Pad Workout

 I’m kind of training again. (The way I feel, there’s no kind of about it.) Yep, my muscles are aching. I feel like I’ve done an exhaustive chest workout by doing 35 press-ups off the edge of my bed. It is quite sore, just the feeling I’m after. I started on Wednesday, it’ll be my third pad workout (pad means jail cell) on the trot later this afternoon. I’m hesitant about joining a gym until my pad workouts are consistent. They’ll give me a little platform to build upon. Plus, pad workouts are pure G-Unit.

I spent £35 on Creatine powder and Glutamine tablets. Holland & Barrett didn’t sell the Glutamine powder. The tabs will have to do. I call these two supplements a natural course. I can gain roughly six or more pounds from the associated water retention. Eventually, I do want a shot of test in my arse, I just don’t know how or when. As I get older, perhaps. If it is good enough to keep Rocky out of Australia, it is good enough for me.

Now I need a good protein shake. (It is expensive getting back into shape, but still an ample amount cheaper than Class A substances.) It pays to spend well on protein, as the cheap stuff is weak and blobby as it doesn’t mix very well because you need 6 scoops of it. With the quality shakes, just 2 scoops will see it thick and tasty. My only problem is that I don’t use my fridge because my electric meter is faulty, so I won’t be able to have them whenever I want. I’ll have to buy milk from the shop and make a shake right away while it is still cold. When I had a working fridge (Damn you Southern Electric!), I would put them in the freezer for half an hour, until they were a bit icy, then take it to the gym with me. By the time I finished my workout, 45 minutes later, the drink would still be nice and chilled.

I’m hoping they sell shakes in the gym I join, so I can have one on the way out, but I doubt it. Immediately after working out is the best window for nutrient intake, and I’m used to a semi-icy shake and a protein bar. Now it might have to be a bagel and some bananas. I’ll find a way to get massive and huge, trust me. Where there’s a will there’s phat muscles.

I’m hoping my muscle memory will kick in and activate ASAP. MM is basically your muscles remembering how big they were once and getting there faster the second time after shrinkage. Gains can come breakneck when you train smart. ATM I’m doing plenty of stretching and posing, trying to get limber and flexible. It is not feasible to get lumpy and tonky all over as I’m not a professional bodybuilder tanked up on juice (no offence); I do however want to improve my mind-muscle connection and own the shape God has given me. Like Arnold said in Pumping Iron (1977), the pump is better than sex. I’ll be looking into asking my neighbour to purchase me some Nitric oxide off ebay soon as well. Have I spelt that right? Isn’t that what they put in cars? I’ve only ever tried it once but the pump from it was very noticeable.

My bubble gut is a problem, but power lifters have bellies and they still look strong and powerful, so it is not too ego-deflating. I’m still learning to love myself and that means being happy with my body too. Christ, listen to me. Next I’ll be banging on about getting some of Rylan’s Colgate powers (white teeth). £2000 roundtrip to a Turkey dentist please…

The last time I joined a gym, it shut down the next day thanks to Covid. That was the last gym session I ever had. I did it back at Walter O’Malley’s oldskool hardcore gym here in the town of Warrington, NW England, between Liverpool and Manchester. I’m hoping that very soon this will change and I’ll be deadlifting like a maniac any day next week. Deadlifting is a monster exercise for me, I grow like a python who has just swallowed a cow. The hard movements really separate the men from the boys, especially legs. I hope to be squatting and leg-pressing my way to glory in around the same timeframe. Please wish me luck. A simple quick prayer or two would be greatly appreciated. As always, thanks, and keep coming back. I’ll be here for as long  as possible x

RARE

There’s a place in my head that’s a better place, a happier place. I call it The Rarefied Atmosphere, or, rather being RARE. I’ve known about this place for about 15 years. All it takes as qualification to get there is abstinence from drugs, pornography and fapping for a set relative timescale. At the moment, I’m halfway there. So I’m 50% RARE.

Addiction has a shape for me and it is a triangle. A triangle has three sides, right? Then drugs are one side, porn is another, and fapping is the remaining side. Together, when housing myself who is trapped hopelessly inside, they form a formidable trap. It can be nigh on impossible to break out. I am powerless over my addiction…

It feels dangerous writing this in case I slip up making it look like a stupid game. The heart of the matter is that it is actually life or death, physically and spiritually. Now that I’ve published it online makes it all the more serious. To be honest, it’s been the biggest thing in my life ever since its inception. Very rarely am I am able to admit to this with such a level of honesty. This is the first time since never.

