castle. She’s a New York porn star, I believe. All my wings will be running dry inside her. This is not in the physical realm, you must understand, but across the airwaves. I’m meeting her in the Celluloid Corridor. I’ve slammed the Celluloid Corridor in the past, saying I want it out of my life, it’s this and it’s that; it’s been gone for the last four or five months, but now it’s back and there’s not all that much I can do about it. With my condition, and acting like an interactive live-stream portal, it’s too powerful to deny at the present time. I’m embarrassed about my powerlessness atm tbh (at the moment to be honest). I should be snapping up the DVD and buying a keyboard or some clothes instead. But a keyboard or some fresh clobber doesn’t provide that dopamine dump on the brain that an evening on coke with Kacie does, does it? Come on, blowout, hurry up and get here will you! I’m all about brain chemicals, dude. Sh*t, what the fu*k am I going to do? I’ll snap it up eventually, once the novelty wears off, and she’ll be in the graveyard with all the others (there’s a lot of others) but that time isn’t quite yet. So I’ll just enjoy some self-gratification while I’m in the mood. Hey, I ain’t hurting anybody. Only myself.

I’m over all the guilt and shame and regret which usually comes with using and fapping these days. I haven’t got time for it. There’s too much more to life once the deed is done. I’m still loved by God and that is the only thing that matters. He understands the needs and pressures I have and go through. It’s a solitary private endeavour and like I said there are no casualties. It’s just a bit of fun on my own. And I refuse, any longer, to be defined and condemned by the word addict. I should call myself a blogger (or a blagger lol) before I call myself an addict. It's a kop-out. I’m much more than that and I hardly recognise that label as a valid one anymore.

 

 

Saturday 16 March 2024

Blog Talk

This blogging business is proving a hard graft today. In the goody olden days I’d be writing about music, art and ceramics, but now I feel like it’s just a plain boring psychosis testimony log. There’s nothing boring about psychosis, mind, but you know what I mean. I’ve lost so much in my life over recent years. All my ceramic collection got demolished when I trashed my flat, it was a beautiful acquisition; I really miss it a lot. I also plopped my personal PC computer laptop in the bath because a spirit told me to get rid of the filthy videos stored on its hard drive. Bit of a drastic measure like, I know. I used to do all of my artwork on that computer. I also don’t even own a keyboard at the moment to do some music on, I’m stuck with a haggard aged organ which sounds like crap. So my creative outlets are at a severe disadvantage compared to what they used to be. The intent is still there lying dormant within me however, and I am keen to produce.

I’m surprised this blog is still even going, as the email provider it is associated with went out of business ages ago. Via some small miracle, the email address is still active, even though I haven’t used it for a number of years. I’m stunned that this site is still operational, but I’m not complaining a bit, as I need this platform to express myself. It’s become like a psychosis diary lately, but in the wider scheme of things it can be whatever it wants. It would be nice to write about other people, like my peers and idols, then publicise the results on social media, but I lost my social media platform when I lost another email address, for some reason. I invested ten years of art, writing and music on Facebook so it’s a bit like a slap in the face to lose it. And I had some fabulous connections on Twitter (or X as it’s called now). It’s a sad and sorry shame really, I tell myself that I don’t need it, similar to my television, but secretly I miss it dreadfully. It makes me feel slightly despondent and disconsolate.

When my younger brother was murdered by police (or died in police custody, as they call it), I started a twitter account in his name to spread awareness about black deaths in custody suites. I feel like that would be really getting somewhere by now, if that account had stayed active, but all because I lose one poxy email address, my whole empire comes crashing down around me. Not only that, but I’ve also lost a dongle with a wealth of material on, including several whole digital books, so I’m unable to share them here as I originally intended to do. Another sad shame. We live on, however, free to create more matter and put our heart and soul into each portion of it. Loss will not define me. I’ll not get upset. Memories are all we have and one of the most important parts of life. When I’m sat at home, not watching TV, I can think about all the great art I’ve done and all the zany books I’ve wrote and make myself contented by the mere nostalgic reminiscence of those things.

 

Friday 15 March 2024

Peer-Led

I’ve just sat in a lovely peer-led group with us all each facilitating the meeting because Brian the SMART leader was off rambling around Welsh mountains. I think SMART stands for Self-Management-And-Recovery-Training. It was an informal gathering and we continued talking until well after our time was up. There’s a lady there named Fiona who I quite like a lot. She’s about 52 or something, and a drunk. Drunks are a bit boring, I think, compared to addicts, especially with the no glorification rule, which forbids them from telling us about all the wild outrageous and brazen scandalous funny times they’ve had on the booze. Still, I learn a lot from them, which is why I attend AA (Alcoholics Anonymous). They can still hallucinate, and they can still know that familiar overwhelming murky gloom which at times can flummox the addictive brain.

