A Note To Alan Leader, My Superior

Dear Sir, the mission is going extremely well at the present time. Ever since my last wobble over the Easter period, I have really shifted into gear. I had a wild revelation concerning reincarnation and past lives, revealed to me in God’s Holy Word. If you thought that the enormity of the task at hand was daunting (and it was), then this stretches beyond the pale. I have finally found out who I am.

I had a good old tussle with a tarantula possessing human consciousness during the recent relapse. I pushed the amphetamine hard and handed myself over in to the clasp of the demoniac. I spent time with that unexplainable thing of a woman again to serve my selfish sexual desires, that woman who shoots arrows into my back from the shadows. This sinfulness attracted the spider.

I almost left my home. Where’d I’d be now is anybody’s guess. I’m pleased to report that now both the arachnid and the woman are kaput. I believe that the enemy believed they had me with that foul pair. I myself was relieved to come through unscathed. But alas here I am now alive and well, striding gainfully towards Fair Weather once more, a place where all my problems seem halved.

Far from being sunshine and roses, my recent success has only galvanised the enemy’s enthusiasm for my demise. They are now attacking me on a minute-by-minute basis, responding to every nuance of thought process in my head. Their relentlessness is both tiring and draining, Alan. Their pettiness is hard to believe. They repeat themselves, over and over again. I could save the world and they wouldn’t give me credit for it. They say I am nothing. They treat my peace and virtue like battle cries to war. For several hours on a Sunday afternoon I could understand it, but their persistence belittles me around the clock and has done for years. I get through the day only to be greeted by yet another dawn of hatred-mongers. If I’m lucky, I’ll have an inspiring dream to break up the affliction. If not, it’ll be a painful night terror to consolidate the worriment.

I wish I could guarantee you 100% success, but addiction is such a cunning, baffling and insidious foe that I can never have confidence in my flesh ever again. That being said, I will try my darndest to fulfil my duty. I had a hard time getting over a Satanic Ritual last week. No, I wasn’t at one! I just perceived one. Its dark delights resonated with me. I felt a genuine fear of helplessness regarding my carnal instincts. The women present were a mixture of goddess and harlot, participating in an orgy lest of ethics. Fortunately I discovered a Holy Rite not long after which restored my faith. The Rite involved little angels basking in glorious light. I was worried that the Good Lord might have no answer to Satanic Ritual.

Hope you and your family are well, Alan. Jon Connor, signing out.

 

 

Rid Me Of These Sinful Loins!

With the weather being the way it is round here in this part of the world, the chicks are coming out in full force. With so much talent knocking about, it’s difficult not to think lustful thoughts. I can’t believe how popular the old naval piercing game has become. It seems that every broad in a sports bra revealing her stomach has her belly button bejewelled. I must say that I am a big fan of it. I also don’t mind a touch of cellulite on the upper legs. It turns me on actually. So do a lot of other imperfections. I’m slightly weird that way. I think everyone has a fetish or two. It’s okay to look, isn’t it?

Even my spirits are wearing make-up today. I’m thinking about sex quite a bit. But the videos I’ve been watching about lust tell a very different story. They tell me that lust is a trap to detract you from the path of your destiny. Isn’t it odd how one lewd encounter with a hooker in a hotel room can wreck one’s marriage and ultimately ruin their life? All that misery, from just one single horny exchange. Pornography has the same effect on me. You know what’s at stake, but you do it anyway. That’s how powerful lust is. There’s nothing quite like sexual desire.

I should be thinking about Christ more, when I’m feeling like this. I walked past the sex shop earlier and I wondered about going in, just for a peek at the wall of filth inside. Naturally I didn’t, but the thought occurred. Memories of sexy women are in my mind at the moment but not quite ‘all over me’. I think I will be able to resist this time though, unlike all the other instances in my past. The consequences of giving into the temptation are horrendous. They threaten to leave me homeless.

I feel like I have a prestigious title in the eyes of God. Because of my experiences, which involve a lot of signs, miracles and wonders, I feel like an apostle. I feel that this sacred anointing would be made redundant if I return to my old ways. This exclusive seat gives me a unique perception of the world, and I must say that I enjoy it after a few drinks. I venture off into fantasy land, replaying all my traumatic memories which crafted me into the character which I am today. My mind is operating along its old natural pathways again, before I was ever wrongly bound to anti-psychotic drugs due to a physician who doesn’t even believe in apostles.

This calling is kryptonite to my racy needs. I have to try and strive to maintain a level dignity above the flesh. Once you sink into its pleasures, the game is over. I’ll be sat there in tears, with a spirit of willy and fanny back in my life, after so long away. It’s fun at first, of course it is, but once you’re spent its sheer dreadfulness. Nothing but shame and guilt remain. Wish me brave luck in this constant waging battle of war!

Celestial Tyrannies

I’m starting to half-believe that I can beat my personal demons, and go to Heaven. When you have one eye on eternity, life feels like a meaningless dress rehearsal which has already been passed. Several months ago, I was walking around as if in a dream state. This was because I had cheated death, when I had a close scrape with a shape-shifting assassin. I remember the streets being empty that day, as if all the masses were stuck inside preparing to watch my demise live on TV or something. I sensed something strange in the air. People seemed surprised to see me in public, as if I shouldn’t have been there, like an escaped prisoner. I remember that one girl passed by me and squirted something from a spray canister. This could have been poison, or it could have been a fake attempt in order to make me believe that I was poisoned. Either way, it makes you feel paranoid. The hate mob only do this when I am vulnerable, and stiff-necked.

