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…