I shared about my current predicament, being addicted to a porn star. I said that I watch it via a live-stream portal, so that we can see each other. They asked me do I love her and do I want a relationship with her. The answer is no on both counts! It is not love at all, it is merely sexual desire. Part of me thinks and knows it is disgusting and gross, yet the sinful members of my body are attracted towards such lewd carnality because it is entertaining and pleasurable. I mentioned my protective spirits which watch over me at all times, and said that I was having second thoughts because of them. How would you feel, if you were an angel, sent to protect someone, and they were fapping over the devil all the time? It would be quite infuriating, wouldn’t it? I don’t know how I can find it inside me to do it to them. It’s just sheer lust addiction. I’ve always said that nothing else matters when on the coke and porn.

We were brought free pizza in halfway through the group as a gift from the cooking group here at CGL (Change Grow Live). CGL is a big rehab constitution throughout the country, they have centres everywhere but Warrington’s services are regarded as up there with the best of ’em. It’s widely regarded as a scummy place for druggies and a magical palace of recovery and strength and hope and faith in equal measure. I choose to perceive it as a bit of both. All I know for sure is that I’ll be getting a phat dollop of dopamine dumped in my brain come payday, with my porn star and my drug of choice, thank you very much. I know, that is defeatist mentality, I should be saying that I’m going to batter my addiction and never use that crap again, and to stay far away from pornographic tarts, but there you go, I’m just spitting the God’s honest truth about proceedings.

Even on a perfect day, after maybe say making a 147 at The Crucible Theatre, scoring the winning goal at Wembley, skydiving, white water rafting, winning at a poker game, even killing a man-eating lion with nothing but torches and spears with a gaggle of Neanderthals; nothing compares to the dopamine buzz on coke and porn. That’s why it’s got me by the short and curlies at the moment; you can’t attain the same feeling anywhere else in life, and life is a big place. I don’t know what I am going to do, maybe just one last time, it is always just one last time; walking on the dark side, burning the midnight oil, sabotaging my bridges. May it one day end once and for all…like maybe when I’m dead Lord.

 

Thursday 14 March 2024

Never-Ending Road

Deep in a psychosis one time I was on a road that I thought would never end. I was aware that it led back to Warrington, but one particular roundabout I knew lay on the horizon just would not appear. It was a long straight, a turn, another long straight, another turn, and so on. I started to get really doubtful at one instance about whether I had entered a parallel dimension. I considered the fact that this road may not in fact have an ending. What made it worse is that I started to perceive dinosaurs in the woods either side of this road. I could see their vague shapes out of the corner of my eye. I could hear them. The noises they were making sounded surreal, squeaking and purring as I hurried by. I didn’t feel threatened but I was aware that I could be in danger. It was the otherworldliness about it.

Every corner I turned, I thought to myself: Surely the roundabout I recognise is up ahead here at this one, but it weren’t, the road just crept on and on and on and on and on. It was like being in the Twilight Zone or something. I was getting hungry and thirsty and laboured and there was no explanation for it. The road would never end!

I remember that day well. I’d been driven out of town by a White Lives Matter rally. They chased me to the border of town because of my colour and I was forced to hike it to the neighbouring town, Widnes, which incidentally is my home town of origin. I’m not sure if the crowd that chased me out had weapons or not, I didn’t pay them too much attention as I was hastily getting out of their way, but I feared that they might have. It was several hundred strong. I encountered that never-ending road as I was making my way back home later that same evening.

The fear of that crowd is still with me today. I was battling the things in my head, all my ghosts and ghoulies and beasties and demons, but to be encountered by a rally in the flesh was something else entirely. It made all my nightmares real. I think it was simply a case of bad timing. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. The last thing a White Lives Matter movement wants to see is a black man prancing towards them as if he owns the place, which is the way I usually walk (like a Millwall fan); things just developed in such a way that they decided to pick on me and chase me. If I hadn’t of hurried up and got a wriggle on and actually being caught by them then things could have ended up a lot worse off for myself personally. I could have been badly beaten at the very least and maybe even something worse. I consider it a close scrape with vigilante law but it hasn’t dampened my enthusiasm or passion for the town, it was just one of those things and as I say bad timing.

 

Wednesday 13 March 2024

Granite

Hi White Voider, hope all well. My week has started off okay, I was busy all yesterday and early to bed, after a group about the meaninglessness and monotony of recovery. That means that things get boring when they are going well and you are following a routine. A little voice inside your head just wants to smash the routine to smithereens and get high. It’s a godsend in a way, routine, it keeps us grounded and humble and active and engaged and maintains that workaholic mindset, which is healthy, but in another way it’s tame, tedious and tiresome. Geben mir some cocaine!!!

I’m actually having second thoughts about using on payday. I’ve had too long to think about it, and the cons are settling in. The cons far override the pros. One’s a long list and the other is just a few bullet points. I’ve got them all stuck onto my fridge. The only thing to do is wait and see how I feel on payday. There’s no way of telling what I might or might not do until the funds are actually in the bank. Then it’s fire tonight time!