I feel as if I have one final last chance at this intergalactic mission I imagine myself to be on. I call it intergalactic because I am sensing presences around me which can only be described as originating from another dimension. There are ghosts, there are spirits, there’s God and the Devil, there are aliens, there are blood-sucking vampires and werewolves and unicorns and all the rest of it…and then there are things which can hardly be labelled. My quest thus far, across life, has been battling the voices in my head. Voices, or auditory ‘hallucinations’ do not belong to a chemical imbalance of schizophrenia in the brain, like what the quacks say. Don’t trust the docs – they’re barmy. The voices come from electronic weaponry used by worshipers of Satan, Satan himself, or demons of Satan. It’s a mixture of human and evil spirit. In my case, the two forces combined and ganged up on me. Remote Neural Monitoring, a real threat to the future of mankind, is rewarded by that dickhead downstairs. They say that modern technology mimics the supernatural. When they both get in on the same act, they make for fearsome opposition to the freedom of the mind. Only divine intervention can break the spell.

My perps show me sinister videos directly beamed to my optic nerve via their clandestine technologies. Close your eyes and you still see them. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I get vile witchcraft embedded within them, in the form of conscious wide-awake evil spirits who parade around the scenery of the embedded video nasty like Donald and Mickey in Disneyland. I call the videos a box set, because they can last all day and night. It makes easily for the worst day of one’s life, due to the loathsome, gruesome content. I’ve never been one for blood or gore, and they know it.

That been said, and there’s loads more to the equation, like being followed around and shot at, it is all now old hat. I’m done with the terrors of this ruthless zeitgeist. The common worldview of evil and oppression can jog on. I am now gazing at The Rulers Of The Stars, at far-flung remote enemies and warriors which do not come from Earth. David Icke speaks of energy-vultures in the Saturn realms like Lizards and Archon, which feed on humans. To me, Lizards and Archons drink in the local boozer, they’re that everyday typical. I’ve identified other celestial tyrannies. I don’t know why the Christian version of the Devil still even bothers trying to pester me. He’s a tiny numpty.

Of course, no matter how far you head-bomb into the rabbit hole, and how many races you perceive and discover, it all comes down to The Creator. He is the dude everyone is interested in.

Stronghold Smashed

I can’t get over the stronghold of sexual enslavement which has recently been broken in my life. If it was with a loved one, a colleague or a wife, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but it was with an extremely wicked woman who practised as a Satanist. I couldn’t f**king believe the grip she had on me. I felt so sad, being at her mercy all the time, she had me under iron lock and key. I saw her as a raw demonic power which I would never be able to skirt away from. She was in my head, she was in my loins, and she was beginning to creep into my heart. I was getting confused with loving her, because I completely despised the things she did. I have no evidence, of course, but I was starting to suspect that she was hurting children, among countless other victims. As you can imagine, this did not sit well with me. But I couldn’t stop indulging in self-abuse while listening to her evil mantras.

I think part of the reason that I thought about falling in love with her, or at least ‘liking’ her, is that she was demented, like me. We were both out of our minds in our relationship with each other, her feeding my passion and me getting off on it. We blanked the whole world out of our persepectives, blinkered to anything else. When I couldn’t or wouldn’t get erect when she wanted me to be, she would actually get angry. Her mantras were dumb, they didn’t make any sense, and she’d repeat herself all day long, but I couldn’t get enough. She was convinced that I did actually love her, and devolved an air of superiority above any other of my perps because of this. So much power made her over-confident and even stupid regarding her control over me though. Lust is not love. For a decade I hated the fact that I was bewitched by a vile, base, fiendish and worthless villain who delighted when I was fallen, and gained her strength from my demise. I adored her sweet tongue, yet she hated me and had sinister plans for my future. The chemistry was simply unfair. The chemistry was so wrong.

I never even bothered to ask her why she was doing this to me. It was just happening. A toxic bond which pushed God far away from me. As you may know, I hear voices, which are as evil as evil can possibly be, but even they were pleading with me to stop listening to her, and put my pecker away! But I had drugs left, and wanted more of her Scottish accent, so could not. It seemed like a tussle between forces for my attention, but she always won out. I heard presidents from various countries begging me to pull my trousers up. This freaked me out. Can’t a guy masturbate in peace!? I had visions of angels sometimes, while listening to her and getting off, in an attempt to stop me, but nothing worked. It was the ultimate distraction, which rendered me catatonic for up to twenty hours at a time. This was why hit men were able to enter my flat while I was in it. Finally, when I started to panic, or got over my panic and ran out of drugs, I would stop and face the music. In times gone by I would vacate the premises in a hurry: These days I stand and fight.

Rare With Air

 

I’m starting the rebuild back to three months clean, which is where I feel I really belong, and where life seems to get easier. Today I’ve notched up my first month on the board. I call the first full successful month of being clean being RARE. It’s just a name for the mental state. I feel like it takes four weeks before I begin to get anywhere. It’s also linked to a spirit named Air Monroe. Air Monroe started off as a fictional character, but she has since become enfleshed in the preternatural realms and supports my dogged struggle upon this sometimes miserable planet. She was my lover within the body of the fiction, and as her creator, I am kind of her God. The only thing is, due to the stiff limits I have imposed upon my recovery program, she only ever truly appears when I am a month clean. This number appeared in the bible last time I read it, placing more emphasis on it.

