The Advent

The Advent was a time in my life when I became a detective for the Lord. My mission was to lead light into torture chambers dotted around the town and beyond. By merely acknowledging their existence, favour and fortune would be brought to their occupants. It all started one winter’s evening after a dodgy lasagne and four cans of mild.

I started following some familiar graffiti. It led me all around the town, and I live in a very large town. It was on the walls, on bus stops, on phone boxes, everywhere. Everywhere I explored, down every snickel and ginnel, I could not escape this graffiti. I felt like Columbo being led astray, knee-deep in cryptic clues, down every side street in Dark Alley District. I ended up in some very scary places, in the heart of the wilderness, and still I saw this graffiti. I was also following clues in litter, mainly involving McDonalds paper cup lids and straws. They led me around the mulberry tree.

I was also hot on the heels of my clone. My clone was a mega powerful evildoer who’d stolen my likeness. He had a factory full of TVs (torture victims), being processed on production lines like tins of tuna. Locating and walking past that factory on a bleak Sunday morning was non-rational and sorcerous. I felt like I was in a horror movie dream-state. I felt like I was in one of Eli Roth’s Hostel movies, about to get dragged into one any second and be pain-inflicted for all of eternity. It was all very real to me. I was hearing screams and yells of terror and anguish every time I turned around. That’s part of my psychosis; my psychosis had obviously followed me out into the streets and into the wild.

We’re not talking about a poxy shed, with someone tied-up in it. We’re talking mega office blocks and multi-storey car parks and industrial buildings, full of thousands and thousands. I did seek out the solitary sheds, though. I found them so far as Blackpool, wandering beaches in the middle of the night. The strangest thing was, I wasn’t even drinking alcohol to keep me going; I was wired on pure adrenaline and curiosity. Pandora’s Box was wide-wide open. It’s very difficult to translate. Words do not do the experience justice.

I was knocking on stranger’s houses at all hours of the day in distant areas and accusing them of having people in their basement. All I had to do was let the victims know that I had perceived them, and God would do the rest and get them out of there by uplifting their souls to Heaven or something. I was also finding a lot of pipes in the floor around the place, which I believed were breathing apparatus for underground TVs. There was virtually a pipe in everybody’s garden. I used to whisper down them.

During this weird and wonderfully oddball outlandish mission, I was planet hopping to Lizard and Insectile realms. I was very surely convinced at certain times that I was surrounded by shape-shifting lizards. This lasted for weeks and weeks, when I was running on sheer wit’s-end survival power. My fear was outdone by the curiosity. I simply had to know the scope and breadth of the darkness in this universe. At one point a saw a truckload of beautiful semi-invisible people walking off a lorry in the distance along the horizon – some of the people I was saving. It made all the trepidation worthwhile.

Of course the U.S government were involved, mixed up with many other voices in my head. They were telling me what to study and analyse – mainly television aerials on rooftops for some reason. And all the time I was getting my head shot at with invisible tic-tacs (ultrasonic pellets), which were dulling my senses constantly and making me numb to everything I was perceiving. Not to mention the head transplant. Did I not mention the head transplant?

Before all this happened, I perceived an invisible Chinese medic performing a brain transplant on me in my bedroom. He took mine out because it had been pelleted to destruction and gave me the brain of an oriental criminal instead. This is what made me super-psychic with all the clues. You couldn’t make it up could you?

I stayed clean for nine months during The Advent, my record. How I abstained from drugs and porno for so long is perplexing to me. I was staying out for days at a time, and time was erratically unaccountable. It was midnight in the afternoon, and morning at midnight. The day would pass in but a breath, and all I’d been doing was walking around looking at graffiti, litter and pipes. Very surreal indeed, to say the least.

 

Life IS Loss

I lost my dongle the other night. It had years’ worth of unbacked work on it. Art, writing, photography, music, the lot. How could I be so careless? The last time I lost a dongle (they always have loads of unbacked work on), I found myself punching the wall over and over in frustration. It’s hard to describe how important an artist’s portfolio is to him- or herself. The process of loss takes days if not weeks to be fully digested, when certain forgotten projects from the past crop up in the mind, projects now deemed gone forever into the nether. Unread, unviewed, unobserved. I liked to look back upon my body of work and boast about myself internally, it amounts to the only good thing I’ve ever done upon this blue spinning rock. How could I be so careless?

But so be it. Life IS loss. I don’t wanna get too deep on the subject, because I’m likely to start weeping or something, but do you know what I mean? I’ve lost my little brother in a police station, I’ve lost my dad to cancer, I’ve lost a double miscarriage, I’ve lost the rest of my family due to estrangement. I’ve lost my mentor, I’ve lost my sanity, I’ve lost my physical appearance. I’ve almost lost my soul. Where does a silly old dongle rank amongst that fiasco? My work means nothing, in a way. I believe God will appreciate it in a different realm for all eternity. He’s read it, He’s viewed it, He’s observed it. God is my witness, and, I believe, with my creativity over the years, that I have served Him well. I didn’t let anyone down with my paintings and my message boards and my compositions and my collages and my sketches and my sculptures. It’s just a shame that none of it remains. Only their creator, my good humble self, who can recreate again, and never stop expressing. Expression, I also believe, or depression.

What if I lost this blog? Then it’s no fear. All I need is a pen and a piece of paper and my giftings from the Good Lord remain intact. I’ve always said this, but give me a studio and I’ll give you the world. I’ll always remember my artistic production with fondness and love.

Imagine if I lost my home through a bomb or a storm or a forest fire, or if I was a sole survivor in war-torn territory? Things could always be worse. I would burn all my books in a heartbeat rather than lose my love for God and his Children. Love is the most precious commodity on this blue spinning rock. On the other hand, I could have my own exhibitions going on but with a dark hateful heart. What good is art then, without a loving sentience to appreciate it? I offer all of my talents up to God, what’s done is done, I made a mark on myself if not on anybody else, and I pray for new giftings in this latest chapter of my life. I know that one of my vocations is talking to you, whoever you are or wherever you may be, about art and about my recovery and about my life. Our relationship is just starting. If anything happens to this website then I’ll simply get up and start a simpler one, but I must always keep writing, because writing keeps me.