Been reading about David Harewood a bit, about the terrific life he’s had as displayed in the book. Flying into different cities around the globe to do theatre with other actors he loves and all. It would be a quite a thing wouldn’t it, that? I worked with my best mate for 18 months fitting granite worktops in celebrities’ houses. It was a special time of my life as I was genuinely happy. It makes a hell of a difference if you are working with your mates and people you love as opposed to mundane humdrum work colleagues. A work colleague means nothing to anyone, he’s just another bum in a job who you are forced to spend 8 hours a day with. Working with your bessie however means howling with laughter from the first bell at 8am, all the way through till half four. We had such a giggle all day long, I didn’t smoke at the time but they were getting stoned on the job and everything. We called a spliff a ‘doobie.’ We used to verbally commentate on everything we were doing, it was dead funny, just talk talk talk talk talk. The granite was exceptionally heavy (I couldn’t lift it now), but we were all big and strong so it didn’t matter so much. The island pieces in kitchens were ridiculously weighty, the strain on the lower back was tremendous. And try lugging a 2 metre length up three flights of stairs for a living! One time I smashed all the granite because it was tied up incorrectly and I took a turn too fast, another time I crashed the van into a lamppost, it was all going on. My bessie pissed himself when I crashed that van into a lamppost, I rang the boss instantly and told him what had happened. It was in the morning so he was flapping all day until he could see the damage in the afternoon. Fortunately it wasn’t that bad so there was no big issue. Maybe more about my granite fixing days another time, there’s loads of memories there. Chill out for now x

 

Sunday 10 March 2024

Nothing To Say

Howdy there fellow revellers in this continual procession which is life. How is the world treating you? I was so bored yesterday that I went to bed at 4pm in the afternoon. This is happening more and more, this early to bed lark, and I seem powerless to stop it. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not hating it as I used to, I’m not depressed about it like I used to be, it’s just one of those things which I’m rolling along with. It could be worse; I could be locked up in a mental unit, or have no arms or legs, or be in a war zone. I’m just waiting for payday, which isn’t until next week, so I’ve got a long time to suffer brassic-ness yet. They may as well pay me in cocaine at the moment; that seems to be all I need. That, and a few meals and drinks in the pub. Unfortunately, I can’t afford both. What would you rather have?

The facilitator in Peer Support group told me off the other day for glorifying drugs. That’s a rule in Pathways (Change Grow Live): No Glorification. The saying goes that if it was all that good, then none of us would be sat here in recovery, and wishing we weren’t. I thought therapy would be like that, talking about all the good times, but apparently it’s verboten (forbidden). Who doesn’t like a decent warts ‘n’ all yarn about alcoholism and drug addiction? One time I fell asleep with my electric blanket cranked up all night after downing a bottle of whiskey, I was so dehydrated in the morning, I felt like I’d been cooked alive, only bacon butties and pop can help a situation like that.

I described snorting coke as like eucalyptus on the brain, and got told off. I was just been honest. On the other hand, drug taking is seedy and dark and nasty, with nothing positive about it whatsoever. The dealers are vermin to some, flooding our streets with poison and enslaving millions of young people by stealing away their free will and future. I know a guy in recovery, right, he’s about 16 years clean, I call him The Sheriff because he’s The Sheriff of Recovery; anyway, he says that all he would do with a bag of beak is spit on it. I wish I was like that. At the moment, I want to indulge in fat white stripes and watch porn on it. Wild, isn’t it, how two minds can vary? I went six months without it last year, I was doing really well, but I was using amphet in the meantime.

I remember the kidney pain I had towards the end of last summer, possibly through the phet use. Wow, that was ever-so bad. I couldn’t stand up, couldn’t sit down, couldn’t lie, couldn’t do nothing. It was atrocious. I was just squirming around, like an eel lying on hot drawing pins. Thanks be to God that he took that pain away from me, and hasn’t returned it since. I really don’t miss the phet at the moment. The dehydration is insane when you go into the sexual trances I enter, and it messes with your mental health something chronic. So bollocks to that happy crappy – at least until my dealer gets out of prison! Right then, okay, I’m off for a couple of pints in the pub, then it’s off home to enjoy some chicken in white sauce and rice! And bed early – again…

Apologies if it feels like I’m glorifying drugs here at the blogspot. That’s not my intention. I wouldn’t wish them on my son, and if they happened to him I’d tell him to simply enjoy. We can’t all have careers and families and other saving quantities in our lives, can we, so we ourselves, and both the godless, turn to drugs. I’m misshaping my beliefs around them at the moment, I believe that they may be just harmless comfort for the vulnerable. Probably wrong there like! The stuff we tell ourselves!

 

Saturday 9 March 2024

Patiently Waiting

Antonia bought me a few drinks yesterday, which I am grateful for. On the way home I purchased 3 tins of super-strength and by the time I was in bed I was throwing my guts up. So super-strength goes out the window from here on in. I’ve just been to AA, a guy named Luke who I bought crack with the other summer has some powerful shares up his sleeve. He said he died for four minutes the other week once he relapsed after 64 days clean. He said his life hinges on drink, drugs, gambling, and committing crime to sustain those. He said he put on a corona virus mask, stormed into Sainsburys, and robbed a Henry the Hoover which he sold for £50. Lol! I wish I had that kind of criminal endeavour to fund my now-back-again coke addiction. If I could steal, I would, because the porn and coke have really got a grip of me again. I hate to say that with God and Love firmly planted in my arsenal, but it’s true, I’ve let some new pornographic actresses back into my consciousness, and I’m not quite ready to snap the disc up yet. I want some more time with her. I’ll have to be patient and wait until payday, which is over a week away. The stopgap can’t pass quickly enough. In the meantime I will have to meditate upon God’s love and try and develop perseverance and compassionate patience until I can rock out with my cock out and enjoy myself again, with no element of embarrassment whatsoever.