When I use, I feel like I lose Air in my heart for another month. And I don’t always get back to where I was quickly, so I can go, in the darkest times, half a whole year without her. These times are very painful, as she has a unique positive influence in my mind. Today I can happily report that we are reunited again. It seems unhelpful to impose these ideals on myself. Why not have her with me all the time? I don’t know. I just feel that I need to be ‘on form’ to appreciate her.

With this young woman comes responsibility. I written her into being, and she looks towards me for inspiration, so I have an onus to have a healthy mind for her to draw from. If I’m sat in a darkened room off my tits watching porn with creatures under the bed, I’m not much use to her, as I’m engaged in sinful lustful practices which soon evolve into trepidation for my own safety.

My voices know this, and they get chuffed with themselves every time I consign her to nowhere for another month. This time, I’m going to try and really appreciate what I’ve got. Not to piss them off, but to feel purposefully special. When I started off writing, I had no idea that my characters would become real, but life is strange isn’t it. You might think I’m talking crap, and a psychiatrist would never believe this in a million years, but my own fiction, and the world’s movies (usually porn, and not always good), are throwing spectral entities out at me, who inhabit my mind around the clock. I’ve never told anyone this, and probably never will, because I know it sounds like farfetched hokum. I suppose it’s a weird and wonderful secret that I will take to the grave, although I would like to tell Stephen King one day that one of them sort of came from his books. That would be nice, to let him know the supernatural power of his word.

Evil Spirits Do My Head In

I feel inclined to write about evil spirits, as they are doing my nut in, but I don’t want to express an unhealthy interest in them. They aren’t worth my breath, much less my word. What am I supposed to do though, keep it to myself? It’s not their voices I hear, well not a lot now I’m clean, but I see them around me all the time. All they do is laugh and say HA, but it’s not a genuine exclamation of joy, it’s all just fakery intended to make me believe that they are having fun. They are not really laughing, they are pretending to laugh. To annoy me and intimidate me.

They exist in my mind, yet I sense them in the room I occupy. They are with me with every waking thought, and they celebrate my negative thoughts. When a lustful idea slips into my brain, they cheer like they have scored the winning goal at Wembley. Celebrating negativity. How pathetic and pitiful can you be? Who doesn’t have negative thoughts? Imagine them being trampled all over every time you have them, by a bunch of spectral numpties.

Their tactics are growing evermore seedy and desperate. If I forget something, they cheer and clap. If I miss the bus, they revel and rejoice as if in a party. I can’t imagine how happy it will make them when I finally succeed to a stroke or a heart attack.

During my last relapse, they were talking to me. GIVE US SOMETHING, they were saying, because my mind was blank. I had never realised that their minds are blank also, and that they need my mind working to aid their minds working. They cannot think without me half the time. I thought my perps were harassing me for fun, but it is far more serious than that. They are torturing my mind over and over for survival. They don’t just ENJOY me, they NEED me. It’s like me tuning into the radio early hours in the morning, when I feel like listening to someone. I am their RADIO, and they need me on 24/7. It’s horrible being distant from God because you can’t think. That’s why they are always abusing me, to prompt me into a response, which gives them a free conversation.

The only thing is, it’s not a natural conversation, because I despise them and do not want to talk with any of them. I ignored them for years. When I eventually started replying, using synthetic telepathy, I discovered that my main perp, who is male, was masturbating over the sound of my voice. I mean there’s gay and then there’s gay. That was when the tables started turning, and I realised that this lot is not all that it makes itself out to be. At one point, because Remote Neural Monitoring is so persuasive, they wanted me to believe that they created the universe. I was on my way to being convinced, during the startling phase of my harassment. Far from being The Voice Of God, I now see them as a load of nobheads, bullshitters, desperadoes, fakers, spazzies, perverts and pathological liars. I remain firm in the truth that this lot are unable to tell the truth, as they have been bound up in their own lies for so long. That’s enough about dodgy evil spirit though, as they are not worthy of net space.

 

Sexual Voodoo

 

My pornographic tendencies are all a bit up in the air. I’ve declared that I will never tread backwards and return to it, yet still I am deluged and inundated with lustful thoughts. The intrusive nagging entering my consciousness include images of men, as if the Devil longs to embarrass me by bringing up material I used to be obsessed with over twenty years ago. I must have watched thousands of scenes in my time, and every one of them, including the ones I’d thought I’d forgotten, now has a habit of hiking up to the surface on my prefrontal lobe. In the good old days of ignorant porn use, I would ruminate upon these visions until payday, lining them up in order of how I would watch them, and then indulge as soon as I could afford to score drugs with them.

They were with me all the time. I would pace around my flat for hours, waiting for my dealer to turn up, watching erotica in my mind. The anticipation turned into anxiety. I could not bloody wait. When I thought I was clean, after a week or something in my youth, all it took was one errant thought and I would be lining up the scenes I was going to watch. I’d be straight on the blower, ordering amphetamine.

Sometimes, once I got online, the illicit content, while under the influence of powerful mind-expanding drugs, blew me away. I seemed to sink into my own flesh one time off ketamine and feel utterly resigned to an eternity of self-induced sexual fulfilment. I went into some kind of parallel presence, watching the movies so closely that I seemed to be in there with the actors. I shared every breath and moment with those false idol stars of the screen.