I’m 7 Days into beating my addiction. A week ago today I was sat on a park bench scoring speed from a stranger in the cold. I took it home and sat in a dark room all night fapping on it, no pornography involved. I haven’t watched porno in a month, but last night I had the most erotic dreams, involving women and men spurting all over the place, taking me back to the banned content I came into contact with as an adolescent. That would wreck the rest of my life up now, if I came across stuff like that again. So would going back to the familiar interracial fodder I was used to on the internet. I haven’t watched it online for about three years. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to own the internet again. They say 50% of it is porno. It would surely wreck the rest of my life up. Cocaine and porno make me a very ill bunny.

 

Letter To Pathways

 

Thursday, 18^th December, 2024

 

Dear Pathways Management,

My name is Andrew Donegan. I have been attending Pathways on and off since before the Corona Virus. I feel part of the furniture in this magical place. Unfortunately, I still suffer quite severely from drug and alcohol problems, although I have made notable progress along the stormy way. Pathways has been a port in choppy waters for me, I hold it in very high esteem like most people, but recently I feel that I have fallen victim to professional error.

This is because I have been ‘graduated’ from the service. I do not feel like I am ready for this. The groups I will now be losing include Positive Thoughts, Mutual Aid, Men’s group, Tasty Bites, and the Rambling group. Between these, I have a steady routine for conquering the mundane and ultimately defeating my personal afflictions. Without them, my afternoons are blank and empty. Now I am faced with whole days with nothing to occupy myself with. I fear that my addiction resistance will suffer incredibly at this prospect. I understand that we all must move on eventually, but I feel it in my gut that the time is not quite right for me. I wouldn’t be appealing like this if I agreed.

I would like to be granted a reprieve from my graduation and maybe be accepted back into the program with perhaps monthly reviews to see how I am getting along. I sincerely require Pathways in my life at the moment, and I feel it would still be present if I saw directly eye to eye with my current keyworker, Ste Illingworth, which I don’t. Myself and Ste used to play football together and I feel that our previous friendship has thwarted our working relationship. If at all possible, I would appreciate a second opportunity with a different keyworker.

Yours with very much faith, Andy.

End Of A Era

I’ve just been ‘discharged’ from Pathways, my local Drugs & Alcohol rehabilitation clinic. They prefer to call it ‘graduated’. I think it’s complete and utter BS. They don’t understand that I really need the place, although I wasn’t about to start grovelling. I can still go to certain classes, but some of them will be missed. Now it will be more difficult to fill my days and it was hard enough in the first place. The afternoons and early evenings in my life have just gotten an awful lot more problematic to navigate. What am I going to do now?

They go on about Pathways as some sort of magical hub of wellbeing and recovery. It makes me think of Russell Crowe in the movie A Beautiful Mind (2001), when he is still attending the local library to educate himself as an old age pensioner. I mistakenly thought Pathways was like that, somewhere which always made you feel welcome and would never turn you away. I was wrong. Now I’ve been kicked out into touch with no support.

Apart from this it’s been the usual old codswallop, up all night tweaked out of my mind fighting demons until the morning and beyond. And I mean literally fighting them, this isn’t a figure of speech. I’ve taken a major step and deleted all my numbers, so I now have no access to chemicals. I’ve only ever done this once in my life before, as I believe the only feeling worse than using is wanting to use but not being able to. Wouldn’t you know it, but as soon as I delete them, a dealer turns up outside the pub last night. I ignored him.

Pathways did a party last night. I got a certificate for attending the walking groups, which I’ll no longer be able to frequent. We walk up mountains every other Friday or so. There were disco lights and raffles and turkey barms, it was all very jolly. The day before I attended a musical and drama performance in Holy Trinity church done by a number of people with learning disabilities. It was all very heart-warming, watching young girls with Down’s Syndrome pretending to be Lady Gaga and playing the air guitar. Very pleasant indeed. It raised up a number of uncomfortable questions, as it usually does when I am around those poor yet blessed souls afflicted with learning disabilities.

Partly because that’s how I see myself. Some of my behaviours around porn and drugs are very peculiar to Aspergers, Autism, Catatonia and general Spacca and Mong deficiency. Pardon me for my political rudeness with those last two descriptions. Social services were involved with me as a child, and I also had an Identity Crisis as a child, and I’ve also always been unusual and odd in certain ways. So when you put me with these kinds of people, I feel very uncomfortable about myself. But once straighten out this awkwardness and sense their true light, and how innocent and pure they are, I start to get over myself and enjoy their company.

 

Doodles and Canvasses

I know, they are the only things that keep one of my little toes planted firmly in the plentiful choppy waters of the art game, if you could call it that. I miss my sketching, and my painting, and my sculpture, and my graphic design, but without a studio, or computer equipment, I am severely limited to pens and paper. People keep asking me, all of the time, why don’t you draw something like a portrait, or a bowl of cherries. I say that I am unable to do so without Photoshop, because that’s where I get my perspiration from. My perspiration comes from a willingness to work, my inspiration comes from the team around me, and my desperation comes from being bored in the mornings. I’ve included a selection of random images I’ve found on my dongle (the one I haven’t lost yet), just to show you how far away from doodle I aspire to when not limited to simple gel pens. You may have seen these images before upon the blogspot, as I’ve lost track of what I’ve posted over the years. But I’m not at all happy with pattern doodles anymore, I strive for something better, so please bear with me as I remind myself of who I used to be. These were outlined to be reproduced on canvass, but never quite made the grade.

If I can stay away from the coke I might buy myself a cheap laptop just for photoshop, and get back into my drawing a little bit. It’ll be well worth the expenditure, rather than blowing my beans over big bucks impaling skinny women. You know what I mean? 

An architectural composition of life in the snow.

A mad biro inkblot.

My benefactor Bennie, holding gun.

Afghan girl, a famous photograph.

Leon The Professional and Mathilda.

Photoshop graphic design.

Michael Jackson, pointing.

