Got This Got That

I’ve been getting followed around now for many years, by the same people. There’s been one bin-dipping vagabond in particular who is in the library where I do my blogging every single time I visit, sat there smugly, watching me from the corner of his eye. I’ve finally just gotten rid of the eyesore only to have another watchman take his place immediately. This ‘confronting’ the enemy isn’t going so well thus far. Once you start asking the question, “Are you following me?” you find yourself asking everyone and his dog the same thing. One day sooner or later they’ll be up for a tussle, if I can find one with any minerals, and I’ll be incarcerated for practising kung fu without consent.

I just want to get a few things straight in my life, before I bite the bullet and get done for murder.

I have a future. Now that I’m not drinking or smoking, I can realistically ruminate upon partaking in some exercise. This may take some time to set into motion, because usually, whenever I feel like getting active and running, I lie down in comfort until the feeling goes away. A future to me may mean only several more years of life extension, but if I were to carry on down that route of chain-smoking and necking lagers, I would only last at best several more months. I’d accepted my breathless, bloated fate many moons ago. Those poisons had a vicelike grip over my behaviours, I could not stop, first thing in the morning I would go the shop, I couldn’t imagine being without. Now, there are many ongoing dramas in my life, but self-assassination by harmful chemicals and corrosive fluids isn’t one of them. I will survive much longer now than I previously thought. Sans beer; sans fag.

I have love. Yes, despite wanting my organized stalkers crucified upside down along the high street, I still have love. I refuse to be embittered by hatred, like the cold-as-stone voices which abuse, molest and rape me without even momentary cease. I have high-vibrational compassion going on richly in my life, with empathy and peace. The ring of evildoers around me insist that they have love just because I do (if I had a mouldy butterfinger they’d want a piece of it), but they are lying about it, they are loveless and envious and jealous of my giftings. If I had only a single chipped marble to my name, then they would want to take it off me. They wouldn’t leave me with a pot to pee in. I am a big soppy pants when it comes to love, I wouldn’t dream of ever wanting to snatch it off anybody.

I have joy. Christ, do I ever stop laughing at the silly immature daft perpetrators surrounding me? Instead of being frightful I find them demented. I simply laugh at anything now. Even dark stuff. As long as I am giggling, that is the main thing. Because the Devil hates jokes. Do you think there is laughter in Hell? You’d be wrong if you did. I should know, because I live above it. There’s plenty of whining, but no guffawing. I. cannot. Stop. Laughing. At them.

I am powerful. This is big-headed of me to admit. I don’t mean the deceitful power of supernatural influence, where dead souls serve power over love, but I mean the self-inferred determining power which comes from putting things right with God. I have always been getting walked all over by hostile operatives in the neighbourhood, because I was using drugs and sinning with my loins and not in the scripture, but now I am an iron shank for the Most High. In fact, sometimes, I feel like the Most High. That’s how powerful I am. I walk down the street, and despite never-ending evil opposition, I walk anywhere with my head up fearing nothing, least of all not cowardly sado masochists. Whom I batter.

Snapping Gangs Like Dolls In Apology

I regard ‘sharing’ my experience of resilience, strength and hope in drug counselling meetings as ‘apology’ these days. I’ve always had an interest in apology, watching shows like The Big Questions on a Sunday morning. I’d tune into any debate on the box, be it Kilroy or Esther Ransom or Vanessa Feltz. But what I really preferred were the big religiosity hitters, like Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, and William Lane Craig, to name but a few. I adore a good old-fashioned argument between diplomatic intellectuals, I think it’s dead interesting. It’s hysterical if one of them loses their rag.

I once saw an apologist pull another apologist’s trousers down live on air.