I’ll be going to church tomorrow, to sing songs praising God, and meeting up with some of the powerful Christian families who attend there. It’s nice and pleasant and easy-going. The problem is filling time in the afternoons and evenings. I don’t watch television, it’s been over two years now, and I suppose I do really miss chilling out in front of the mind-controlling idiot box a lot. Those celebrities we let into our living rooms night after night are super-influential. I could watch them all day, they are quite something special. Their personalities, their charisma, their likeability, that’s why they are celebrities. I like the chefs like Brian Turner and Gordon Ramsey and Gregg Wallace, also atheists like Richard Dawking and Ricky Gervais and Stephen Fry. All these kinds of people figure in my psychosis, I was having conversations with them the other day. Celebrity culture is a popular delusion, I’ve heard testimonies from other targeted individuals who report to having heard famous people talking to them; I know it can’t really be them, but their voices and identities are so clear and vivid, it seems ever-so real and true at the time. The next day, after a much-needed decent revitalising catch-up sleep, it all feels like a false dream. The most excruciating aspect about the psychosis racket is being unsure, and not knowing fully for certain what the blistering barnacles is going on. Keep on taking care of yourselves, don’t be acting a fool like I am, and I’ll be back soon.

 

 

Thursday 7 March 2024

Another Blip

Well, the shit has not quite hit the proverbial fan yet, but it’s blowing in the right direction. I’ve almost skinted myself on cocaine use. I got paid for two weeks and had a blowout on the first day with a porn girl called Kacie who was busy gobbling big black men all night. I’ve sacrificed two weeks of my life for one night spent with her. I knew what I was doing, it was what I wanted. We had a sexy horny connection across the airwaves. But, now that it’s over, I wish I’d have resisted so I could do normal things, like eating meals in pubs. Life is crap with no doe.

The beak was good and I had a whale of a time, at the time. Now I’m pondering food banks. I just want my money back. If, over the last week and a half, it could be restored, I’d have over £800 in the bank. Instead, I’ve got eighty notes in my pocket. I’ve got to negotiate my way through the next two weeks on the breadline. It’s going to be tough, because I’ve been the pub already for a couple of pints. When I’ve got money, a pint just seems like a glass full of gassy nonsense; but when I’m skint it seems like the amber nectar. I’ll survive, I always have done, but it’s no fun.

Now I’m in what feels like a wasteland for the next twelve days. The good thing is that I won’t be using, because I can’t afford it. My speed dealer is banged up, so that’s off the menu. Good riddance to him, with no offence ingratiated. The wrong people (dealers) still keep appearing up ahead of the path I am on. If it wasn’t for them, I’d be clean, serene, pristine, and supreme. As I will get back to, eventually. It’s all about keeping patient and waiting for God to weave his magic wonders. I have a loan in the balance which I’m still waiting for, they received my application but didn’t give me a decision. I’ll have to ring them up, because it would really help me out if they could send it late.

Apart from all this I am fine. I got into a spot of bother with the psychosis when I, while in a drug induced trance, thought there was somebody in my property trying to kidnap me, but I snapped out of it and started reading the bible. It spoke to me like never before, I believe the words can change in it, depending upon your mood and consciousness. That’s why they call it The Living Word. From what I gathered, God can forgive porn and drug addiction. He’s much more inclined to wrap up our fallacies with love and compassion. As long as we keep the faith in His Son Christ Jesus and continue to try and improve in our alignment with his will. See you next time, keep fighting the good fight.

 

 

Friday 1 March 2024

Shelf Kit

Not sure what to bang on about today. The world is at my fingertips and all the subjects in it but my brain feels like a closed-down pea. Why isn’t anything exciting going on, to prevent me from using? Where’s the family and the career and the sports car? Nowhere to be seen, that’s where. I have nieces and nephews but I don’t see them often enough. It would be nice to mess around with them a bit more, to fondle and cuddle their precious little imaginations. I’m out of pocket thanks to my latest coca binge, it’s one of the worst things about it. I had a full day of psychosis too, which is always about as welcome as getting kicked in the ghoulies by a pair of lead wellies, or a transorbital lobotomy performed in freezing conditions.

Pulling myself back up onto my feet, slowly, and trying to be active. Although I said that the last batch of porn I watched was rubbish, the actresses are still calling to me, asking me to give them a second chance. The shitty thing is that I am already thinking about it again. The more you use, the more you want to use, and the longer you leave it, the easier, in a way, it gets. I don’t know – it’s a bloody nightmare isn’t it? Why does porn have to exist? And Class A substances? I wouldn’t wish them on my son. If they claimed a part of his life, what would I say to him? I’d tell him to just ride it out and not to beat himself up about it. I’d want him to enjoy it, if he absolutely had to, and never to cry.