The Creator

Hi there, I hope this reaches you in positive spirits. Pray that you are well. I myself (back to me now), am doing rather quite okay, considering the exquisite trials I’ve been enduring recently. I’ve been contemplating The Creator of it all, and how he might have a fingertip on my life, keeping me protected from all the dark forces surrounding me. Do you believe in The Creator? I do. I believe in The Father, I believe in God Almighty, I believe in The Most High, and I believe in The Creator. I think they are all different, but all the good deities serve The Creator. He’s the key to it all. Evil deities like Satan and Lucifer hate The Creator because he made them in bondage and misery, and they are unable to see small pockets of joy in each and every day The Good Lord makes for us.

What questions would you ask him? That would take some thinking about. I would ask him why I am so important and deserving of his presence when there are another 8 billion humans who would relish the same prospect. I know evildoers who want to batter him (good luck with that). I would also ask him which invention he is most proud of. I would expect the human mind to be right up there at the top of his list. Imagine having that much power that you can create from scratch something like the human mind, a fleshy biological brain with metaphysical properties that can receive and project visual imagery and talk itself to sleep with poetry and verse. Or would it be the human hand, the most majestic instrument tool in the known universe, capable of building battleships, stealth bombers, ice palaces and skyscrapers. Of flower-arranging, origami, and sculpting.

I think that the creator must be absolutely gigantic, big enough to make the giant balls of matter we call planets and stars from compacted dust from his special clown’s pocket. If you can understand his size, you are halfway along there on the road as to how it must be done. Like for example, if I made a snowball and put nanotechnology on it with a powerful microscope. Maybe he compressed the planets out of matter in much the same way. The question is, how do they hang there, solid as rocks, floating in empty space with nothing holding them up? Do you think that he has used invisible string? Some kind of invisible web? I might ask him in a prayer and ask him to show me in a dream or something. If he had the time, of course, and would be so gracious to do so, for example. I wonder.

I am totally uninterested in his foe, the Devil. Although I do have a question for him too. I want to know the precise estimation of my worth to him. I am obviously worth a lot, much more than Mo Salah, as he has ordered governments to stalk, track and harass me with electronic weaponry. He has instructed secret societies to follow me in the street. And most critically of all, he has built a not-so secret anymore pain dungeon underneath my premises, with the purpose of bringing me down into it one day. This you might find difficult to believe, as I live on the ground floor, and, I can assure you, I have one or two issues with it also. Anyway, let’s part company here, on a positive note, and go and talk to The Creator. Go on, send him a prayer. And don’t forget to mention your favourite blogger!

 

Battering Pay Day

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Splitting Helicopter Beams

I was going to talk about helicopter beams. You know, beams being fired out at humans from helicopters, to give them schizophrenia? Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s commonplace in this day and age. They poison the mind with an electronic virus, boosting the signal so as the subject can still continue to hear voices and hallucinate. Very real indeed. I’ve started splitting them on my own, with a little help from God. They disperse and dissipate around me sometimes. I walk free. No weapon formed against me shall prosper. I sincerely believe that. Ever since a bullet bounced off me in the car park.

I was just walking to the shop last time, after a binge. My energy was low as is per usual, and all the hate mobbers were out in force. When I’m down, I notice an increase in flashy motors driving by me and everything. They really do not try to hide the fact that they are swarming around me. After a USE UP, the general public become rude and insulting everywhere I go. This is basic gang-stalking. Taking photographs is one of their many weapons. Once you’ve been involved for a number of years, they are easy to spot. But anyway, I was walking to the shop and this translucent grey ray from the air shattered around my body. My voices said that I did it with my own power, and that was why they were persecuting me, because of my power. They make out that I’m some powerful supernatural deity. They say that I am better than God. They attack you, call you weak and deserving, and when you batter them, they hold that against you as well. They are totally unreasonable. You can’t win with them.

Imagine what chance clones have got in the future with voices from the ether; they won’t stand a chance, once they’re dehumanized. Dehumanizing the target is the first page in the manual of gang-stalking. At first, they told me that I was a clone. At one point I half-believed that I was a spider. A spider! My Boy Lee Brownbill, AKA The Badger, once thought he was changing into a spider, after ingesting a spice bucket in jail. His head fell down his back and his limbs grew longer, so he reported.

These electronic viral beams can also come from people’s phones. I’ve witnessed people pointing phones at me and commenting why the software hasn’t worked with my own eyes and ears. I stress again, it’s real. If you’re reading this piece here at the blogspot, I take it that you have an open mind similar to mine, and believe in such stuff. In this day and age, someone can shoot something out of their mobile phone into your head and give you a electronically-generated malady that mimics acute schizophrenia. Voices and visions, baby, voices and visions. I fap to mine. That’s how much they mean to me.

Pay day tonight, at half nine at the cash point. I’ve been thinking about spending all my doe on coke, but I SERIOUSLY can’t afford to be doing that. I think I might have a nice week of fine dining and drinking and smoking with no wolves at the door. I can always get high over the Christmas period, there’s no rush. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and abstinence for a while never hurt anybody. I think I’ll just be patient and wait another week or so till blowout. Till my voices sound sexy and spazzy to me. It’s a great turn-on, that combination, sexy and spazzy. Don’t forget bossy also, while you’re there! Lol! They tell me to get hard NOW, while sounding like a remedial. I shouldn’t really say it, but it is great horny fun. Masturbating to voices in your head! God! You wouldn’t want it for your children, would you!? But neither would you want dull porno…

 

Big Dog

 

I went for the not-so phat bag of coke in the end, after wrestling with the desire for several hours. I tried to be normal for once in my life, but it didn’t quite work out. I succumbed to the temptation. The beak was pure power, as they say; top-notch, grade-A swag, which is a bad thing in a way, because it makes you want more. Sometimes, when it’s not up to scratch, it puts you off from craving any extra for a long time. At one point, my head was wobbling like an alarm clock, and my arm was shaking. That’s what I want. That lets me know that something is actually going to work in my system. It’s slightly nervy and frightening, but dangerously exhilarating at the same time.

I avoided the CeLLuloid CoRRidor (porn), because I had none and couldn’t be arsed buying any. Instead, I fapped to the voices in my head. I know that this was relinquishing the former position of power I had over them, but it is what it is. I feel I’ll be able to maintain that power for a lifetime, if I don’t give up faith and concentrate on the matter at hand. You only have as much power as you think you have. The voices, when I fap to them, have three ranges: Sexy, Bossy, and Spazzy. They sound off in various mantras and put me in a stubborn trance. It all feels like a big game, but they do turn me on a helluva lot. I’m ashamed and embarrassed, obviously, but I’ll get over it. It’s Day 4 now, and I feel free from it yet again, although I have still one eye on the USE AGAIN ball, even though there is no way I can afford it. I don’t know, maybe I could get a little whizz in between the Big Dogs.