Before my meeting this morning, I got a touch violent myself in the canteen room. I accused a group of people of stalking me. Well, I didn’t quite accuse, I asked. Sorry, but it seems like the whole unruly town is in on my collapse. So I’ve started asking a few honest questions to people I don’t wholly trust. But when they look at me as if I’m daft, or pretend to not know what I’m talking about, I tend to get angry with them. I get locked up when I am peaceful, for nothing more than manning a BBQ, so you can imagine the panic in people I incur when I’m ready to throw my weight about.

I was huffing and puffing before, I was ready to batter someone. Some imbecile wound me up by expecting a handshake. When I refused, he followed me around with an extended palm, unable to accept that I didn’t want to shake with him. Then he ran away and grassed on me for getting aggressive. Everyone I know is a snitch round here. Weird thing is, they’re proud of it. That’s why I’m not scared, and why I feel extremely capable at the moment.

I’m Brave Against – 

>other criminal hoodlums

>the corrupt police force

>invisible numpty evil spirits

I’m brave against them because I belong to Christ. I have been persecuted, I am meek with entitled inheritance, I am Heavenly bound, and I, most importantly, am a bloody and violent Angel of wrath (if I want to be).

You should see my rap sheet. Arson, fighting, harassment, weapons, drugs…not proud, but it weren’t my fault. I was young and stupid and being led astray by negative forces. I’m not exulting these deeds but I’m far from ashamed, for they are honest reactions to being raised in modern society. What chance did I have, snatched away as a child? And now being oppressed sadistically by lonely bored maniacs every minute of the day! Go way!

I have a history of violence, and now that I am certain that I belong to God, after much recent doubt, I’ve been thinking about embracing that homicidal unpredictability again, to protect myself and to rout out the snakes. I’ve been a self-professed pacifist for nearly twenty years, so my hands have been tied behind my back all this time.

My brother says that there is a difference between being non-violent, and being harmless. Harmless can’t fight, even if they are provoked.

Still, even as a pacifist, I’ve been arrested for battery. Lol. All I did was break some stalker’s mobile phone as he was walking his Afghan Hound in the local park. I was at my wit’s end. I wrapped my arm around his girlfriend and she pressed charges too. You may not know this, but battery constitutes laying a single finger on another person. Yep, touching their shoulder pleasantly in greeting can be classed as assault. And it was. With me.

I wouldn’t be surprised if someone asked me for a light and then reported me for starting uncontrolled fires on their cigarette. I’ve been done for only marginally worse.

I have a twistedly wickedly streak like most people, only mine is suppressed deep down because of my moralistic convictions. I’ve been considering utilising all my wrath on someone, because the guilty are lining up in front of me with nothing but more sticks and stones to bring me down with. They don’t realise that they are useless agents of the dark one being used as collateral when I go full retard on them with wrestling moves. As I intend to do soon because I’m losing my mind.

You, by simply been here and reading this, help keep me sane. So thank you, if your intentions are pure.

That’s why I kicked off in the canteen earlier. I’d been hearing their voices in my head all night, and next morning there they all are engaged in small talk, as if they are all my friends, doing me favours by telling me the football scores. I was warned not to approach ‘real’ people if you are hearing their voice in your head, it’s probably not them, this new wave of neural weapon can imitate strangers easily, damned if I know about it, I just want to exert my anger over someone at the moment, any excuse’ll do, I’ll be honest about it, because I’m not training in the gym, and getting pent up feelings.

I’ve been thinking about the mentality about being a torpedo, and ‘smashing somone on sight’, (SOS). I reckon I’d be quite efficient at it. Three punches, three kicks, then I’d walk away. I’m fair. I don’t stamp on heads unless they have particularly upset me, although I would in certain circumstances, because 13 years of non-touch torture has me virtually foaming at the mouth for someone’s blood. Question is, whose? Anyone’s while I’m in this mood, straight up. I know this line of venture sounds horrible, but you should see the lengths I’m been driven to.