50% RARE feels great. I’m more confident, more chatty, it’s like been on crack. Imagine what it feels like to be floating around in The Rarefied Atmosphere? Life is amazing there. It is totally different. The way I wake up, my head, how I perceive God’s glorious green Earth. Wow. Take me there. My own special place which I created all by myself, which no one can ever trespass in or take away. I can face anyone or anything when I’m RARE.

You can throw in your hate campaigns, your psychotronic weaponry, your gang-stalking, your spy satellites, and your psychosis as much as you like. I’m living and I’m happy and I’m getting over my faults and that’s all that matters. Hell, you may even see me back in the gym again.

I don’t care that I’m black (unashamedly), that I’m poor (not that poor), or that I’m anything else negative you can think of. It just gives me an inner peace which can’t be bought for all the money in the world. Literally nothing can compete with it. Why? Because it is head space, and the whole world is a state of mind.

(Have you seen the song State of Mind by Holly Valance? It’s a great little dance number. Wasn’t she in Hollyoaks? I met Rebecca from Hollyoaks in Liverpool once in a coffee shop entrance. I marked the occasion by complimenting her on the role she was playing at the time. It affected me quite a bit because of the similarities between that and my first crush with a teacher. It was tragic and beautiful, that role with Justin. A word needed to be had.)

To cement my dedication to RARITY I’ve made a pact with an angel called Prue who takes the form of a young Chinese girl. This has involved snapping some discs and deleting some numbers. Sounds easy, but it is not. You are effectively wiping out your history and everything else who you have become. It is overhauling your lifestyle.

I said I’ll start to write about my angels/guides/imaginary friends in good time and I probably will do, just to prove to you lot how mental I am. Only mental people are welcome here, I’ve just decided. Addicts or mentals or ex-porn actresses. I’m not fussy – there’s obviously something not quite straight about you or you wouldn’t be here, would you? Don’t worry, that’s the way I like you. Until next time, keep coming back x 

Mountain Walk

Howdy there, I pray that this reaches you in positive spirits. I am okay apart from aching lower limbs due to climbing a Welsh mountain the other day. You wouldn’t have fared well if you’re afraid of heights. The views were truly beautiful and there were even wild horses which belonged in some fairy tale nirvana scene. I was worried because, living on top of a mountain, they had no shelter.

There was a slight gradient (just a bit) and I swore to myself that there would be no more walking up mountains. I prefer flat walking because the lower limbs don’t ache but the only thing is that you don’t get the accompanying breath-taking views and panoramic vistas. It is immensely satisfying once done and one is blessed with a sense of accomplishment when stopping for a bite of lunch at the peak of a summit (no litter please).

I would recommend mountain walking for a taste of something different and don’t worry I won’t fail to warn you about the pitfalls:

1.     1. Weather: It’s either too hot or too cold, get used to it.

2.     2. Luggage: I just don’t suit bags, I never have.

3.     3. Dinner: Isn’t there a shop around here?

4.     4. Litter: For Godsakes, throw it away.

5.     5. Vertigo: Shouldn’t there be a handrail here?

6.     6. Getting Lost: I’m physically fit, I shouldn’t fall behind.

7.     7. Wildlife: Do sheep charge when threatened?

8.     8. Toilet: Don’t worry, it is not too blowy.

At one point I was getting angry at the guide because he was getting addicted to all the highest points when I wanted the easy route. A walking stick may help but not me personally. I prefer to travel light.

They do say nature is great for the soul and I have to agree! Here’s to the next wonderful hike in sunny Wales! x

Celluloid Corridor

 Guest Blog by Stephen Kendrick

I’ve just destroyed my porn collection. I call it the Celluloid Corridor. I only had six DVDS this time. They were worth £100. Throughout my life, I must have eradicated them about seven or eight times. The first time was the biggest collection. We’re talking about 50 titles, most of them original. I burned them in the forest because I met a woman I loved. Her name is Bennie. She is still my artistic muse.

Every time I buy porn from the sex shop, I feel my Granddad in Heaven looking down with a frown upon his face.

I made eye contact when I met her in an art gallery and fell in love pronto. It was kinda preordained, because I’d wrote about lovers meeting in an art gallery way back when in college. The story was called Eternity. She’s blond with German heritage and she rides horses. That’ll do me.