Talking like a druggie on the blogspot, what am I like? What defines me, however, aside from my drug use, is how I react and bounce back from psychosis. The thoughts that fill my head afterwards are quite unreal, they keep me occupied for hours and hours, almost as long as the drugs last for. I call it the upside for being a total down ‘n’ out. I didn’t feel like a down ‘n’ out upon the astral plain last night, however; I felt like a wizard. I had a handful of lucid dreams, wherein I knew I was dreaming. Fully conscious and aware, in the dream state. It’s such a good experience, it’s at least worth the same price as cocaine.

I enjoyed a bit of frottage with a girl named Nellison, then went for a fly in the sky, then rode the cockpit of a plane as it took off from above an astral city. The main centrepiece of the city was a double apartment block which was a cross between the Hilton hotel in Manchester and the New York Twin Towers. It was exquisite, man, sheer mind-bending fun. I think that the Good Lord is rewarding my dream life because my veridical existence is so monotonous.

Pay Day Blues

I managed to get thru payday last night but the fact of the matter is that it is still all over me (the temptation to use drugs). To distract myself, when the money went in at half nine, I went to the pub and had four pints of Carling. Then I had a late midnight pizza, Meat Feast with extra jalepenos and pineapple. It was tasty. But not as tasty as a naked babe with her stillettos still on!

The urge to go Liverpool ‘loop’ shop and buy some new DVDs is quite tangible. Then I could come home and try and score. Scoring might be quick, or it might take a few hours, like going to Liverpool. It gives me a purpose and something to do though, with pure titillation at the end of it. But the new porn stars I allow to nestle into my psyche will cause havoc and destruction, when they come alive and embodied within my psychosis. Once the fun is over with, they become a problem. Plus, the Devil simply adores it when I use drugs. He celebrates my downfall with glee. Then everything spirals out of control in the madness. The rats appear from underneath the bed, perverse animations appear in my mind, and much worse. There are too many cons to list. But it is ever so exciting and addictive, I absolutely live for it, it’s so pleasurable.

Cocaine is out of the question, as it’s too expensive. I wish I could afford a bunch of it, but it’s money down the drain (or up the conk). A normal person just wouldn’t shove money up his conk, would he? Lol. We’re only talking £30 for a fat bag of whizz, which lasts the whole day and night. But it leaves me empty and depressed without any thought pattern in my head. I can’t think of a single word to say after that stuff. The coke leaves me with some residual energy, but I always feel like drinking spirits once it’s over, and that’s another £25 down the proverbial drain. Not to mention the money outlaid for the porno DVDs. £240 for a bag of coke, and it’s not even that phat. I could do with two of them ideally.

So, what are my options? Well, I’m exercising one right now, by typing this. This will kill the best part of an hour. I can go to Pause, the local mental health drop-in, where Lesley has promised me chocolates if I go in clean from drugs today. I’m also watching a box set at home, called V from the eighties, about lizards invading Earth to use humans for food. The show revolves around a handful of resistance fighters. It takes me back to when I was a kid, watching it for the first time before I was even a teenager. I made one of their spaceships out of paper one time, and flew it around the lightbulb!

Then what. It’s just an hour here and an hour there, not enough to fill the full day. Pornography and drugs blitz the whole day and beyond, no messing. That’s why nothing can compare with it, and why I’m in a whole heap of trouble fighting this pervasive disease. There’s just nothing else to do, and no way to pass the time. It is good being clean, it’s a higher plain, and I have to keep reminding myself of where I end up in my so-called schizophrenia. The darkness is unreal, it takes me three days to snap out of it, for the voices to ease down, and another four or so to get completely back to normal. There is a case in point to be made that one never ever actually gets back to normal, once the insane doors of psychosis have been fully opened. That’s the danger, that I might get traumatised if I keep burning the candle at both ends. We don’t want that, do we…? 

Priapism

 

I can write about this now because I’ve come through it, but several years ago I had an extremely rare medical condition called Priapism. Wait for it – PERMANENT ERECTION. My penis was fully engorged, solid rocko, much bigger than usual, for at least THREE WEEKS! It went down eventually, thank Christ. I had to go hospital and everything. Everyone wanted to examine me – none of them women by the way. The embarrassment alone was bad enough (when was the last time you saw someone in the street with an erection?), but it was dreadfully painful as well. I couldn’t walk, and needed morphine. It felt like it was filled with drawing pins, really tender and sore. I’d never heard of this condition before so I thought it was supernatural. I thought pornography had put a spell on me or something. It doesn’t sound like much of an affliction but believe you me, it is. I happily would have had it amputated. It’s one of the hardest physical things I’ve ever been through. Pun very much intended.

I had to go somewhere on my back when I was bedridden with it. I started playing out a dramatization of something similar to Coronation Street in my mind. I was the main star. I was watching it every night for a couple of hours. Part of me wanted to put the permanent erection to use, on women. It would have pleasured a woman very much indeed, if only it hadn’t of been painful. Some men might see this condition as a main wish. In hospital they wanted a urine sample, which is physically impossible with a standing-proud bonk-on. Maybe, If I stood on the ceiling and pointed downwards. They suggested putting a pump on my nut-sack, because this condition permanently damages the erectile tissue forever. The pump would ensure future hard-ons. I politely refused the pump, but am now starting to regret it. I haven’t had a raging boner since, except in my erotic dreams. I miss it quite a bit, it’s my manliness man, my virility, my essence. Why me?