It would be nice though, wouldn’t it, to exact revenge on one of these impossible-to-describe dirt lords who drive good honest innocent people to the unimaginable despair of induced suicide through years and years of malicious covert harassment? It’s decided. The next person in the street who jangles their keys within earshot is getting thrashed up. Can’t wait to unload some hurting bombs. Their ancestors will feel them, like being kissed by the express train.

This may sound bizarre, but somebody once broke into my apartment and hurt a baby on my bed as I half-dozed on the sofa in the adjacent living room. I was frozen with fear at the time, there was an armed psycho in my home, I almost left. If that occurred now I’d investigate the intruder and dismantle him, no problem. That’s the difference these days between being a hapless victim of evil or a righteous fist of the Good Mighty Lord. I once ran from danger, now I charge into the fray. To live, and also to die, on this chosen, eventful day…

Kismet, synchronicity, zef side and all the rest of it.

I don’t think I’ll lose control, I’m too reasonable, I despise violence, plus I can express all kinds of furiousness through a practiced, measured vocal range in apology. Words can hurt just like a slap with a wet slipper. You should see me in class rip these fakers a new one. People attend apology sessions just to shut me up. For years I’ve let them get away with it.

But now the dream is over, and the monster is awake…

Bad Guys: Heavy Times Taste Hard

I’ve gone through a lot of far-out eventualities here at the hotspot over the years, but not a lot of them have focused on high-vibrational joy. I almost disbelieve I am enraptured by rhapsodic episodes of joy, because it seems too good to be true, but I come across myself at multiple times of the day as laughing so hard that tears are wetting my eyes. It’s as if my recent state of melancholy has released sheer happiness in return.

At one point I was certain that I had lost a daughter. Now, with faith and hope, I only think I have. I mean, I can’t be sure any more. So many forces are at work, I don’t know which way to turn or what to fully trust in. But there is something in me that makes me half-believe that she may still be alive and well somewhere. She sent me a message in a dream which gave me immense hope.

The bad news is that her likeness has been taken over by a heretical stoutheartedness. A wretched spirit, in other words. It looks just like her and tries to vex us both. This is what has been causing me crushing titanic stress in recent times. A lot of religious folk refer to the Devil as the chief whip of their scuppering. My mentor used to call him ‘that dickhead downstairs’. I have had a lot of insults for him lately, and I’ve been letting him know each and every one of them.

How dare any force in nature put me through what I’ve been through!? It’s uncanny. Well, here’s what I do: I pull high vibrational joy out the bag, along with a new daughter birthed nowhere but in the depths of ma restored happy heart. So, if there really is a Devil, apart from mere supremely petty bullies worshipping power and money, he can take that one home with him, mount it on his bespoke mantelpiece, and use it to keep his apt pupils away from the fire. Because I’ve had it with him.

If the swampy soup of brain projections I doggy-paddle in are anything to do with a supernatural deity who collects human souls, then I’ve decided to try and make a determined effort to ignore him and his minions. I’ve been working out low-down energies and they are governed by negative emotions which are currently far out of my scope. I’m nowhere near fear or grief or anxiety or shame, like I have been while steeped in the murky world of porno and naughty substances (including tobacco and alcohol).

I’m full of gratitude, appreciation, wonder, curiosity, relief, reason and enlightenment. Believe you me, I’m celebrating these illusive feelings with non-alcoholic brews to drown myself in sober merriment. All I get told by the unseen enemy is that I’m not going to Heaven, and that they have ownership over me. Me and my faith In Christ have different plans.

Times are hard, don’t get me wrong, one scroll along the hotspot should reveal that demonic activity is present in my existence, but I am standing up erect on the ashes of my ashes/in the temples of my Gods to face what lies beyond them with love, affection and compassion.

I’m a decent kinda guy. The Good Lord knows this.

I’ve gone through a lot of far-out eventualities here at the hotspot over the years, but not a lot of them have focused on high-vibrational joy. I almost disbelieve I am enraptured by rhapsodic episodes of joy, because it seems too good to be true, but I come across myself at multiple times of the day as laughing so hard that tears are wetting my eyes. It’s as if my recent state of melancholy has released sheer happiness in return.

