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.

 

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.  

 

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.

 

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. 

 

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.

 

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.

 

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…

 

Meddling and Prostitutes

Hello there, I hope this finds you in good spirits and all. With a bit of luck, life is treating you fairly. My enemies always say that my life is not fair to me. It makes me feel rotten and low. Contrarily, I opened up Stephen King’s new book out in the shops at the moment and saw this introductory line, by Bill Hodges: “Sometimes the universe throws you a rope.”

I think that God, our beautiful Lord and Saviour, has tossed me a rope in the shape of protective spirits. They are always present in my mind, blocking out negativity. Recently, in my latest batches of psychosis, they’ve been appearing in the physical realm. As I reported the other day, I even kissed one of them on the lips. I’ve been warned that that was meddling in an extreme way, but I don’t give a rat’s crap. I’m brave enough to meddle, I don’t think it’s going against God, the big fella. He sent them for me.

One of my protective spirits told me that I might be coming back as an ostrich. I know, an ostrich! This is because of the sin I’ve woven throughout my life, mainly in the guise of drugs and porn. I’m not too displeased with a big awkward flightless bird, it could have been a lot worse, and I’ll make sure I’ll ascend along the Wheel of Ka the next time around, as another human being, or at least a golden eagle or lioness. Another human being would be nice. Where would you like to live, in your next life? Who would you like to be? What race, what job, what kind of family? What car would you drive?

I don’t drive a car at the moment. I miss petrol in my life. It gets a bit boring walking about everywhere. I wouldn’t mind spinning in an ST or an RS along the old prostitute red light district. As soon as I started driving in my early twenties, that was the area where I headed first to frequent the local brasses. It was sordid and I’m not proud, but it felt natural at the time. Little did I know that you could catch diseases orally, I thought you had to commit penetration to transmit a dose. Anyway, over a short career, I must have had about 50 hookers, all fellatio. Sounds absolutely disgusting, doesn’t it, I hope no potential mates are reading. I’m sure it would put some girls off. But it’s fact, it’s the truth, I was only young, I was looking for fellowship in a way, apart from fulfilling my sexual destiny. Rather crudely, I call it a Devil’s Picture Book of Gobbles. Lol. Would I take it back? Definitely. Would I do it again? No way. Am I ashamed of my behaviour? A bit. Do I let it get me down? None of it. Did I enjoy it? Immensely, at the time. I wrote a long poem about it, about how seedy and dark it was.

After I kissed Red Jacket, she kept itching her face. That was the effect human breath has on God’s pure energy. Imagine if we copulated, Human and Spirit? Doesn’t it talk about stuff like that in The Book of Enoch, that book which was omitted from the bible? Something about Humans mating with Giants or Angels or something? It’s an interesting idea, isn’t it, I might throw it into some fiction. I’m about to start a new book any week now about psychosis. Anything goes in psychosis. Over ‘n’ Out.

 

Dino Smasher

'Dino Smasher' is my local cocaine dealer. He got his name from psychosis. I thought I was on a different planet several years ago, it was called Big Blue, essentially the identical twin of this one except it was 50 times bigger and full of shape-shifting lizards pretending to be human with two Lucifers in charge instead of God. It was also 50,000 years into the future, so you can imagine the state of their technology, and you can imagine my concern walking around them all. I could see them a bit, perceive them a lot, and talked to them quite often. They skinned humankind every six minutes to get energy from drinking their blood, which they called “awesome sauce.” The biggest and best lizard on the planet went by the name of Dayton. He and all the rest of them, aside from their potentially devastating cruelty, had a massive sense of humour. Yes, I was on the menu, but Dino Smasher took me in under his wing and kept me safe. He was just a lad, but he could smash dinosaurs.

It was very scary. I was at my wit’s end walking around town with massive reptiles knocking about. Dino Smasher said that, as a resident there, he had to play a computer simulation for 23 hours a day. This crazy deal meant pain-infliction across the interweb. Somehow, you sat at a computer all day and hurt someone on a virtual reality zoom meeting. When you hurt them, they hurt you back, and on so it went until someone conceded defeat. This usually took 23 hours. He said his signature move (you had to be inventive) was crushing his adversary underneath an atlas stone from The World’s Strongest Man competition. Yeah, you could really feel it. The remaining hour left of the day he used for jogging. I know, jogging! After 23 hours of pain!