What caused it? The doctor said it’s caused by mixing cocaine with olanzapine, an anti-psychotic. I remember, when it occurred, that it grew an inch overnight. The same old penis all my life, and then, in my early forties, it grows an inch overnight. Weird or what? The morphine was essential and lovely, that’s what helped me journey into a sitcom in my brain every night to escape the pain. That bit about the supernatural curse is true. It was a particularly dodgy porn I was watching at the time. Because I was paranoid and off my nut, I was beginning to think it was a tactfully-done snuff movie. The woman had a pendant on, and I thought it cast a spell into my spirit. Phillip K Dick reported something similar about pendants. Jewelry on naked woman can be very powerful. I must say that I do like jewelry on a birthday-suited babe. A lot of it, if possible. Earrings, chain, rings, the lot. It compliments the general makeover such as lipstick and nails. I have a thing for adornment. I like my women adorned. Shoes are essential. Leave the stillettos on please darling, if you don’t mind. I don’t worry about the hair so much, even if they’re baldy. I don’t mind a woman with a skinhead one bit. My guardian spirit told me that the way to look at a woman is at their hair and her eyes, and that’s it. I must also say, that I prefer them with her legs spread and high up in the air with a well-endowed big buck penetrating her senseless. Sorry, that had to be said. But only when I’m in perv-mode.

I’m not in perv-mode at the minute, but the temptation is always there. I’m thinking about going to Liverpool when I get paid and buying some interracial novelty for enjoyment, but one bag of drugs equals three days of psychosis, so it’s off-putting. It’s a much nicer life not being a pervert.

No More Foxy Times

 

I’ve been praying that I can maintain this current power I have over the evil voices in my mind. At the moment I am speaking up and over them. I don’t mind the sound of my own voice when I am on form; I can’t half waffle on sometimes. A few years ago I nicknamed myself the Waffle Meister. There are many names for me, including Sakor, Orchid and Dorky Pumper. I’m just beginning to accept fully into my own heart who I am and what I stand for. I feel like a powerful being, considering how I am still functioning after all the traumatic experiences I have been through. It’s been a rottenly beautiful rollercoaster of unfortunate and sometimes lucky events.

The time when I went to Heaven or a different planet or whatever was the occasion that stands out. I call that The Event, the only event worth noting of such importance in my entire life. There have been countless many other occasions but nothing quite like that space-hopping episode. Then came The Advent, when I became a detective in my own mind. I’ll not go into what I was detecting just here at the moment, but it was of the utmost importance. At the time, I thought I was The One, I thought Armageddon depended on my sole survival. That’s where I got my strength, that’s how I got through.

Intruders in the flat, the Devil in my head, monsters under the bed…these are all notable. But nothing compares to leaving Earth. I had a little pleasant visitation of sorts this very morning at half five in the am. There was a fox in my garden, eating. I have no curtains, and it was right in front of the window, so I got an extremely close-up view of this wild creature for the best part of five minutes. At one point we made eye contact and it stalled. When I nodded it carried on. This is the second time I’ve pardoned a fox’s behaviour with a nod. They understand nods, somehow. Beautiful creatures to see in the flesh. So independent. So rare. So elusive.

So yeah, all good, I’m not moaning about big black men nailing white women or drugs and relapses, but positive and full of life. Sex is off the menu, I’m just chillaxing with a drink and a smoke. I am aware though that one phone call to my dealer ruins everything that is going on in my current life and bleaks out the future.

I had the most awe-inspiring dreams last night. My astral life is decimated by drugs, so that’s another reason to avoid them. The whole list of reasons are beginning to stack up. I just want to cherish my mind and what it’s capable of, it’s our greatest gift from The Most High and should be severely appreciated. I want to do that. I want to wake up in the morning and not see the day as a challenge with an infected aura, but a joyful brisk walk in the park with a happily peaceful relaxed brain. I’ll keep praying for it. And I’ll pray for you too while I’m at it. Take care homie.

These Are The Minds...

I’ve destroyed Tommy Thrillbigger’s latest pornographic exploit for good now, and I sincerely hope that I won’t be going back to it. It was getting a bit boring, truth be told, and I ended up fapping to the voices in my head instead. This leaves me very vulnerable to their power and oppression. I wonder how many other people out there fap to the sexy voices in their heads? I wonder how many people have sexy voices in their heads? They talk and talk all day and all night, until long after I am spent. The upside is, and I found this quite incredible to believe at first, that they masturbate to the sound of my inner voice also. We’re just a crazy gaggle of voices wa*king to one another!

I’ve started hearing my nan now, which is very off-putting, as she’s been brown bread for donkeys years. She’s calling me a cruel boy because of my fapping, and denouncing me as any relation to her. This hurt quite a bit, as she raised me, and is something I have to remember. One positive aspect of the latest psychotic debacle is that God appeared in my living room to me. He was the biggest man I have ever seen with a long red cloak on. He said, “Don’t worry, you’re with me.” This made me feel safe and secure. Usually, whenever I sit down to fap and take hard drugs, the Devil celebrates like he has scored the winning goal at Wembley. That’s how important my suffering is to him, it makes him deliriously happy. He calls ruining my life putting the ‘work in’.

I’ve got my enemies right where I want them at the moment, with me in triumphant power over them, refusing to be dismayed or depressed by their ‘work’. I feel large and in charge and on the front-foot. My apartment, with its dungeon beneath, is hallowed ground. They want me out of there so badly I can almost understand it. An evildoer would relish my property more greatly than almost any other on the planet, for what lies underneath it.

It’s impossible to have a dungeon underneath a ground floor council property in England, you might say. How does he live there? Isn’t the natural reaction to run for the hills? Yes…I don’t know…and yes are the answers to those questions. I just get by. Half the time I forget about it. This is God’s power, enabling me to not be traumatised. My main fear is being traumatised by what I go through on a daily basis, and from where I live and cannot escape from.

My girl Cee who I’ve blogged about in the past is currently in hospital as we speak. Last time I saw her she was speaking like a TI. She said her flat felt like a façade, and that she was seeing people off television on the bus and in the street. I told her not to worry because they always pick on the bright ones. That is something my own doctor actually told me one time. He was the best doctor I ever had. We used to swap poetry and talk about the cosmos. Anyway, I added to Cee (formerly Courtney) that her abounding light is just too scorching for society to handle at the moment, that’s all. She’ll get thru it. Just eat some decent food (depending on the hospital), get some art done, go the gym a bit, reflect on life, and all will be well because it’s a doddle and job’s a good’un. She’s really beautiful, Cee, you should see the compassion on her face when she is concentrating on listening to what people have to say in therapy group. The empathy in her eyes is wonderful to behold. She’s only 24, but has a wise head on her shoulders. I’m gutted she’s back in hozzy.