At one point I was certain that I had lost a daughter. Now, with faith and hope, I only think I have. I mean, I can’t be sure any more. So many forces are at work, I don’t know which way to turn or what to fully trust in. But there is something in me that makes me half-believe that she may still be alive and well somewhere. She sent me a message in a dream which gave me immense hope.

The bad news is that her likeness has been taken over by a heretical stoutheartedness. A wretched spirit, in other words. It looks just like her and tries to vex us both. This is what has been causing me crushing titanic stress in recent times. A lot of religious folk refer to the Devil as the chief whip of their scuppering. My mentor used to call him ‘that dickhead downstairs’. I have had a lot of insults for him lately, and I’ve been letting him know each and every one of them.

How dare any force in nature put me through what I’ve been through!? It’s uncanny. Well, here’s what I do: I pull high vibrational joy out the bag, along with a new daughter birthed nowhere but in the depths of ma restored happy heart. So, if there really is a Devil, apart from mere supremely petty bullies worshipping power and money, he can take that one home with him, mount it on his bespoke mantelpiece, and use it to keep his apt pupils away from the fire. Because I’ve had it with him.

If the swampy soup of brain projections I doggy-paddle in are anything to do with a supernatural deity who collects human souls, then I’ve decided to try and make a determined effort to ignore him and his minions. I’ve been working out low-down energies and they are governed by negative emotions which are currently far out of my scope. I’m nowhere near fear or grief or anxiety or shame, like I have been while steeped in the murky world of porno and naughty substances (including tobacco and alcohol).

I’m full of gratitude, appreciation, wonder, curiosity, relief, reason and enlightenment. Believe you me, I’m celebrating these illusive feelings with non-alcoholic brews to drown myself in sober merriment. All I get told by the unseen enemy is that I’m not going to Heaven, and that they have ownership over me. Me and my faith In Christ have different plans.

Times are hard, don’t get me wrong, one scroll along the hotspot should reveal that demonic activity is present in my existence, but I am standing up erect on the ashes of my ashes/in the temples of my Gods to face what lies beyond them with love, affection and compassion.

I’m a decent kinda guy. The Good Lord knows this.

I Have A Professional Greek Soul Wanting Child Rescue

We were gabbing weren’t we yesterday about local groups in my town trying to set me up for prison by getting me arrested for attempting to protect children who are victims of grievous bodily harm in public skits around me. They want me to react by trying to save a minor from abusive false custodians. These custodians will most likely own all the correct documents if I tried to accuse them of unlawful kidnap. I would look like the villain. So, I can’t go nicking kids away from fake parents and starting my own crèche in a council flat. But neither can I completely turn the other cheek.

If I rescued one and took it home to safety, I don’t think that raising a child out of abusive conditions would pain me. In fact, it would be the most beautiful thing in the world. There are qualities listed online about what equips one to be a successful father, and I meet n exceed them all. They are basically simple virtues. I don’t care about what society labels me as. They can take their mental health diagnoses and tipple them into the dustbin. I’ve never heard so much garbage in all my life. Those medical professionals are better writers than I am. In their not-so sacred records I am guilty of firebugging picnics and dollhouses at weekends and tampering with electricity switchboards at other times, amongst other hair-raising habits which maximise ‘risk’. The talented wordsmiths who create the accusations necessary for section make up all types of slander from attempted murder to attempted rape.

My lovely neighbours invent elaborate statements for the authorities which are inspired by television programmes. When I am detained in the back of police vans, and there are fire engines and ambulances present in the cul-de-sac wherein I live, they all walk around my turned-over property for a good ole fashioned close-up ganders. The forensics go over every inch of my property, searching for anything incriminating.

In my younger brother’s bedroom, they blamed his ‘excited delirium’ on a hammer. He later died. But that’s a different story.