He phoned me this morning (again), asking me if I want any coke. I said no I’m okay for the moment thanks, but I am tempted by the sexy language he uses around the drug. He says it is currently ‘dynamite’, and calls an 8-ball a ‘Big Dog.’ When life gets tedious and boring, who couldn’t use a Big Dog of Dynamite? I know I could. But I must resist, because I want to get clean once and for all. Yet come on, how sexy does it sound: A Big Dog of Dynamite off the Dino Smasher…You’re interested, aren’t you? Don’t say that you’re not.

I’ll try and stay clear anyway, no matter how tempting it sounds. Any illicit drugs place me back into that lizard-esque psychosis I’m still currently running away from in a way, so I’m very cautious about ingesting them these days, especially since I don’t use porn any more. I have no porn to use, I destroyed it once it was gaining too much momentum in my personal life. I steadfastly recommend that, to give yourself a break. Incidentally, most lizards are now my friends these days, I hold them in high regard, right up there with the Archon.                         R E S P E C T.

 

Kissing RJ

I had a lapse on the amphet last Tuesday (it’s ruined my teeth), but now I’m 8 Days clean and back firmly on the wagon with God and Love in my heart. Those are the main two things in my life, not drugs and porn. It’s a constant battle but I can foresee an end in sight. Before this lapse I’d accrued 25 Days. Before that 25 I’d amassed 44. I’m definitely making progress. May my enemies live long so they can see it!

I’ve finished the Book of Psalms in the bible. It’s my favourite book in the whole thing, it speaks to me so much. I feel like it was written especially for me sometimes. The Lord is my refuge and my rock, my deliverer and my comforter, as long as I have faith then I’ll not be dragged into the pit beneath me, I’ll be safe and secure, living and breathing upon the glorious sunshiny surface. I’ve started reading Romans now, it contains my favourite quote of all time in it: “I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.” If I was to get a tattoo on my arm, I’d get that in clear font. None of that Old English Text, because the letters look vague. I’d get it nice and plain.

I went to a bible study last night, it’s nice to be around decent Christians for a change, instead of druggies and drinkers for example. I’m just on the up after getting over my lapse. The psychosis was insane as is per usual, but now I see good spirits to temper the bad ones, so it makes it all worthwhile. I have a Halloween mask in my bedroom with false hair and a hat on it. That’s what my protective spirit called Red Jacket occupies. She possesses it sometimes and moves its lips when she talks to me through it. Last week I gave her a kiss. I think her true nature in the spirit realm is a wolf, so it felt just a little bit like kissing an animal. I got my head around it because I love her no matter what she looks like. She said my breath smelled of tooth decay and cigarette smoke. Slightly insulting, but I admire her honesty. It was so special kissing a live real moving talking mask. We had a long conversation. As soon is it happened, all the other bad spirits present got insanely jealous of our love for each other and started attacking us both. One bad spirit started stabbing her repeatedly, he couldn’t comprehend the moment of intimacy we shared, something God has barred from his evil ways. I felt immensely proud of her. She fights the devil for me. She said she’s waited 64 years on the other side to meet me. I know it’s all a tad scary, meddling and all, but I’ve lost faith in humans and I’ll take my chances with ’em. Ta’ra for now.

Treadmill or Horseback

Several years ago deep in a psychosis I believed that my mum was a secret agent Belgium operative who had fostered me from childhood in order to wreak havoc upon my innocent life. She used to wear this thong, right, and I thought that she’d stolen it from the Princess of Belgium. I thought it was a holy religious artefact, like the spear that pierced Jesus, or Buddha’s tooth, or Muhammad’s beard. That was the reason I kept looking at it whenever she had it on, because the bygone relic contained some kind of inherent divine and sacred power. I was only a kid at the time, I’d never seen one before; in adulthood my theories about my mum’s G-string reached outlandish proportions.