Until I met her, the power porn had over me was hard to comprehend. It was my life. I never believed I’d ever meet someone. All of my feministic ideals were derived from the celluloid actresses I was salivating over on the silver screen. Bennie is prim and proper. She’s not working class like me.

In between the first destruction and the last eradication was made up of internet porn. As of now, I’ve not watched internet porn for about 2 years. I had to get rid of the net to get rid of internet porn. It was the only way for me. One night, when Bennie told me to, I put my laptop in the bath. There were about 27 hardcore internet videos on it. And that was that.

It’s difficult. The actresses call out to me like wolves from the other side of a valley. Until I incinerate the Celluloid Corridor, they are impossible to ignore. The temptation is too strong. They are too sexy and beautiful. When I wreck it, I feel instant relief wash over my soul.

Hopefully this time will be the last time. At the very least it buys me some time away from my crippling addiction, because it takes time to amass decent celluloid. I call the sex shop the ‘loop’ shop, because I’m in there every year or two. If I could predestine my son’s life, I would choose to keep him far away from the Celluloid Corridor. It’s just not a healthy place to occupy. Nothing wrong with it for some, like wedded couples behind closed doors for instance; but for me, a single man with an addictive personality, it is a no go.

My advice to you, if you are struggling with porn, is to destroy it every now and again. A good time to do this is when the novelty starts to wear off. When you introduce something new into your collection, it is probably going to batter you for a while. As soon as it starts to feel old, get rid. I promise, if you’ve never done this, the relief is sweet. You can start again at any time, but it is nice to give yourself a break.

Streaming is different, because you can’t get rid. I’ve never viewed porn on my phone, so I can’t comment. It was always a darkened room and a 40 inch TV for me, or my PC screen.

Good luck.

Hate Campaign

 This is for anyone specific who is going through a trial of hatred or smear. First rest assured that you are not alone. I’ve been through it all when it comes to gangstalking. What you need to do is go and see your doctor…

BULLSH*T! Doctor my arse. It’s so infuriating when people say that. I only hope that they don’t know what they are talking about, because if they truly understand and they are still recommending doctors then that would suggest they are quite cruel. This is a real world issue, not a heady one.

I’ll keep it short because I’ve written quite a bit about this going back some years ago. If you are new I’ll save you all of the codswallop about defence against this phenomenon. You can carry a camera around with you at all times if you want – a phone, for example – or you can decide to hold onto your love. Yes, that’s it, the best defence against hate – LOVE.

Sound metaphysical? It worked for me. You need to find something in your life worth loving and simply love the ass off it. It’ll get you through. I’m sure you already have that. If you’re struggling, rewind time back to a place when there was love in your life, and seize it again to cherish and keep. The bible says HOLD FAST TO WHICH IS GOOD. And you’ll always have God. If you do have God, then you’ll almost certainly, in my opinion, have love elsewhere in your life also.

If you have no love and no God, then I’m half-inclined not to believe you. Perhaps you could love yourself a lot more. I’m sure you’re a decent person or this nightmare wouldn’t be happening. Hey, why don’t you even extend some love this way? I love you. I love the way you handle your drama. I love the way you always get through it. I love the way you never lash out or respond. You’re just like the way I was with them. Total ignorance. Apart from the one time I broke and ended up in police custody. Wouldn’t be the first time…

I know you’re like a burning gas canister which wants to explode. I know all those insane emotions. I’ve been there. Maybe we’ll talk later some more about it. I don’t find it depressing anymore, being followed by a group of plebs; rather, I find connecting with you more liberating than I could have imagined. Somebody did this for me: A nice little word of advice in the face of evil oppression. It worked a treat. I’m trying to repay the favour, but I’m finding it hard.

Just never lose your love, and that’s it.

And here’s the wonderful part – you can’t. No powers in all creation can come between it. They conned me for seven weeks that I’d thrown my love away, but it was just another blag by them. That’s all they do – lie. It was a terrible time of my life. Now I have it back and it’s the most valuable commodity in the universe. This knowledge should be a state secret.

Leave it there for now. Have a great day or evening or night or whatever x.