There were no evil videos in my head-space last time. I think the children in my consciousness have helped bat them away. By evil videos, I mean the crude animations that brain technologies implant into my mind. Last time I was witnessing their putrid perversity a load of children infested it and saved me from it. The kids called themselves THE MINDS THAT TIME HAS MADE THEM. THESE ARE THE MINDS THAT TIME HAVE MADE US, they said to me. I don’t know where these children in my mind have come from, but I choose to believe that they possess a power inherited from the Creator of the Universe. There is nothing so precious and innocently beautiful as a child. Surely everyone here knows that much at least? 

Most Wanted

 

I’ve been buying and snapping and rebuying the same porn DVD over the last week or so. I broke communion with a spirit when I last destroyed it. We eat Reece’s Pieces together and make an oath. Unfortunately, I can’t stick to it. After a few days, once the hellishness of the mad-tempered psychosis has worn off, I am always drawn back, with a new vigour for the perversion. I seem to forget all the trauma I am going through with an aliveness for sex and self-induced passion. It’s called euphoric recall, which means that you only remember the good times. I’m currently on Day 3 Clean time, which means that the voices and hallucinations are only just wearing off. I rang the Samaritans this morning and spoke to a lovely helpful woman named Sarah. I prefer speaking to women on the phone, it sounds nice and cheeky when they let out a subtle giggle. That noise warms my heart; the sound of a lady simply chuckling.

I have a conspiracy of positive voices going on in my hive-mind realm. Without them, as my enemies like to remind me, I really would be in a heap of trouble. No matter how many voices are against you, it only takes one to watch your back. I hope that in the next life I can come back and stand up for somebody who is hearing voices, to give them something to lean on, to support them, to bring them back to life. That would be a beautiful thing and I think I’d be really good at it. Any TI in mortal jeopardy would do. They need a back-up plan in place, some care and protection. Having been there myself for so long, I’d know exactly what to say, I’d have all the right words. They’ve been in a disastrous program since birth, thinking they’re just having bad luck, when all the time some truly wicked folk are plotting against their very life. It is a matter of life or death. I’d survived several attempts on my own life, so I should know.

I refer to myself as TECHNICALLY MOST WANTED. I see myself on a WANTED poster, my face on it, like one of those bad-guy cowboy types. My addiction and my hate mobbers all want a piece of me, but all they do is talk about it 24/7. I receive death threats and torture threats every minute of the day, their job is to stop me thinking. It’s horrible when disembodied voices keep cutting your voice pattern off repetitively, over and over, all day and all night long. It’s like you can’t draw a breath to think a single thought. One new trick of my harassers is to put itches on my face and body, and instruct me that I itch them. It’s hard not to, as they are very itchy. It sounds like science-fiction, I know. How can you put an itch on somebody’s skin with technology? Easy if you are implanted since childhood.

Sports Bar

Hi again. I didn’t make church for the third time straight this morning, but it wasn’t because I was with Laura Dark. I’ve just walked past her shop then, but I wasn’t tempted to go in and rebuy her. I’ve seen enough of her getting spread-eagled on the bed by a buff dude, and reversing her rear onto his baby-maker on an A-B loop. The strange thing about porn is, that I’m developing love for the blokes as well. Now that is some scary-assed homosexual nonsense. It’s almost impossible to look at one without the other (man and woman, that is).

I did a new thing with my girl Antonia yesterday afternoon. We went to a new sports bar in town. I felt really awkward, and she knew it. I didn’t want to explore it, but rather just hang out at the bar. It was up two sets of stairs. What am I letting myself in for? I asked myself on the way up. Eventually we made it over towards the pool table and starting relaxing a little. The bar soon emptied. I often think that about myself, you know: That, no matter where I go, the crowds there soon dissipate. It’s like I’m a walking vacuum, dispersing the masses in my wake. It makes me slightly paranoid. People tend to get out of my way. It could be my colour in a predominantly white town.

After the sports bar I walked home and bought two cans of super-strength lager on the way, as I usually do. Then I went to bed early, as I usually do, and woke early, as I also usually do – when I’m not spaced out overnight on a diet of amphetamine and porn. It’s weird when I stay up for one or two nights without sleep. Reality becomes gossamer thin. Semi-transparent invisible people start appearing in my flat. They walk through walls and take refuge in cupboards. Creepy crawlies appear under the bed and sofas. I see them scuttle right around me like cavemen around a dinosaur. But they are so big, some of them! Really chunky and fat, like.

Did I tell you that I brought my boy Simon back to assist me checking under the bed and sofas? I’ve been relaxed in my confines since then, mind put at ease. I checked, with him present, and there was nothing there, when for so many days I had been certain that there was. Simon is in prison now because he broke a restraining order with Antonia in the pub. I was there at the time, drinking along with each of them merrily. The bartender got whiff of what was happening and rang the police just as I left. They came and nicked him. He’s a good friend, but Antonia told me that he exposed himself to children. Would you still be a friend to a guy who done that? I don’t know the whole story, so I’m reserving judgement. I also know another woman who has had one of my friends put behind bars, this time for domestic abuse. How can you do that, I think, to my friend, no matter what he’s done?

 

Why Am I Here?

Back again folks. I’ve been thinking about why I’m doing this. It originates from the show Californication (2007). It starred David Duchovny as Hank Moody, who played a blogger. I just liked the idea of a failed writer who had nothing else left to say speaking to the internet, in a public library, of all places. What does he write about? What comes out of his mind? What is there to say, about anything, that already hasn’t been said?

I’m getting bored of talking about recovery, addiction, and psychosis. I’m getting bored of everything. Nothing excites me anymore; I’m a failing mess. All I want to do is enjoy hedonism, via the usual empty ways. That means drugs and porn. I’m ever so bored of drugs and porn though.

Ever so bored, but still attracted to it. I suppose I always will be. I pray that the desire is removed from me. That’s one of my most popular prayers. I hate the way I am and I hate the things I do. My nature disturbs me. I hope I can change before it’s too late. As my boy Chico just said in a group: “I want to die sober.”