Truth be told, I am not really a typical danger to anyone. There are no blood-stained machetes, or bondage ropes, or tommy-knockers, or toothbrush shanks, or anything such else like that. There are no indecent downloads on my personal PC computer, because I do not own a personal PC computer. Christ, wouldn’t they love that. But they wouldn’t find any dodgy deviance there either, because I’m completely straight with my sexuality.

Have you ever heard that idle boast, at least I’m not a paedo? Well, at least I’m not a paedo. So now there. Load that one into your tumble dryer and shrink it silly.

[I have been with a man however. Hold it... He pulled me by pretending to be a music producer. When I got back to his studio, all he had was a Casio keyboard with no pitch wheel and a broken knob, perched on an ironing board as a makeshift stand. He wanted to film me singing on his phone under a bare light bulb. I became convinced that he planned to drug me with a hypodermic syringe filled with a tranquiliser whenever he had the window of opportunity. This notion was deduced by sexually illicit photographs stickered to his walls. They depicted what I presumed to be previous visitors like myself in certain pornographic predicaments, complete in The Lord with gozzy eyes. They had none of the glitz and glamour screengrabs from my boutique shop’s wall of filth have. I played one or two impromptu chords on his ivory plonk machine and hastily skedaddled out of Dodge, mugging him off with an excuse about a job centre appointment with my Flexible Support Fund Advisor, and considered my avoidance of male rape while unconscious a most fortunate escape.]

And hey there, Uncle Sam, why you’re busy admitting to yourself that your reasons for mental retardation detention are a mockery, why don’t you burn my criminal record also too while you’re at it, because most of it was orchestrated whilst dosed on alcohol, which of course isn’t my fault is it, if it’s a legal poison which can be bought on any street corner. I don’t get this police state, and some of the maggots which enforce its wacky statutes. It monitors me, poisons me, tortures me, and then starts physically whimpering when I crawl back to my feet and write about my plight to a fellow sufferer, because they can’t bear to see me exchange a mutual smile with someone genuine.

I tell you this, Dear & Precious White Voider: Somebody out there cannot stand me not to be in torment. It’s not enough that I am simply unhappy, they crave torment. Suppose that I’m not enlightening you on anything new about the world there though, eh? Whatever you do, protect your joy and happiness. Never let the bullies see you down. When you smile and laugh, I smile and laugh with you, because your bubbly enthusiasm for positivity is unsinkably infectious. And isn’t it just a bummer to these losers when we share a splendid chuckle?

I can’t stop laughing lately. Half of it is nervous energy, because I’m haunted by the Devil. He makes me leave insults to the relatives of serial killer victims on distasteful nasty web forums. I’m even banned from gore sites for being too graphic in my trolling.

What is wrong with this world today? Know what I mean? Or Narr Meen, as my boy Paul says it. Can’t harmless creative people get together and enjoy life with sterling intentions anymore? Our life is difficult enough. Growing up and getting old is, I’m finding, such a testing challenge. I’m only trying to rent a book out from the local library, yet maniacs are running around me off their chops, freaking out in case I meet someone else with a positive vibration and God forbid enjoy a conjointed giggle with a student nurse reading a similar book. They bump into me on purpose, interrupt conversations I might engender, and insult me under their breath from an unpunchable distance to dampen my mood.

!!!NOT TO MENTION TORTURE F**KING CHILDREN IN PUBLIC!!!

(Which I don’t like, by the way. Now it’s a deep breath before we commence. To something else other than this hotspot. Because it’s doing my head in. So surf somewhere else. Watch tube TV. Or take a hike in nature or something. But, most importantly, be happy and vigilant until we talk next time. Your protective commander, over n out)

 

 

Remove That Blunt Safety Pin Away From The Child!