Perfect Litter

 I don’t believe you have ever seen a Staag label displayed like this. I say this because it was so difficult to get off the tin, being heavily glued and all. It took about 15 minutes to peel off. I started collecting litter during a stint in hospital last year, just before Christmas. We were locked in our rooms due to Covid and it was a real challenge keeping the mind busy. So I started making sure that I peeled labels perfectly, with no rips, from their contents. I even put up a poster in my room saying THIS IS A RECYCLING ZONE.

I’ve still got months’ worth of litter. Mainly I prefer particular chocolate bars from back in the day, that kind of classic confectionary with a sentimental value, but now as you can see I’ve moved onwards and upwards to cans of chilli con carne. That Stagg chill really is quite nice though, you know, absolutely beltin’, if I do say so myself. I’m not quite sure where I can take this hobby, I was thinking of decorating my walls with it all. But the key is no rips, tears or damage while unravelling the packaging. It can be very tricky on certain products. Club biscuits are the easiest. I might be wrong, but I’m thinking that something like a Pringles wrapper might be impossible. It depends how heavy they are on the adhesive. It’s nice to think though, that after all this time, and in freedom, this perfect litter game is still keeping me busy. I got a blog post out of it anyway.

I know what you’re thinking, by the way. Yeah – since when did I become so boring that I have to talk about litter? Maybe you know about blogging, or maybe you don’t, but let me tell you something…it is not all that easy. I’m not a journalist or a brief, with material and ideas falling out of my ears. I’m just a regular guy – perhaps not even that. I don’t have a career, or a family, or a glittering social circle with plenty of friends and acquaintances, nor any holiday experiences to write about: I’m just a bit of a redundant spazzy writing off his wits. Hey, who you calling a spazzy. This is motherf**kin’ G-Unit!

You know what I mean. Nothing special ever going on. I went out for a bevvie the other night with my G-Unit posse and after a couple of hours I was taking the knock, wishing I was back home reading Clive Barker on the sofa. That’s where I excel, in the comfort of home, with a can and a good book to read to my five angels. More about these five angels soon, I promise, I know that they’re not boring to you. They started when I invented some imaginary friends because I was overwhelmed in my flat by hate campaigners and bad spirits – the Devil, for a better word – so I had to pull something out the bag. I also have seven wife figures who accompany me but that’s a different story. They all form ‘My Muse’ so I’ll never be short of words to write about anything ever again. The only thing is, you have to be in the ‘write’ frame of mind to discuss such heavenly topics, and I hardly ever am! That’s it, keep coming back.

Outlined Women

 

Exercise, Reading & Coben

 

Howdy there, I pray that this reaches you in good spirits today. I’ve not been up to much myself. One positive thing I did do was start exercising again during the weekend, in the guise of dribbling with a football. It’s so much more interesting than jogging up and down the local field. I’ve always admired scintillating dribblers, like Gascoigne, Giggs, Maradona, and the like. My favourite was a little known fella from Brazil called Denilson. When he beat players down the flank, he twisted and turned them inside out so much that they fell over their own feet. He used to leave a wake of bodies down the line! Exceptional to watch…

Another change to my routine is that I’ve been enjoying a couple of beers in the evening to accompany my reading sessions. I just find reading so much more comfortable with a lager in my hand. It used to be the same for writing. I’ve been reading crime fiction lately, an anthology of short stories, but last night I moved onto Clive Barker’s timeless Books of Blood, which I found in the cubbyhole. The crime was entertaining and well-written but crap in a way I can’t quite define, and certainly not like Barker. With the beer though, I tend to be in a very receptive mood, and take something from everything I read.

Harlan Coben, my new favourite writer, suggested that I word-pinch from writers whose books I am reading. This involves a simple highlighter pen to underline the tasty nuggets I particularly like. I use it to highlight words I have never heard of too, and the difficult ones I can’t pronounce. Not to learn them, because if I have no recollection or knowledge of a word than frankly it can stay unrepeated by me. No, just to familiarise myself more with the broad sweep of the language. It’s becoming a habitual exercise now, so much so, that I wouldn’t like to read without a highlighter pen. Just as I wouldn’t like to read without a beer, at the moment…I swear I’ll have to cut that out pretty soon…

Why Coben, you ask? He only writes fair detectives. Well, it’s the man behind the writing I like. His persona. It’s not just the type which makes up the master wordsmith, it is their image, how they come across, their beliefs, all of that. And for me, atm, he’s my fav. Plus he’s tall, like me, and he has a shaved head. That’s something I can relate to. I imagine his 6’5 avatar roaming around my neighbourhood in Second Life. He’d look a very powerful and intimidating character, like Hitman from that game series. I wonder how he sees himself as a computer game personality in his mind’s eye. How do you see yourself? Interestingly, I see myself as either a child or a space cadet. I’m just dancing there in grey with my five little angels kicking out galactic dust. Or I’m one of them with a skateboard. I’ll talk about my five angels more as time goes on, I think. It’s a very healthy issue to discuss.