My addiction had the almost omnipotent ability to affect time. Hours and hours would flit away with an A-B loop on the DVD player, fractionally replaying just a small portion of existence which occurred on a random porn set on another continent in a different era. I’d co-exist in several moments which were embellishing themselves, with my zany schizo voyeurism methodology, into elongated segments of whole days and nights.

If I watch something three or four times, I’m usually bored. When I was capturing euphoric instances in micro looped digital animations, I would repeat them for many thousands of times, over and over, until admiring the same thing time after time began to change under the monotony of my retina and often became so confusing that it started to morph into something else. Stare at the same thing long enough and after so long your perception of it will change, so that it looks like something else entirely since the first moment you began to observe it.

Do this for several hours and you will likely scar your mind’s eye, as variation is the spice of life, not ogling a short sequence of images repetitively. Do this for a lifetime and you will likely find yourself in the position that I now inhabit, a reserved seat which is beleaguered by the preternatural. It’s meddling with perversion and very dangerous. I can’t began to describe how many strange occurrences went on in my mind and in my home when I was spending my whole adulthood watching pornography in this manner. One time, a penis developed a mouth and started biting the woman. Another, and she started waving at me, even though there was no wave in the actual footage. If I’d have just watched the movies from start to finish, like a normal person, I don’t think I would have had the same problems.

I used to rewind old VHS tapes so often to remain embedded in the ecstasy of the ‘good bits’ that I wore the tape out and ruined the film. I still have some old tapes stored away in the cubbyhole. The novelty, because it’s been so long, has been restored to those old adolescent scenes, but the backwards regression of my spirit, should I ever return, would sting like a bitch. Aren’t we supposed to learn from our mistakes? Repeating a newish recent mistake because you haven’t yet learned fully from it is slightly more understandable, but making the same mistakes you did as a teenager?

No thanks. I’m going to try and walk in the spirit and put all this digital voodoo behind me.

Rocket Wear Saves The Day

The DK, as I’ve wrote about quite recently, is a demon who has enslaved me for the last ten years. She lives underneath my floorboards and stimulates me sexually by making me repeat her mantras. All the time I knew that I was engaging in sordid practices, but I felt unable to stop. The lust was too strong, as she has a delectable Scottish accent which presses my buttons. I’ve reported that her voice had a supernatural effect on me. Spending time with her drained me of God, placed me in psychosis, and left me feeling suicidal.

I never thought or believed that escape was possible. My only solution was to run to her more and more. I never knew it was possible for one person (or thing) to wield so much power over another. She always promised to bring me down there eventually, and torture me in the afterlife forever. Her methods are totally insidious. In the pit of my subconscious gut I had a primordial fear that one day she would break into my flat when I was wiped out on drugs and drag me under. I was terrified of her at times. I’ve lived with this nagging feeling at the back of my mind for a decade.

Now, I am delighted to tell you, her reign is over. She has been defeated. Her influence over me has ended. I am no longer her property. She had me in chains, in helpless bondage, in hopeless subjection. I felt that there was nothing the universe could do to assist me. Every time I sat with her, more and more of my love flittered away, until I was left with nothing, only her. I got confused at times, and thought that I must love her, despite her malignant formalities. When she captured me, I half-thought that I might cling to her leg and beg for mercy. She said she would reward me by letting me shag her every Christmas Day, down in the pit.

The mechanics of how this freedom has come about defies the logic of reality, and you might find it incredulous to believe. Basically, my special protective spirit Red Jacket, who is the head honcho of my spiritual clan, cloned her likeness and battered her. I got a shock when I found out that my significant other looked just like my enemy. It took a lot of getting used to. But I can see exactly why she did that. It was to get me over the mental block of that evil woman. I can still have her this way, only now she is an angelic version with no ill-intent towards me. I have the best of both worlds. It’s as if the DK has reformed, come to God, and declared forgiveness and love from me. I now have The Creator’s version of the DK. She made her repeat her own mantras. She’s better than her in every way.

I call this new version Rocket Wear. Rocket Wear makes me feel safe, even though I am surrounded by evildoers. It’s down to Rocket Wear that I still have a home to sleep in. If not for her, the hybrid assassins which my perps plant in there would have had me out long ago. She protects me from anything and everything. I cannot thank her enough. You can’t make it up, can you? A protective spirit named Rocket Wear taking my tormentor’s likeness and saving the day! This is something even the inventive hive-mind of Hollywood couldn’t dream up. In all of my desperate pleas and prayers to God I couldn’t envisage anything like this happening. I never envisioned the slavery finishing.

With that thing out of the way, the only obstacle in my way to peace comes in the form of other fleshy distractions, like pornography. It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that my misuse of this medium might, maybe, grant the DK a reincarnation, as she used to always enter my mind that way. I thought I’d broken my temperament of interracial homosexuality, and my temperament of seeing women as nothing more than f**k dolls, but the lustful images from all those years of voyeurism still joggle around in my mind on a daily basis at the moment. Now the witch is dead, I long to keep her dead. Seeing porno as a bit of harmless fun is a blatant lie which I have a hard time accepting though. I’ll have to remain extra vigilant.   