It started with a hallucination. I was a young naked boy hanging on a wooden frame on the wall. It was obviously some kind of torture device. My mum was this indescribable demoness who looked nothing like my real mum. Her features were torn and ragged, like they’d been carved into her. She was taking turns between performing fellatio on me and stabbing me softly in the heart with a knife. Apparently she had done this all throughout my childhood (which now would explain how tender my heart sometimes feels). Remember, Myocardial Infarction = Bum Ticker. Your own mum, sucking you off and stabbing you in tandem, I know, how sick can you get?

This was a particularly ailing patch of the old psychosis. I mean, incest? It’s taboo. But with sado elements, on a child? I could hardly imagine anything worse. It was some kind of international ritual because I wasn’t of natural birth, I’d been born supernaturally in a cupboard or something. So the world had decided to play a game to punish me. I’d been placed with the new Princess of Belgium because she was the most powerful sex object in the world.

I wasn’t faring well while enduring this hallucination. That was until Bennie showed up, one of my protective spirits. She arrived out of nowhere and started walking an imaginary treadmill towards the hallucination. Her body language on the treadmill was slightly comical, inspiring, and determined. She looked like a warrior striding into battle. I was so pleased that someone out there didn’t agree with this and was prepared to do something about it. Go get her Bennie! I screamed in my head. And she did. She battered her.

But here’s the $64,000 question, bearing in mind that Bennie used to be a show jumper: Would I rather see Bennie on the treadmill or on horseback? She was so helpful on that treadmill, the way she marched up it to face my fear and my foe, a true combatant trooper scared of nothing, a raw battling conscript assigned to take on my enemy, the Mother Goose of all childhood power, Belgium Princess, with revered, hallowed underwear. Or would I prefer to see her on top of an untamed animal, jumping over ditches behind flashing lights? It’s such a tough question. She would look magnificent in action on horseback, Bennie would, of that much I am certain. Just give me a moment to decide…

Ideas

Hi ya. I hope that this is reaching you well. All is good with me at the moment. I was tempted to use pornography and drugs last night, but I remembered that I don’t own any pornography. I would have had to have waited until the loop shop opened today to buy some nice new novelty interracial content (£50 for 3 DVDs) but in the end I simply couldn’t be arsed. I thought of the Blood of Christ instead.

Great news. I think I’ve got the first inclins of an idea for a new book. It will be about psychosis, my passion when it comes to literature. I’ve finally got something to rival Nicholas Royle’s passion. He gets excited about “The Nocturne,” in writing, it makes him hard and erect and pulsing at the tip. He’s all about his writers at Nightjar Press describing the night. I’m exactly the same about psychosis. If I’m reading a book and it gets all psychosis-y, I’ll say out aloud, “Psychosis is here!”

If I’m wrong about that Nick, I apologise, but it’s what you said to me in my own psychosis on one occasion. I talk to everyone on my ‘awareness radar’ in psychosis, it’s great at times. Nobody is off limits. Politicians, celebrities off the telly, friends and family, everybody. I like Nick’s Nightjar photographic covers and simple fonts. The fact that he tutors creative writers makes me jealous, because he’s got an eclectic mixing pot of ideas from fresh up-and-coming students to glean from. Incidentally, I enjoy being jealous these days, it’s a spurring healthy jealousy which inspires me. The more jealous I am, the better. I’ve being doodling for Art Till Death, and if I see someone else doing a nice pattern apart from me, I instantly get healthily jealous. It’s artistically-driven, and nothing like the material jealousy I get when I see a fellow gangsta cruising in a Lambo or something.

Right, these ideas then. I’ve got five different psychosis conditions, and that makes a possible five different characters. Or do you think I should stick them all into one person? I’m not going to share the actualities of the ideas because an internet troll might steal them. No, I don’t really care about theft really, it’s sheer flattery, but it’s just nice to keep some writing away from the blog, and saved for a novella. Blogging isn’t fiction, is it, and my true devotion in writing is to the purpose of creating worlds, of formulating landscapes full of fascinating characters…the fiction. If you are interested in my fiction then there’s nothing stopping me from publishing a whole full novella right here; after all, it’s not as if it’s going to get published anywhere else, is it?