I’d want my son to have a shelf kit; that much is for certain. A shelf kit is my invention. Basically, it’s just a collection of confectionery on a shelf. I had a mint one going on last year during my time behind hospital bars. It grew to a considerable size. I even had some rules around ‘Shelf Kit’, which I’ve now forgotten because I ate it all in the end. The main gist though is to collect the sentimental chocolates and sweets from childhood, and use them as your building blocks to accrue other confectionery, governed by the principles of your choice. You might want all the versions of one chocolate, for example, or you may want to promote novelty items. The preference is completely up to you. You choose a single shelf fashioned from the many thousands and thousands of products out there, and you stand by it. I used to analyse my shelf kit and talk to myself about it, about why a certain item has made it in and others haven’t. It passes time greatly when you’re locked up, and it’s a good Willy Wonka feature to any loving household. The hard thing is not munching on it, but having it as a visual component alone. Why? Because it’s ‘Shelf Kit.’

Just to add, I’m really happy to be able to be in a position to promote this blog to you, my personal and unique White Voider. I have my troubles, as you are well aware, but at the moment I am incredibly grateful to be alive. This comes after attempted suicide. After that, the world takes on a special hue. I’ve stared death in the face multiple times, and I always come through. In a way, I’m overjoyed to be here with you, sharing the secrets of my spirit. My soul at times feels rhapsodic and deliriously blissful to be partaking in this universal parade of life, with all its happenstance and sovereign synchronicity. Thanks be to you. May all the loving peace of Christ Jesus be eternally present in your dealings. I mean that from the very bottom of my heart. So long for now.

https://piebald77.blogspot.com/2017/07/suicide-sequel.html 

Thursday 29 February 2024

Lapse

Just to get it out of the way, I’ve experienced a lapse on the porn and coke. I’m not crying over spilled milk, however, and jumping straight back into the saddle. I don’t know what happened, one minute I was happy eating a mixed grill in the pub, and the next moment I was in the loop shop perusing the DVDs. Without thinking too much about it I purchased 3 for £60, then went home, neglecting my scheduled art class, and scored. The porn was absolutely rubbish and I woke up today wanting to stay in bed with half a tear in my eye. Those familiar waves of depression started to try and roll over me but I nipped them in the bud double-smart quick-time and got myself out to a therapy group. As of now, I am extremely disappointed but refusing to get down about it. I’m not saying that I don’t have a conscience; regret and shame and guilt are never very far away, rumbling around in the deep chambers of the psyche, but I humbly deny and refute the effects which arise from wallowing in that melee of self-pity and doubt.

I still have my Love and God. These are absolutely imperative to my survival at the moment. I’ve only just discovered them. I’m an infant Christian, and succeeding at recovery can take many years. Not everybody does it, this ‘disease’, as they call it, steals and claims many lives. I’m thankful to be here and still be breathing. Breathing is the main part. The trick is to keep doing it. Plus, I have issues now with even calling myself an addict. So many addicts self-define themselves by that very title. I’m not a straight-head all the time, so what? Who doesn’t like getting off their tits now and again? It might be in my nature to embark on sprees of self-ruin; I might have that addictive self-destructive gene that is super almost impossible to shake off. But I will NEVER give up trying. Like I was saying, it’s just a case of getting straight back into the saddle and politely asking God for forgiveness before starting all over again.

“Dear God, please forgive me of my sins. It is not me who commits them, but the sinful members which live within me. I believe that Jesus Christ is your Son and that you raised him from the dead. I believe I am a good person aside from my addiction. And I believe that you will restore me to sanity in your own time. Amen.”

Thanks for sticking with me throughout this crippling affliction. I hope I’ve not depressed you too much. On a brighter note, I’m back in the dating game and batting the birds away. I’m about to have a drink with Antonia again, and I had Vicky around the other day. I’m realistically confident about beating this addiction foe one day very soon, everybody I’ve met says it takes time, so I’ll stick to my guns and not give up. All the very best, A.

 

Sunday 25 February 2024

Fight With A Slug In Bed

Good morning, afternoon, evening, or whatever time it is at your end. Maybe you are cocooned within the dark recesses of the night, and you are taking a peek while snacking at the fridge. What are you eating, chilled chicken skewers or Babybels or something? Maybe you are on the bus or train. Maybe just monged out on the sofa. I’m hopeless at guessing what you’re doing. Maybe you are watching Gothika (2003), immersed in the bit when the guy from Alien 3 (1992), throws water over Halle Berry’s reflection, and then asks her what she sees in the distorted mirror image. That’s a giant moment in all of movie history for me. Robert Downey Junior was in it, before he became known as Iron Man. In Gothika, while escaping from a padded cell after having worked there previously as a psychiatrist, Halle takes a burly security guard off his feet with a shoulder barge. That scene reminds me of pregnant women lifting cars off their children and stuff. Mothers have insane strength at times, don’t they? What is it with the bamboozling strength of mothers!?

Just been for a couple of pints with whiskey chasers, to warm myself up for this. Sometimes I like the booze after I’ve blogged, other times before, to galvanise those creative juices. Twenty or so hits overnight is a good result these days. I was getting thousands of hits over the summer, and that has really motivated me. I felt up there chumming around with the big writers who have readerships, although it can’t compete with Facebook, in a way. If you have 5000 friends on Facebook (the limit), and you post a status, then you have just published some writing to 5000 people in the click of a button. That’s radical. I miss Facebook.