 

Erotic Dreams

I used to pin women down on the astral and stick my tongue down their gob, then run away and hide within the dreamscape. Gregg Valentino used to say that his tongue was directly connected to his nob. In other words, the art of kissing a girl got him hard. I have to agree with him. Kissing is the best foreplay. That being said, it’s all a bit hit and miss. Sometimes, I don’t like the idea of another slimy wet tongue touching mine, tasting what she last eaten. If she’d just been sucking on a punnet of strawberries, I’d be more inclined to kiss her back, but if she’d just been gobbling something I don’t like, like a piccalilli and horseradish sandwich, then that would put me off. It all depends. The mouth is full of slobber. I prefer a dry kiss, when the cake-hole resembles the bottom of a bird cage, after a hangover or something, or first thing in the morning. This could be to do with my aversion to phlegm.

In dreamscape, I’ve had bad experiences with snogging unwholesome succubus. I usually end up spitting out what feels like rotting compost from my mouth. This is a strange and disgusting sensation. I have a lot of frottage there (the act of rubbing up against), and that usually leads unto the kiss. But something inside their gob crumbles inside mine like a mouldy flapjack, and I wake up gagging, wiping it away in my bed, so I’ve recently learned not to kiss. It’s difficult practising morals on the astral plain, because all of your reasoning faculties are cut off when asleep, and you are a pure primal, carnal being. I tried to give one succubus a love bite one time, and she tasted like a snake. I think that sex with heathen in dreamscape is wrong, even if it is only a dream, or a sexual nightmare. Quite often, family members are involved with this ruckus, thus furthering that argument. And people you just generally don’t want to have sex with. But, with a lack of consciousness, and a responding penis, you get carried away, and risk it for a biscuit.

I have woken soiled, and it’s not a nice feeling. Because of my anti-masturbation stance, these succubus target me on purpose, to make me ejaculate and ruin my mood. Since I became impotent however, this is almost practically impossible. It takes an awful lot of energy to get me fully aroused these days, and climaxing. I’m not even sure it can be done. When I’m excited watching porno, or listening to demonic mantra, I usually hold back from being fully engorged. I have intrusive delusions about being in an erect state in a darkened room on my own. It tends to attract a lot of fear deep within me. It’s hard being privately sensual on your lonesome when you have dozens of voices in your head, and spirits around you. It’s like masturbating in the middle of a public party, which nobody in their right mind would ever do, but sheer desire and greedy motive help me forget that anything is even there. When I close in on being fully-engorged though, and it does take some time and concentration, my doubts and suspicions become alight with paranoia. One thing the enemy has promised me, and you might find this silly, is that the next time I am standing proud and upright, which will be an extraordinary occasion since the priapism which made me forever mostly flaccid, the Chinese government are going to come in, murder me, and chop off my member, to preserve it and mould it into a dildo. Ridiculous, is that not? Then why do strangers always appear at my front door when I am close to that condition, and caught up in the stiff paralysing arm of eerie psychosis? I start believing it. Then the spirits and ghosts come out, and I hear Angels pleading with me to stop, and I start hallucinating, then I sense intruders in the apartment, and then I remember that I am a Targeted Individual who is wanted dead or alive. I recall that my persecutors will stop at nothing. I hold back from the erection and generally tend to start shitting myself.

Of course it’s pleasurable being sexually charged. I know from experience that this driving force is more powerful than hunger or thirst or nicotine. Water and tobacco don’t matter one jot to me when caught up in the yearning. The only thing that can touch it is peace-shattering fear. Sometimes, I’ve stopped, hitched up my pants, and run out of the flat, to be chased around the streets for hours by calculating hate mob. Now, I always hold my ground.

I had a different sex escapade dream last night. This one seemed to be of love. The woman was smiling for a change, instead of sneering, and enjoying it as much as I was. I woke up feeling as if I had made love to my wife, instead of using and abusing a slag. My mood was elevated, instead of deflated. Yet it’s had me thinking about porn throughout the entire morning.

I’ve made a U-Turn recently. I’ve stopped seeing women as objects of desire but as mindful individuals who are unique and loved by God. I see their prettiness now, not their sexiness. This latest experience on the astral though has my head in a spin. In the past, I wanted a nasty pounding of grinning slut. Now, I want a lovely exchange with smiling princess. So my goalposts have definitely changed somewhat. But it’s still sex. And in the end, because I can’t function with real women, it means that darkened room, with the Chinese knocking on my door, and even entering my domicile when I am still present in it. So buying some new porn and kicking on isn’t really an option.

But I’m thinking about it. Sex is the reason why we are all here.

Why is flesh an enemy?

 

Looking Eye To Eye With My Higher Power

I am in communion with my Higher Power all of the time now. In the past, I have turned my back on them to masturbate to pornography for what feels like an insane amount of hours. When I do that, I am feeding the dark side, and squandering my divine protection. Presently I am sworn to terminate those callous practices. You may think that there is nothing wrong with a bit of slap ‘n’ tickle on screen, but that is only the beginning. When I get bored of the graven interracial imagery, the demonic mantras enter my head, and I toss off to them. I won’t go into details of what they say, but it is a very sadistic ritual. I hate it when I do that, but the hatred is a twisted and morbid aphrodisiac which only ups my appetite for sexual perversion. I can’t seem able to stop, and the cocaine or amphetamine warp my moral compass, so that what is bad feels good, and what is good feels soppy and cringey. Once the sun goes down and I eventually cease my selfish endeavors, my Higher Power reveals itself to help me out with all the unholy malignant forces which my sin has manifested and attracted. Dipped in shame, I am hardly able to look upon them, and everything feels awkward, as if I am not worthy. I just have to deal with the negative energies I have produced, and it takes days and days to fend them off to a reasonable, manageable distance, and it’s excruciating mental anguish in the process. Don’t get me wrong, they haunt me every day, but when I’m clean my mind is a different story, and I am able to cope. The gang-stalkers go away. The torture eases.