ATM we’re talking about exercise, reading, and Coben. Well, I definitely want to keep the dribbling up. It’s such a beautiful art form. One of the most satisfying spectacles in world sport, I believe, to watch a man (or woman), drift by defenders as if they’re not there (especially if the defender falls over!). Other things which come to mind are the 100m sprint, the pole vault, full-lengthers in rugby, and 3 pointers in basketball. F1 over-takings aren’t quite the same, although the crashes are very spectacular. What are your favourite moments in sport?

There was a time in the Manchester derby going back some years when Craig Bellamy was dribbling into the heart of the Utd defence with such vigour deep in the limbo of Fergie Time that I erupted into fits of laughter. He had them all in a panic then yeah that’s correct he scored!

Reading is hard to concentrate on. It’s a real skill to sit there doing nothing with a book in your hand and be patient, letting all the words soak in. I wanna get up and stretch my legs after every five minutes. I imagine it’s impossible with ADHD so from now on I’m going to really value it as a gift and a treat and most importantly a time for education.

And as for Coben – well, speak to you soon buddy!

Holy Schizo

 

I hardly give a damn what condition this reaches you in today – ha, only jesting. Hope all well. I’ve just been to church to cleanse my soul. I usually go to a youth church, a concert kind of gig, where they pour out Jesus Bangers with keyboards and guitars, but today I went to a Church of England bash with coffee and cake afterwards. So instead of young Afrikaans galdem (a collection of girls), it was white elderly ladies. I thought I’d mix it up a bit.

          There are three things to doing something new for me. One is crossing the threshold and entering. Two is staying the distance. Three is not dashing off at the end. Hanging around at the end of any event I find the most challenging part, if I make it to the end. Today I did. For coffee and cake.

          It was my local parish church, steeped in history. I’ve walked past it every day for over a decade yet never ventured in for a Sunday service. All in all, I’ve been in to say a quick prayer about three or four times (I had a look around in the crypt the other day). It’s magnificent inside, all gold and ornate and all that.

          Having coffee and cake with the elderly, newlyweds, and a few Chinese, felt like it could have been a taste of paradise. That awkward upheaval from your comfort zone, where you have to be, alongside everybody else, prim and proper and gentle and gracious. Like meeting the in-laws for the first time. The reverend was called Debbie.

I once slept with a Jezebel Demon called Debbie who laid her yoke down my gob and polluted me, but that’s a different story. More on that at a later date, maybe. I can’t believe I would ever let a bitch ejaculate down my throat.

Totally true, I have slept with demons (and swallowed their seed) – but I’ve also been to Heaven. I don’t know whether to write a non-fiction account of it or put it in a novel or tell it here. It was coming on for nearly two years ago now. I was in the grip of a taut psychosis in the wilderness of the non-local woods, lying face-down in a frozen startled rabbit-like posture, waiting to get my head cut off by a couple of hate-campaigners who had isolated me with impossible fear. I’d been followed down the railway tracks all night.

Just as I thought it was over, Heaven (or a distant green planet just like Heaven) opened up before me. I could see for miles and miles. It was inconceivably high. I felt like an angel. In my wonder, I even had a rat (real) sitting on my arm, but did not flinch a muscle. I could also see a bull and another angel behind me (questionable).

I could see grand noble boardwalks flanked by waterfalls and epic splendid promenades and alien canyons stretching far beyond what my eye could see. IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE AND JOY!!!

I’ve never written about it until now, and I’m being careful here because I want to save it. For what though? It’s for sharing. I’ll always be in faith ever since that happened and it made me now for certain believe in a loving God, whereas for all my previous life I’ve been a sceptic. I now have five angels around me at all times (yet another story), and plenty more going on too as well.