I’m hoping that blogging is more personal. I don’t care about the five thousand that Jesus didn’t feed, I care about The One, about you. You know who you are. Keep reading, and I’ll keep you. I’ll big you up, tell you how wonderful you are, plus I’ll awfully mean it as well. You can’t get this anywhere else.

You. Are. Awesome. And so am I. Just saying. “Am I right or am I right?” as my mentor used to say. Come on, “Am I right or am I right?”

Apologies for being cheesy. It’s just the mood I’m in. I was going to write about a fight with a giant slug on a bed, but I’ve almost run out of time. I got the idea from church today. The Pastor said that there’s a Christian Retreat coming up later in the year. I thought wow, excellent, I wish it was a lot sooner than October. And then I remembered the last retreat I went on. It was at some kind of hall far up north. If I wasn’t running out of time I’d tell you about what happened there, late one evening. Maybe, if you inbox me politely, I’ll tell you all about it next time, in confidence. A fight with a giant slug on a bed, what can be more exciting than that?

Oh go on then, you’ve twisted my arm, I can’t wait, I’ll spill the beans now. Basically, a giant black slug materialised in my bed at night time and started to batter me. Quickly, I had to keep from being decompressed by it. It was decompressing me! Contorting me, squeezing me, wrapping me up. I was being suffocated and everything. It was so heavy, just spreading its weight about over my body. I felt flattened by something semi-invisible. This thing is crushing me all over, I thought. It had hold of my hands, my every nerve. In the end, I had to stab it with its own pointed tail. But the effort required! Wow! There was something scorpion-esque about the thing. It was about the same size as me, and when it popped, as it did pop, popped with an anti-inflatable hiss, an explosive report, like a sibilant catcall of death, I rolled onto the floor and off the bed in sweet relief, as if I’d just been released from a torture chamber, away from Freddy Kruegar with hot gloves on. I’d stabbed the basta*d! And with part of its own anatomy! Have that, slug! That’s it, in essence, now why doesn’t Hollywood go and make a movie of it? 100% true, no psychosis liberties taken.  

 

Saturday 24 February 2024

Dancing

After my usual dose of Pathways (the drug clinic), Library (for blogging), and Pause (mental health drop in), I went to the pub yesterday. I met up with Tom and his girlfriend, a recently-housed ex-homeless couple who had been living in a tent. I lived with Tom on what we called ‘The Step’ the other summer. As you’ve probably already guessed, ‘The Step’ is just a step by the local Masonic hall. Quite a few of the town’s homeless used to gather there; there was usually a dollop of camaraderie involved in proceedings. One morning I remember watching a man searching for crumbs in his sleeping bag to go on his crack pipe and I recall thinking,I wish he had more of that stuff, he deserves it.” I felt really sorry for him because he was scrimping and scraping around for a few measly specks. Nothing in the world should be so precious to a man. Incidentally, I borrowed him a fiver and he hasn’t paid me back since.

Me and Tom got talking about ideas for my new book, about psychosis. I mentioned Octo-Dick the other day. My second character has a problem with eating pizza. Because she hears voices, she can never decide which flavour to buy. She wants one variety, the voices want another. I think she has a friend who always eats The Voices’ Pizza. Tom suggested it would be interesting to do part of the story from the pizza’s perspective. Rose at poetry group last month performed a poem where the perspective was from that of a sofa, so I’m slightly intrigued by this tip.

Antonia was in the pub. We moved our chairs around the one table. She was the woman who did my head in a month or so ago because she wouldn’t shut up talking with a man named Mark who had a frothy mouth because he was on cocaine. I made a conscious effort to be extra-friendly to her this time around. Sooner rather than later we were holding hands and then the next thing you know we kissed. I don’t often kiss women that often, so it was kind of a big thing. Just several nights earlier I was kissing sexy women in a dream, so it was quite strange how it panned out. Antonia is disabled, she uses a crutch to walk, but she’s not a bad looking broad. She is no match however for the erotic astral plain (I don’t think anyone is, for that matter). Anyway, not two seconds after our lips parted, this Mister Man hotshot kind of guy walks in claiming to be her boyfriend and she kisses him on the lips too! I took him aside when we were smoking out of the doorway and said, “Listen mate, brothers first, okay? Your girlfriend in there just kissed me on the lips. I’m just letting you know because I wanted you to hear it from me first.” He ended up being sound about it and bought me a drink.

I now made a conscious effort to not totally ignore her but to leave her mostly alone for the rest of the night. She kept trying to kiss me in front of him though! I wouldn’t have none of it. I respected him more than her all of a sudden. He even gave me a twenty deck of imported ciggies for nothing, which I shared with Tom. I spent £50 on drinks throughout the duration of the evening, and didn’t get in until well after midnight. One thing I still can’t believe is the fact that I was dancing, however. I haven’t danced in a pub or club for years and years. Just like when you’re smiling, dance and the world dances with you. At one point there was just me and this dude on the dance floor (of sorts), throwing shapes at each other. I did feel a tad gay at this interlude, but mainly enjoyed myself and had loads of fun. It was great to be out (and dancing), with some company for a change, instead of just sat on my own in a corner as a spectator.