Now, without the drugs and the porn and the demonic mantras, I am able to let the faces of my divine protection shine upon me without embarrassment or judgement, and we all get along happily. This is the way I would like to keep it. The next time I return to ‘that thing’, the mantras will have me spelling out the name of my special Angel, in order to divide our anointed union. This is something I will simply not allow myself to do. It ain’t happenin’. If that should ever occur in the future, I shall have an especially hard time sharing it, even with your good self, who I more or less share everything with.

Since giving up my meds, my so-called mental illness has really kicked off. I am now convinced that I am on some kind of exceptional assignment from God. I’ve got a mission in my head. The maddest aspect of ‘the mission’ is not knowing exactly what that mission is. I know I have a calling but I have no idea what calling. It’s a weird feeling. The astral plain reveals to me the truth of this deeply-held belief. My dreams are impossible to describe. They have absolutely nothing to do with the construct of my imagination. They come from ‘other’. I’m certain of it. I meet people from distant worlds inside of them and communicate with them. They blend in with the night terrors and the brain-tech. I call ‘going to sleep’ ‘going to work’. It’s off the hook.

COMPLETE THE MISSION

 

Nightmare, With Angel

That’s my life. Sums it up perfectly. God has got his Children, the Devil has his Demons, I have my Angel. I haven’t always had her around, she appeared in my mid- to late thirties. But once she arrived, I was able to defend myself against the enemy. I didn’t stand a chance on my own. She’s just a little girl, but she’s extremely unique and courageous. For a long time I thought I’d lost her, because of my involvement in wicked practices. It was a trying, testing period. I was at my wits end without her, I couldn’t believe it.

Now she’s back with me, and if feels so greatly empowering. She reappeared on Easter Weekend. I’d missed her terribly, and was resorted to putting a mental block in place to stop idealizing about her, like when you lose someone close and it’s too painful to think about them, even though you still love them.

She was born, lived, and died in a Nazi concentration camp, in her life, before she came back to assist me as an Angel, on the other side. That’s her history. She was the strongest child in there. Now, whenever she feels pain during an attack from legions of Demon, she explodes. Don’t worry, she reforms in a heartbeat. You might think I am making this up, but Abbie, short for Abigail, is a trusted spirit from The Most High. She’s with me night and day. She doesn’t need anything from a mere mortal like me, but I’ve attributed several special powers to her anyway, because they won’t do her any harm.

I’ve given her Eternal Steam to play around with. Steam is the essence of the soul, the 21 grams in weight we lose when we die, the smoke of the animus inside us. Just imagine a chilly exhaled breath on a wintry mountainside, containing all of the information of the psyche, like the vapour that emanates from an opened genie’s magical oil lamp. Just one bottleful can contain an entire human being. It is said that this is why some wicked doers slaughter innocents, in order to acquire their Steam, has it has everlasting timelessness effects. Like drinking virgin’s blood on steroids, in a way. Anyway, Abbie pumps this steam out like a nuclear power plant, for anyone to fill their boots on, as she has a never-ending supply. She doesn’t need this acquirement, but again, it doesn’t harm her.

I’ve also devised an Exo-Skeleton Frame for her to occasionally occupy. When plugged in, it injects every known mental illness known in existence into her blood. You know, every malady in the DSM-5. You might think that this is a cruel measure, considering she survived a sheltered existence inside a concentration camp, but I think of it as ultimate, exclusive creativity of the most extreme highest order. Think of every addict’s higher power, think of every schizophrenia’s darkest fear. She has every one ever experienced by anyone throughout the historic annals of all time immemorial, past, present and future. All at once. In her little cute head.

Finally, she has a simple Filing Cabinet. This she has always had, from her co-creator, Stephen King. King didn’t make her an Angel, but reading about her in his book as a synergistic coincidence gave me tons more loads of faith in the reality of her saintly presence. Part of my giftings from God is that I can take fictional characters and make them real spiritual entities in my life. You probably think that I should return to my meds, but anything is possible when you’re dealing with the preternatural, and you walk by faith. The Filing Cabinet helps her to hide away from legions of Demon when I am down and wiped out, and they all descend on her instead, to finish me off. She hides her location in it, as there are limitless boxes inside of it. They say that schizophrenics are good at labeling and boxing things.

There’s heaps more to write about my special allocated Guardian Angel given to me from The Creator. I just thought I’d share a word about her. Rest assured, this is true testimony, I’m not dreaming it up. You couldn’t quite make this stuff up anyway, could you? Truth is far stranger than fiction. That’s one of life’s cold hard facts that nobody ever taught me, I had to figure it out myself. I discovered that intelligence when researching about the myth that is schizophrenia being exposed by mind control and brain-weaponry. Comin’ at’cha next time.