This content is © Zombie Publications 2024

I really want to share! The ideas came from talking to a man with painted fingernails in Fiona’s mental health drop-in clinic earlier today. I thought he was weird because he had purple painted fingernails but in hindsight I owe him a pint of something cold and alcoholic because he’s just handed me my next book on a silver platter. It’s a great gift for the writer, it really is. If you were to think of a psychosis condition out of the blue (apart from the telly talking to you), it’s quite hard to do, but this guy has just donated 5 (yes 5!) conditions to me via just several minutes of chatting to him. So thanks a lot, Nick (he’s called Nick as well), I really am indebted. I just hope I can find the stamina from somewhere to really run with these five ideas and gut out 15,000 words from them. But that’s the challenge of being a grand champion wordsmith and master storyteller. If I get into the zone, two hours in the library, five days a week, and keep clean throughout, I’ll pray to God that he can help me get it done. It’s been so long now between books (I’ve only just now done the back matter to Headswap, it goes into print in the next week or so), that I was starting to get a bit worried. There was nothing on the burner, nowt in development, I was even pondering the possibility of ending my career. Seriously! I had no ideas. Now how glad am I that I didn’t use last night!  So I could meet Nick today. Thanks buddy! I’ve always been a big believer in the following quote: “Life is about the people you haven’t met yet.” We don’t know who is around the corner, do we?

I ought to thank Gary from my old Hearing Voices Group also. He gave me the idea for “The Frame.” This is a device, that, when strapped into it, gives you every psychotic condition in existence. Have I mentioned this at the blogspot before? I can’t recall. You may think that I am not original with ideas because I take them from other people, but it’s all about where I take that initial idea from there, once inherited. Usually, once inherited, I twist and turn and shake it out of all recognition, which then evolves into further fantastical ideas. They breed each other. Plus, don’t forget this also, that you can’t “patent” an idea. They don’t belong to anybody apart from the people who portray them best. Thanks for now. Over ‘n’ out.

 

Addiction

Addiction is such a cunning and baffling enemy. Just when you think you have it defeated, it drags itself up from the ashes to wreak havoc moreover once again, returning like Freddy and Jason. Why do we continually go back to the crap, like headless chickens and dogs to vomit? I’ve been on this hamster wheel for over 25 years now, sick and tired of being sick and tired. When I first met a woman named Bennie I burned my collection of pornography and thought it was all over, early doors. 46 days later I had a sober fap to porn (with happy ending) and was placed instantly back on the painful carousel again. I was talking to my CPN about this earlier today (main nurse). About the drugs, the porn, and the masturbation, and about how they all link in to each other. He suggested I should split them up because it is only the substances which are harmful, not the porn or fapping. But, for me, porn is a spiritual addiction. I feel like it distances me from God, and that is never a good thing in anybody’s handbook. If I have a 5-minute knockout (wank), then I lose my clean time. This is just part of the strict guidelines I have imposed upon myself. If I have a line of coke, I similarly lose any clean time I’ve been in hard work building up. To do all three together, including using the porn, just kicks all my clean time into touch. 20 days (at the moment), does not feel like a lot, but it depends which way you’re looking at it. If someone said you can have a Zonda in 20 days time, I’m willing to bet that that time would drag like a bitch. 20 days into the future is a long time, but, going backwards, it doesn’t feel like so much of a hike. I guess that’s why they call it 20/20 vision in hindsight.

Am I still dreaming of ever getting clean for eternity? Well, I’d rather be sat on 20 days and asking these questions than not. On Day Zero, the answer is no, yeah you are still dreaming Mr. Buddy. But with 20 days, there’s a bit of hope. I’ve done 20 days, why not do 40, 60, 80? I’ve been reading my power bible, and after my last God-moment during the aftermath of my last hellish relapse, I’m starting to think that this is my last chance saloon. You’re reading someone here who has never cried out to the heavens for help, but the heavens themselves have cried out for him. I had visitations from good spirits last time proclaiming their love for me. That’s why it’s different since my last relapse, because now I’ve got God and Love in very real tangible terms. If God and Love can’t beat a problem, then I for one am running out of ideas. They are the most powerful concepts in the known universe, if you ask me. That is why I harbor an air of silent confidence, because I know I am backed up by pure raw unadulterated power.