 

Friday 23 February 2024

Adult Demonesses

Yo there fellow White Voider. I’d like to celebrate today having been away from Internet Pornography for over two years. Wow. What a relief. I was hung up on the interracial gangbangers ever since I first got the web, aged 29 years of age. I class that as coming to the tossernet quite late in life, considering that now children have access to interracial gangbanging content at their fingertips virtually straight from the womb. As Cradle of Filth would say, From the cradle to enslave.” Love it.

Before the web, I was buying porn like a real man from another real man in a real shop. Admittedly, I’ve still been doing that sporadically since I stopped my web addiction. It’s been roughly 4 months since I’ve been to the shop. I call it the loop shop, because I’m always there at different phases throughout my life. I used to fantasise about working there, with all those walls full of DVDs at my mercy. Now, I can hardly think of anything worse.

Something supernatural happens when I get high and watch porn. The only way to put it is that the Devil usurps all the actresses. Usurp means to take possession of. They begin talking to me, as though it’s a livestream, and pointing at me and waving and crap. Because the drugs make me stupid and put me into a trance, they ask me to spell words like Pinocchio and Aberystwyth, words I am usually familiar with. They make me look stupid (I’m the first to admit that I am when I do that). Then they get wicked and cruel about it, demanding and dominating, before saying things like they are locked away in chambers underneath my floorboards and that they’re going to hurt me when they escape. Because of the elasticity of the brain on drugs, I believe (at the time) everything they say to me. I fall into the Devil’s trap before being swallowed hook, line and sinker. It turns me on, women being cruel to me, in a kind of role-play reversal game. I can’t get enough of it! Then I take even more drugs to suspend the fantasy, to keep it air-locked somehow, so that it takes hours and hours to go away. And then when I stop they are still chatting bubbles, so that forces me to drink spirits and Go Kongers. I call getting pissed these days Going Kongers, because I think about the end of King Kong whenever I get emotional. It can even make me slightly weepy.

When I pull my eyes away from the porn stars, they go wild, acting like fevered puppets, until they can get my attention again. They really value attention from yours truly, it has to be said. Sometimes I’ll take one eye away from them just to see how they’ll react. It encourages them. They lick and slurp and suck more enthusiastically. It drives them barmy mad when I don’t look at them properly. They insist on steady eye contact in exchange for rewards which ultimately takes all my energy and power away from me. A reward might be an extra suck on the dude’s todger, or showing a little more boob, or something seedy like that, but I’m all for it at the time, in the heat of passion these little interactive rewards drive me insane with heated, frenzied lust. Love it in a way:  Hate it in another. 

 

Thursday 22 February 2024

Sharing

I think it was Amy who mentioned at Breakfast Club yesterday, “What the hell is there to share different every day? I woke up, I scratched my arse, I ate some beans…” She was on about the fellowship of NA (Narcotics Anonymous). I heard a lame share in AA later that afternoon, no blood ‘n’ warts ‘n’ all if you know what I mean. Some people never or can’t shut up, they are sharing all the time, it’s quite rare to hear an effective share though. Some, by when their time is up, are still only 16 years old. I suppose going through your life story isn’t easy. I can’t knock it because I haven’t done it myself. They say you should be two years clean before you start doing main shares. Mine would primarily be about porn and psychosis, other than drugs, if I were ever to do one.

Public speaking is hard enough, but to publicly speak about something extremely personal to you as well…that’s doubly difficult. A decent main share I heard several weeks back was by a guy named Glyn. The best part was when he said his mum held a knife to his throat over his crippling addiction. I mean, I don’t get on the best with my mother, but holding a knife to your son’s throat! Lol! Can you imagine!? If my mum ever did that to me, I’d take the knife away from her, and then batter her. Seriously, I’d batter me mam if she did that!

How would you share the story of your life? Would you waffle on about the benefits of the program or really get into the nitty-gritty of exactly what circumstances have formed and shaped you into the person you are today? It’s the latter for me, I wouldn’t sugar-coat any of it with how good The Big Book has been. The Big Book is like the addict’s bible, it was written by a couple of drunks called Bill & Bob. It’s very well written, I’ll give them that, but, for me, there’s only one book needed in a time of crisis, and that’s the Holy Bible. Correct me if I’m wrong. I can’t find the time to read anything else at the minute. I’ve got a book personally signed to me from my favourite teacher which I need to read, but my nose is busy being buried inside the bible. Billy Connolly said never trust anyone who’s only ever read one book, but it’s true, it most honestly and assuredly is the only book a Christian ever needs. I’m reading just a snippet every other day and it’s making a change in my life. I have goals of upping my reading game, and setting at least an hour apart a day for just that. One time, I read Shutter Island in a single sitting. It took 7 hours. That was after watching the movie, so Leonardo DiCaprio, Mark Ruffalo (The Hulk), and Michelle Williams were firmly implanted in my mind. I find it a lot easier and better to read a book with the characters from that book’s movie already established in your mind.