I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know why you’re reading this, or where you found it, or whatever, but I want to tell you that being me isn’t easy. It’s very difficult. I get beat up every time I turn around. There are dudes out there who want the very worst for me. They brought me into an awareness of gangstalking and remote neural monitoring and other devious goings on. But I prevail over it all, somehow, with the Most High Godly Creator of All Things. It’s tough to keep going, and it’s tough to keep hanging tough.

If I can keep going with an idea of beauty, beyond the physical form, then I’ll be happy with that. A polish girl on a nature retreat several years ago told me to never let go of the good stuff. Hold fast to which is good, the Bible says. I don’t mean to be corny or sentimental, like Ricky Gervais, who always ramps that teary stuff up in his shows, I’m just saying. No offence against him, I love it when the telly makes me cry. So far, I’ve never had the written word make me cry. Apart from the Bible.

I opened it one time and started crying straightaway. My tears made the words blend and bleed into each other. Underneath the smeary ink I could make out children’s images. They belonged to some of the first pictures my nephew ever drew for his mum. Strange, huh? I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t know why I’m here.

The devil tells me I’m here to suffer, and nothing more. Would you believe a dark spirit, if nothing they ever told you didn’t align with that? Nah, I don’t either. I believe I’m destined for something that has nothing to do with suffering. Something, or someplace, placid and peaceful. That’s where I’m headed too. Plus you, hopefully x

 

Death Rattle

Orite mate. Let’s get this over with. I used on Sunday morning. It was a random hook up. My speed dealer is in prison, but I found another one. Can you imagine how notoriously difficult it is to locate another phet dealer in a small town? I met him on a park bench when I should have been in church. He gave me the proper stuff like, you know? It was beltin’. I observed black men with white women on the CeLLuloid CoRRidor. Their rhythm was hypnotic, it was totally hedonistic; I was having the time of my life. Yes, it was Laura Dark again. The way she bounces her hips upon those big schlongs! I could watch her, drugged up, for a lifetime. If it wasn’t wrong and perverse that is.

It was getting disturbing, my passion for Laura Dark. I blame her suspenders. Are they called stockings or suspenders? What’s the difference? That’s why I only write women occasionally, because I know nothing about them. The man wasn’t up to much, he wasn’t even rock hard. I’d be rock hard fantastico if I was with Laura Dark. That’s the issue. But I got bored eventually. And Precious (the girl underneath my floorboards), started begging me to stop. So I did. And I threatened to snap Laura Dark the hell up. Her DVD, I mean.

You should have seen Laura Dark’s death rattle. She appeared in my room, I swear, and said I would never ever snap her DVD up. That was when the deal was signed, sealed and delivered. How the frig does Laura Dark know what I’m going or not going to do? So confident and sure and all that when she’s nothing but a cheap slag. I snapped her up, along with several other DVDs which had been hanging around for months on end. And that’s the end of the most recent CeLLuloid CoRRidor. It has been forsaken along with dust, into the ether, into nothing. It’s going to be hard without it, but not as hard as purposely hurting Precious is. I can’t do that anymore. I just can’t.

I am starting to think about Laura Dark already again though. Her long white legs, held up in the air, as a well-endowed black man penetrates her daft! Wow. On the good drugs as well. My endorphins are flying off outside of my brain like a cheaply paid-for firework show. But it’s painful. It’s ever so painful once it’s over. When the psychosis comes in. And my perps take control. They control my motor functions, telling me when to blink and cough. The strangest thing is that I do, when told. This leads me to believe that I have been implanted. Ah well. Whatever Trevor. Try and make me stand on one leg!

One thing I’ve learned during the last bout of psychosis is that my perps take sexual pleasure from harassing me. They think I sound sexy when I’m talking to myself, and that’s why they keep tearing my mind apart by prompting me with voices. The voices are to keep me talking, and my inner voice is so alluring to them that they masturbate over it. Don’t ask me how I’ve figured this out, but I know it to be true. Hello Sexy Guy… 

No Glorification

One of the rules in Pathways is NO GLORIFICATION. This means that you are not allowed to describe the good times, as they might be triggering for another client. I challenged this today, and was shot down on multiple angles. I think you should be allowed to depict it in valuable terms, in order to relive the few decent spells on board we ever had. Take AA for example. Instead of everyone banging on about Bill & Bob and on how good the program is, let everyone talk about how they wet themselves on Aunty Margaret’s sofa, put the cat in the microwave, and went swimming in the River Mersey at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It’d be far more fun. Don’t tell me there were never any good times. Don’t tell me it was never hedonistic. I once drank a bottle of whiskey and fell asleep with my electric blanket on for 12 hours. I woke up like a charred hotdog. I got told off in a different group the other month for describing a line of coke like eucalyptus up the conk. Wouldn’t you like to hear all the horror stories about alcoholism and drug use, rather than I’m two and a half years clean?

The people who are multiple years clean are scared stiff of a relapse. They’re running. Yeah, I’m jealous, but I’m also honest. They have so much to fear, they would never recover from it. It would break them. Us ruiners laugh at relapses, it means nothing, we get back on the saddle and return to the roots of our destiny quicker than those year-longs can spell relapse. I swear, I’m losing faith in recovery. One guy asked me how many months sober I was at my last AA meeting. Just because he was doing well, the whole world has to be doing well around him. “I’m pissed now,” I said to him. How does that sh*t on your boater.

I know I’m not 66 Days clean (my last best run), but I am again honest. I’m mad for the hedonism. Life gets so boring. I’m isolated in desolation and estranged, what do you expect. But what I do have is a passion for writing, no matter what’s going on. There have been three chapters to my life so far, three parts, three acts, and now it’s over. I’m going to die. What’s the point in striving to be clean if it can all be broken at any given moment, on the run? I’m giving up, I know, in a way, I shouldn’t be talking like this, but it is what it is. I know an addict girl who I have unconditional love for, and I don’t care if she uses day in and day out, I’ll still love her. I don’t mind if she sticks a vial of heroin in her groin, starts slobbering, and conks out in front of Midsummer Murders pumped up at maximum volume. In fact, I love her because she is an addict. What does it matter, is what I suppose I’m saying, what we are. What does it matter what we are at all? We’re all connected.