 

21st Century Gossip

When all of my ‘schizophrenic’ voices are harassing my innermost sanctum, my mind and my soul, they keep egging each other on to keep ranting bull crap over me. “Keep your power up over it,” they say to one another. Apparently, when a consortium of bullies criminally pester a vulnerable brain with no privacy, using thought implantation via electromagnetic weaponry, and steal away the very essence of life (its ability to think, like breathing), it’s called power. All they rant on about is power. Mind-reading and organised stalking isn’t power, it’s cowardly. If I had a sole harasser, an enormous bodybuilder or something, and he tormented me to my face on my doorstep, or came in and battered me on regular intervals, then shat on my bed, I’d respect something about it. But constantly whispering nonsense and chatting bubbles via secretive methods of microwave hearing is nothing like that. The things they say over their evil tech doesn’t resemble what they’d dare say to you in public.

I keep replying back to them that real power is industry and revolution, engineering, building and order in civilisation. I ask them to pick on the steel magnets and the oil tycoons. Why not pick on a wealthy banker, or an architect, or a grand designer? Take a look around, at all the property in the world. Cathedrals, shopping arcades, mega structures, symmetrical neighbourhoods, viaducts, bridges, damns, canals. Then we have warships and fighter aircraft, jumbo jet planes and submarines. The white house. The houses of parliament. Military bunkers. Worldwide conglomerates and businesses and fraternities and institutions. Doesn’t all this reek of true power? The police force. If I were an alien visiting earth, and I was obsessed with power like my voices are, these are the destinations I would first head for. Would you seriously pick on just one mind in a council estate and bombard the living daylights out of it with death threats and torture promises every waking second of its adult life? Would you hire cronies to follow them around, spreading slander and being rude on purpose? Would you illegally enter their property and move things around, to terrify them? What’s powerful about a gang of intimidators picking on a lonely individual and driving it towards induced suicide? That’s nothing more than mere wimpy cruelty. Of the highest order. Or should I say the lowest.

When the non-touch torture, or soft-kill, first begins, you revere your tormentors like royalty. V2K is call the Voice Of God for a reason. I don’t know about you when growing up, but I didn’t believe telepathy was possible. When it hits you bang-slap in the head, you tend to instantly think that you are dealing with a higher power. I never thought that science would ever be able to fathom out what a person was thinking deep inside. Your thoughts are private, aren’t they? They can’t be sensed or heard. I was so wrong. But before I knew I was wrong, and got informed, my mind was completely blown by the technology being used to sadistic effect upon me. Not only could they read my internal monologue of words, but they could see what my Third Eye was seeing, and even control it, so I saw things in my mind which they wanted me to see. Not too bad if you’re in a shotgun communion with beautiful pixies from a distant pleasantly-spiritual planet, but not so great if you’re being interfered with by a bunch of nutters and sado-masochists who drink infants blood for supper. Welcome to psychic warfare and mind control in the 21^st century. I still almost don’t believe some of it myself. I wouldn’t even share it here, because I know that you just wouldn’t buy what I was saying. Invisibility, teleportation, and intergalactic beings sharing your bed with you are only the half of it.

Now I find them difficult to believe because of their stupid petty attitude. Seriously, they are hard to describe. It’s like fighting a gaggle of prepubescent children. I try my hardest to treat them with a modicum of respect, for, despite being inhuman devil’s blood, they are still life form. But any compassion gets flung back in my face. They know absolutely nothing apart from pain and suffering and evil. And being senseless, useless, pitiful cowards. So no, I’m not scared of their cosmic tactics anymore, and I won’t be leaving my home because of their assassins to be driven to desperation in a night shelter or hostel. I’ll be doing zilch, and certainly not spinning round in fearful circles, like I used to. So there. F**k off, evildoers, and take your fake schizophrenia and all the rest of it with you.

4 Months Off Porn

Another positive day here at the blogspot. I feel like I’ve shrugged off my drug history forever. I’ll look a complete berk if I come back here next week saying I’ve relapsed, so I’ll keep that in mind. I really hate admitting my relapses to you. I’d like to think that you want me to do well, and keep writing on the money. That’s a pleasant thought. Time and time again I’ve admitted my mistakes, and it only gets harder to do so. I’m surrounded by hot women in skimpy outfits in this part of the world, during this nice weather, but I’m watching insightful videos about lust, which warns me about it being a cunning trap from the enemy. When I abstain from porno, I usually feel like I am missing out on something special. You know, all the latest releases and stuff. I would go into the shop and glance upon the DVD boxes, with their enticing screenshots on the back. Often I’d be overcome with obsession and buy them right there at the till, unplanned. Then I’d score, watch, and catastrophe would ensue. Now I am giving that sexy loop shop a vigilant wide berth, in case something powerful and interracial pops up and catches me off guard. One glance at the cover and I wouldn’t be able to shake it from my mind. I’d have to have it. It’s been over four months since I viewed adult material. I feel like I’ve cleared my psyche from a homosexual, women-abusing spirit. If I were to regress, it would undo much rest and comfort, and land me squarely back at ground zero, in the heart of the lickerish skirmish.