I know how that sounds, but I cause the authorities grave concern for dressing eccentrically, so imagine if I told them all this as well. They’d have a field day. The most I’ve ever told the authorities was just last week. I told my head nurse that schizophrenia was a problem characterized by attention from bad spirits. I am growing a fondness of respect for him, because he is good at his job, and he identified with me, rather than fobbing my beliefs off.

What do you think about the illness being a myth for bad spirits to run amok? Or do you fall into the ‘chemical imbalance’ clan?

My ex-girlfriend’s nurse once told her to be a good girl and neck her pill because she had a chemical imbalance. It felt like an insult. If someone ever slapped me with that label I’d certainly have a counter-argument or two.

When the doctors are giving me what I often typify as a shallow opinion I no longer find it hard to bite my tongue. I simply listen with lots of love. They ARE trying to help. I don’t believe they are calculating and callous. They just don’t know what it’s like to be surrounded by God knows how many bad spirits in their bedroom late at hours on a Sunday night, that’s all.

And I don’t know textbooks, or what it’s like not to know. But yet I do. Because this has never always happened. Well it must have done, since childhood, but I never got massive symptoms until my mid-thirties. Before then, I used to laugh my arse off at anything supernatural. I thought it was a joke. No more, Bob. Now, I’m scared. Well, not quite scared anymore, more bothered and annoyed and upset, but for the last ten years I’ve been running away in the dark from boogeymen and hitmen and ghosts and badmen and creepies and ghoulies and meanies and beasties. Now I sit right there with them and say if I’m going to die, I’m not going to die away from my sofa, tired. So thanks for calling, pass the mustard, and merry-f**kin’-Christmas.

That’s a wrap. See ya soon brothers and sisters x

Lippy 2

 Hello, I’m Jan Balonky. 

Here’s a little insight into my life.

I refuse to grow old. Why should I have to endure frown lines, jowls, grey hair, and all the rest that it brings? No, I say. No. I beat all that gravitational sagging, bone hollowing and fat loss day in and day out with my inventive techniques to stay young.

          Edmundo, my surgeon (I call him Doctor Facelift), just got done administering my botox. I’ve had hundreds of shots and other anti-aging treatments and they sure ain’t cheap. It costs money to look as pretty as I do. Don’t be shy with the fillers, which redefine facial contours but last little longer than a year. Keep them lasers and skin peels coming as well, I tell him. I love a bit of skin-tightening with my ultrasound and radiofrequency. To compliment the microneedling, of course. We’re talking improved skin texture and a collagen boost.

          I’ve just had plasma taken from my own blood, blended with a syringe of hydrating acid, stuck in the fridge overnight, and back into me in the morning. I’ve had fat extracted from my thighs, mixed up with stem cell extracts, and bunged into my hollow cheeks. Absolutely nothing scares, fears or stops me from looking Tony the Tiger Grrreat!

          Yeah, a few syringes of toxin here and there, not a problem. What are we talking, all in all, maybe £35,000? Worth every penny. Skincare in a pot for a few measly quid.

          Apart from Edmundo (he’s my favourite), I’ve got more dentists, doctors, nurses and dermatologists than you can shake a wet fish at. And, speaking of fish; that ‘trout pout’ is what I’m after. I want to look like a caricature of myself.

          The good thing about botox is that it relaxes muscles and softens frown lines. I’m so bouncy and alert I need some relaxation in my life. I got a shock when I saw a MRI scan of my face after I didn’t have a treatment for a while. I looked like a waxy Madame Tussauds model in front of a chocolate fireguard.

          The actual shape of the skull changes as we age.

          Some people complain that they can’t see their genitals because their belly is in the way: I can’t see my belly because my lips are in the way.

          My injection-filler boobs have become rocky lumps. They drive my fella crazy. And what about the nerve-freezer that paralysed half of my forehead for months? A laser procedure ripped the insides of my eyelids off last November. I couldn’t open my eyes without anaesthetic drops. Random bad luck, Edmundo said. You get a lot of things going wrong in this game.

Thank God for yoga to help me feel better.

There’s nothing more aging than wheezing whenever you fall back into a chair.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not averse to a big box of Malteasers, or a Pornstar Martini – but only after my white roots are taken care of. I’ll practise clenching my jaw on the treadmill later, so my jawline doesn’t vanish into my neck. The neck is naturally taken care of with diluted collagen-stimulating filler.

That’s it from me. Hope you’re inspired!

 

© The Anonymous Journalist 2023