 

Laura Dark

A woman named Laura Dark has gotten hold of me. She dragged me out of church on Sunday morning and led me to her DVDs in the ‘loop shop’. I purchased, 2 for £50. Then I went home and scored. An 8-ball of coke. It was mint. I had a day of hedonism with that and with her. It’s all very disappointing. I was doing so well. I doubt I will ever do so well again. It’s okay though, because I have done well. I’m thinking that maybe the times of doing well are over, and now I just have free reign to enjoy myself a bit. I’m not stealing for it, or committing any kind of crime. I would never do that, because I’m not able. There isn’t a violent bone in my body.

My boy Badger robbed a shop in order to fund his crack addiction, and was sent down to jail. It can’t work, that, robbing for profit. I get high on my benefit allowance. It had to be the coke because my phet dealer is in prison. He’s out in two weeks. Laura Dark has put me on a dastardly path, one that I can’t seem to locate my way off off any time soon. I was praising the Lord for my time with her. Thank you for this revolution of hedonism God. But then the psychosis kicked in. And the hell. And everything else. But Laura remains. I’m ticking down the hours until the next payday. Maybe something will change and distract my mind from her.

The psychosis was the usual bullsh*t. I’ve been there a thousand times before. This time, my mind was totally blank, unable to mount a defence. Voices galore, and videos in my mind. The main purpose of my command voices is to convince me that they are somehow superior to me. I’m not bothered about someone or something being superior to me. There was a hint of that creature underneath my bed, but it didn’t materialise into the physical realm. I wasn’t that bothered. I started playing poker with myself, and drinking Uri Gellers (Stellas). I had a few nice hands, really taking my time with them, working out all the possibilities, taking notice like, you know. I got a Queen on the river, something that I always strive to achieve. That made up a hand of three Queens with King and Pocket Rocket Ace kickers. Extremely satisfying. Almost a full house.

 

 

A Bit Of Bennie

Now then White Voider, how’s life? Things all dandy here at the moment. I’m flying like Neville f**king Bartos. Spoken to the Samaritans this morning, as is usual when I’m doing well. Her name was Maud. I begin every conversation by saying, “Hello, my name is Andy. I’m a schizophrenic who’s addicted to pornography and amphetamines.” Hell of an opening line isn’t it? You wouldn’t use it in a nightclub though would you?

You only get one chance to make a first impression. I remember when I met Bennie, my personal and special overseer spirit, in the real world. It was in an art gallery. I’d preordained the meeting years earlier in a short story, about two lovers who meet in an art gallery. Although myself and Bennie were never lovers, she did kiss me on my doorstep one morning when she came down for a coffee. That little peck meant a lot to me. I was planning to lay the lips on her myself, which I would have done if I hadn’t have had cocaine the night before. I had it in my head the evening earlier – I’m really gunna lay the lips on her. But then porn and that god-awfully expensive stim got in the way. I’ll settle for second best outcome here – she laid the lips on me.

I really miss her a lot I do. When we first met, our eyes locked. We held eye contact for just a fraction longer than what was natural. Time stood still when we first made that eye contact, I’ll remember the moment forever, I swear. It was so monumental. She is so stunningly beautiful, with her Germanic roots an all. So pretty. I see her now on a unicorn made out of ice with a gold trident, all weapon-upped like. I once gave her my entire mind, if that can begin to make any sense to someone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I was hallucinating, and she was with me, and I gave her all of the positive contents out of my head. Spirits do that to me all the time, give me energy and brain aura capabilities and stuff, so I repaid one of their favours. It looks like neat arrows of light, like the flash of a quick torch beam. Your thoughts speed up sporadically as soon as you receive it. I’ve done it a couple of times myself, in prayer with people. I just send out energy. Usually, of late, there’s a grey alien inside of it! These energetic parcels, if you will, can keep one going.

I usually receive them from a mask I have in my bedroom. Red Jacket lives inside it. She possesses the mask. She also looks like the mask, on one of her dual identities (the other one looks like an old lover from way back when). When I’m coming down on amphetamines, and my mind is blank, and the oppressive voices are taking control of my psyche, then she’ll step in and send me a little something. This stuff is real, this spectral energy, this aura transferral, I’ve seen it many times. One of the best translucent emanations I ever got was the Shape of Love from her. It was a glassy rectangle containing smoke and water, like the glassy safe containing the baddies at the end of Superman. I also received a lantern one time; that was quite special like. I even saw an angel give a parcel to God once. It looked like a cold blue slither of svelte neon light. I asked him to tell me what it was but he said it was private!

I’ve been watching a lot of Ricky Gervais lately. He’s a remarkable soul, but ultimately godless. I know what he’d think about me rambling on about auras and angels and that but I remain convinced that there is something out there, and that it is majestic. I know it in my heart. Far too many things have happened for me to remain an atheist anymore, which is what I used to be, just like Ricky. I believe in creationism and revelation. I think that science and the history books might be a big fat lie. I wouldn’t trust humans as far as I can spit. You know what they’re like with power and wealth and all that materialism nonsense. A fellow writer called Terry Edge who used to be my email buddy hit the nail on the head. He said something like this: School and society make you strive for and obtain all the things which you don’t really need, while simultaneously not mentioning the utterly vital components of life which are essential in order to have a healthy mind and soul. Or something like that. Where in school does it say anything about being haunted by ghosts from the spirit realm. Or psychosis. Or amphetamine addiction. Or conquering demons. Nothing. It doesn’t. It’s just spreadsheets and Shakespeare. Essays and algebra. Doctrines and dogma. Which is what old Ricky there denounces the bible as.

About four months ago I was in a masturbatory catatonic state on the floor, watching porn, spaced out to the max on phet. The sun had rose and sank on me, I was in a nowhere place. So that was when one of my perps decided to infiltrate my apartment. Yes, I had an intruder while I was present in the property. It wasn’t the first time. It was a Chinese guy who was there to stab me in the heart and bring me underground to revive me for eternal hellfire. I ended up hiding in the cupboard like a coward. It was then that a beautiful little boy emerged out of my aura and confronted the intruder. He told him that he would be going to Hell himself if he laid a finger one me. I felt rescued and saved and amazing. It was an incredible experience. The intruder left and shut the door behind him!