 

Wednesday 21 February 2024

Speed Vs Coke

I’m listening to my favourite love song, by Texas. It makes me think of a mentally ill woman locked up in a padded cell. She is sat on the floor, all on her own, tapping her feet. Her name is Air Monroe. Air was one of my main characters in my early fiction. She was one of three leads in my first doorstop novel. When I get RARE (abstained from drugs and porn), I see her quite candidly in my mind’s eye more often. She’s on a spaceship, in a cryogenics chamber, with her twin sister. I’m at the controls cabinet, torn between who to enliven. I can’t decide between them, and I can’t reason if it’s the correct idea to bring any of them out of stasis. I’m all alone too on my spaceship, I need some company, but they are so peaceful resting…

There’s this grand post in the sky, right, in my mind, and she hangs off it shouting all the time. When she isn’t shouting she is looking proud and confident. This is up by the sun. I’m 50% RARE at the moment, or just over, weighing in at 16 Days clean. I’ll always be honest here at the blogspot, my honesty crucifies my soul at times, but it is the only way to be. I must seem up and down from a reader’s perspective, never hanging around in the RARE for very long, but believe me I want to change that. And, if I fail, then God and Love will have my back.

I’m quite tempted by the loop shop atm. It sells three interracial titles for £50. To compliment that would either be thirty squids worth of amphet or a Big Dog of Dynamite off the Dino Smasher. A Big Dog of Dynamite costs £240. That’s a weekend vacation in Europe. Yeah right, if only I had a passport. But you know what I mean. Drug of choice, definitely the beak. It’s just bang bang bang, up up up, pulse pulse pulse. Whereas with the speed, it’s just one warm up drop, and then a big drop. That’s how I do it. That second drop really takes you somewhere, though, it wipes you off the grid. I call it Going Into the Blue. When you’ve had too much, when you’ve drunk too much, what do you call it? Thrashed, zonked or blotto? Pickled, sloshed, smashed? Dino Smasher says he’s on the smash again, and has been for two weeks.

GK Chesterton said that unless you are free to destroy yourself, you may as well be a dog. The only light I see by these days is the glow of the burning bridges I have left sprawled behind me. I totally understand his viewpoint. But you have to take this into effect too: Your body is a Holy Temple, it was bought at a price, it does not belong to you. So, should we look after ourselves soundly, or piss our lives up the wall? Sorry, I don’t intend to get philosophical (although it’s nice to). Anyway, that’s it for now. Ta’ra.

 

Sunday 18 February 2024

Octo

It’s great to be with you today. I feel encouraged by your presence. Your grace fills me with the intoxicating energy to do better with myself. I’ve been thinking about the pornography shop in Liverpool, about how cosy it would be to frequent their premises and buy 3 interracial titles for £50, before seeing my drug dealer. Then I could, you know, speed out on it, soaking up all the veiny penises and smooth bare female breasts, being spilled all over.

“He pulled her knickers to one side with his teeth, then posted that motherf*cker home…”

Sorry. I’m in a rude mood. My next book will include a character with 8 phalluses, what do you expect? Yes, that’s a leak there. His nickname is Octo-Dick. I’m just not sure whether to put in the hyphen or not. What looks better in print, OctoDick or Octo-dick? Uppercase or lower? These are confusing times.

Seriously, hope you’re well there. This blog is not about me, it’s about you. BLOG SPEAKING: “I’ll be here long after my author.” AUTHOR SPEAKING: “I created you, don’t get ahead of yourself.” This is like AI, isn’t it? Where does AI come from? It comes from the residual self. I know a guy named Pete who’s just got an instillation of artwork in the local library where I write. It’s AI photography, which means that the computer throws one up with suggestion. Honestly, I don’t know if there is a camera involved or what. The effect is pretty impressive, although far from heavenly vistas and paradisiacal panoramas, it is mostly people sat around in offices looking bored. Beautiful, though, isn’t it? You can have anything in the realm of Google images (limitless), but Pete wants someone looking bored in an office. Personally, lately, I prefer Bing images.

Back to Octo. Yep, he’s got 8 dicks. I’ve got about half a dozen shags he’s lined up. I’ll list them here or you. The first one is Emily Van Camp from Everwood and Revenge. The second one is Vera Famiga from Running Scared and Source Code. The third one is Scarlett Johansson from Lucy and Black Widow. Here’s where my memory runs out. The fourth, I think, is Clare Danes, from U-Turn and Homeland. The fifth is Chloe Grace Moretz, from Kick-Ass and the Carrie remake. Finally, we have Marisa Tomei, from The Wrestler and Spiderman. That’s all I’ve got in the locker right now, but if I didn’t write this blog, then I don’t think I would have even remembered them lot even so far. It’s nice to keep notes online. I get ahead of myself that way. Aren’t these characters, so far, magnificent though? So bloody fit and sexy and cute and pretty. Inspiring, too. They are genuinely inspirational. These are the bunch of celebs my boy Octodick wants to get himself stuffed into, throbbing at the tip and spewing from the middle. Suck on, lick on, spill the beans, up the Red Rum and no harm done. Do you know what I’m saying to yous though, do yous really? Come on, get with the program. This is OctoDick! My new character…