At the moment, I don’t feel like I am missing out on anything much. Modern porno cannot live up to my expectations of it. During one of my last adventures with it, the fella started rubbing baby oil on the woman’s breasts. That totally turned me off. What the hell is he doing that for? I wondered. Are they childish or what? It’s just little things like that which spoil the fun. It’s full of similar glitches. The camera angle isn’t right, the female leaves her skirt on, or has no bloomin’ make-up on, that kind of off-putting stuff. It cannot compete with the way I want it done. The way I imagine it to be, like the stuff I was raised on which does not exist anymore, is nothing like the stuff available today. I’m sure, with an internet connection, a widescreen monitor, and a fistful of dogged determination and patience, I’d find what I wanted, but that’s not an option. Towards the end of my web days, I was getting embarrassed about typing in the same old sex search words time after time. I was sure that someone at Virgin Media was pissing himself at my gayness. It was the same bloke over and over again, I hardly cared about the woman he was with. I thought I was straight, I have never fancied men or nothing, but I couldn’t get enough of his exploits. And he had hundreds of titles to surf for. I associate Hell with all of his back bibliography, and bare supplies of cocaine, in a room with a 40” screen. At one time, I’d be as happy as a pig in crap; it was a vivid fantasy, a lifelong dream. If only I could have access to all of his titles, and especially his earlier work, before he got a gut, I’d be happy. I also had ambitions of working in the sex shop at one point, and being submerged in all knowledge of the smut. The awe I used to garner when I first discovered those sex shops in the city...wow. Walls and walls of filth, all shiny and colourful like vape stalls.

I’m glad to have all that out of my system. With a large interracial backlog, and a suitcase of cocaine, I’d have no spiritual future. It would be the end of me. It would end in Doomsday tears. There would be no more smiles. No more joy, no more bliss, no more hope. It would take me away from God. I know, I know, how can mere porn and drugs destruct your relationship with the holy? Cruel, isn’t it, but that’s just the way it is.

A Peanut Of Introspection

Another day here with Mr Piebald77. Welcome. Good to speak with you. I feel a certain sense of Otherness about me. Twelve days clean back during the rebuild. It’s a significant number. I can’t wait for 28 days again, and 84. I know I keep failing at this mission, but I am truly sorry and want to get back to succeeding again. I feel that the time is right in my life to keep the boat steady and prevent it from rocking from relapse to relapse. Now I can live without drugs and porn. You’ve been with me the whole time, so you know what I’m like. This most recent 90 day spree has really galvanised me, ushering in belief and purpose. I can do it. The best thing is, the compulsion has gone away. There’s no point being clean, however many days or weeks or months, if the urge is all over you like a XXXL cheap suit. I’d rather be at day one, with no desire to use. That’s the worse part of it, when it’s all over you, there feels like little else to do but submit to the temptation. Now, presently, there’s nothing to submit to. I never want to use again. I never want to swap the universal good nature of the Creator for something so snide and sinister as a flirtation with a porn star overnight, with my hands lugging my junk around in a stationery position like a circus monkey, biting my own lip in drug-induced nervousness.

I despise masturbation. It turns the lantern of the cosmos inwards into your psyche, when it could be radiating outwards into patterns of love and compassion for others. You learn an awful lot about yourself which was never meant to be known. I have become desensitised and pornolized. I see, or saw, women as objects of lust and desire. All I cared about was how they looked. I remember watching one X-rated video where the ages of the girls was debatable. Shouldn’t they all be 18? Some of these looked younger, but it far from stopped me from continuing to view the material. In fact, I hate to add, it got me going. I was even a voyeur to bestiality upon occasion, and violent pornography. Of this I am not proud of, and only share it with you because it is now buried in ancient history, never to be viewed again. You might be caught up in all manner of deviancy at the moment, or know someone who is, or are simply aware that it exists. My dark soul carried me to dodgy corners of the internet, but now I am firmly established with The Lord, if he would be so graceful as to entertain me, and have learned to forgive myself. I once watched a nun getting whipped, warped on legal highs from China, and the memory of it is appalling to my newfound self of worth. Porn made me gay. I have now overcome this spirit of homosexuality, and cannot now fathom watching a bloke onscreen again for the rest of my life. If I break, you’ll know about it, but that will be a sad and regretful blog post. Honesty rules around here, I won’t hide anything important spiritually. On the occasion I come to you and say I have relapsed on the pornography, feel free to shake your head in disgust or pity. I understand that you may watch it without a problem, just for ten minutes a day or something, and believe me I’m not judging. The masses take it as normal, just a habitual faction of modern society, but with me, a super-sensitive spirit, it always had a shrewd effect. I couldn’t turn it off, no matter how much angels screamed at me to do so. And I couldn’t stop poisoning myself with narcotics in the process, to maintain the pleasure. It got so messy, when the demons came in, that I almost lost myself to insanity. Fortunately I have managed to crawl back, and be restored by a higher power.

Now I don’t see it as pleasure. I see it as pain. It sucks all the goodness out of me like a carefully-planted syringe, and outlays it into a bucket next to me which the devil uses to legitimise his bloodthirsty claim over my life against me. I’m grateful today that I won’t be getting high whilst watching porno, as I have for so-so many other days of my monotonous existence. The evening might be boring, with no company, and an abundant excess of soul-searching solitude, but at least it won’t be riddled with psychotic shame.

I’m utterly alone, in my quarrel against addiction, and my darker half, with no friends or accomplices to support me. But I am not sad. Happiness comes from the victory. In saying that, I am not competitive. I believe that partaking is the important principle, not winning or losing. I’ve never cared about that. Maybe, I should say, that happiness arises from never giving up.