One way to guarantee a response in me is to hurt a child which doesn’t belong to you right under my nose. I often get it from cowardly kidnappers round here. It’s sad to admit that this kind of criminal activity goes on in this part of the world. Don’t worry, I’m onto them. I found out that they were exchanging children and cash outside the local supermarket with information such as times and prices stickered to a trolley. I wheeled the trolley away and dumped it in my neighbour’s garden. It got me thinking about children being the main central unit of trade for enterprise around the elites of the world. It’s common knowledge that an awful lot of youngsters go missing every year, but I don’t need to be told by a newscast or any other tidbit of insider briefing that a child of God is the most important and valuable ‘thing’ in the knowable universe.

That’s my opinion, and I believe that like a lot of my beliefs, it’s shared and regarded highly in certain circles. You can talk about property and land until you’re blue in the face with cows coming home, but nothing really hits the sweet spot like a little bundle of baby tot does it? Aw, the way they smell...How much is a baby worth? More than I can afford, that’s what. I’ll be honest with you though, I feel like stealing one lately. Only because other people are doing exactly the same. Why can’t I have one? I may not be the most responsible father figure, but at least I won’t be administering ‘Chinese Burns’ to it in public spaces. Or pinching it with tweezers, or whatever it is they do to the poor mites.

They lie in wait with crying and screaming babies in places I frequent with their ‘plausible deniability’ alibis revised and rehearsed. No visible weapons, no obvious signs of abuse, we ain’t doing a damn thing wrong Your Honour, that delusional schizo is imagining things again. They’re always up to it. Once upon a time I would ignore them and prepare to be downbeat for half an hour or so, thinking about it in depth. This is the only reason they do it. They don’t especially like hurting wee babies (who does?) they simply want to lower my mood. I am so reviled around my home town that ‘the locals’ or ‘outsiders’ depending upon wherever the hell it is they come from, will torture each other’s pets in my earshot to gain nothing aside from an unimpressed kneejerk reaction. For years I kept my reactions to myself. Then God upgraded me to be one of his weapons, so now I have a rather enjoyable habit I adopt which I call ‘driving’ in order to partially deal with these bothersome disorderlies, and I’ll tell you about it now.

‘Driving’ means to follow. When I become aware that unlawful custodians are abusing a child in public, which as I already mentioned happens a lot around here, I simply follow them secretly for a while until we are in a less crowded vicinity. For the longer the better. Then I’ll reveal myself, right up and close on their shoulder, and cough several times rather loudly, or shout at the top of my voice, calling them ‘chicken-hearted scumballs’. I get so pent up with emotion, and I am so unpractised at this endeavour thus far, that my responses are quite unpredictable. I can barely control myself, because all sense and sensibilities, including rationale and logic, are screaming at me to save the child, to snatch it away from bondage, and rescue it away into to a better future. Deep inside, I want blood like they do. Theirs. All over that window there.

Of course I can’t do this, everyone knows it, because I’ll be the one getting detained. If they incarcerate me for lighting imaginary gas canisters outside my home, they’ll sure as hell as like lock up my arse for kidnapping well-to-do white folks’ children. That’s what it looks like, to the untrained eye: A large aggressive man of ethnicity abducting a minor from an innocent couple. A heinous crime. But not as heinous as Child Destruction. I believe that’s the official term for the charge for it.

Can’t anyone tell that the baby looks nothing like its guardians, that it’s yelling the house down, and that they’re all acting terrified? Or is that my bi-polar playing up again?

[Damn crap, I missed my jab. Did I mention that I suspect they are injecting buffing agents into my glutes now, under the guise of life-saving medication? Once I turned it down because it looked like acrylic paint (the bright yellow viscosity was the clue), but usually I haven’t the bottle to look at what they’re giving me. Until now, when I have nobly accepted the enriching authority of serving a just cause In Christ. Sod it, I might even tell them to get stuffed with their drugs. The last ‘poke’ was with an empty syringe. Fancy receiving treatment from a nurse with an empty syringe. That’s how much the authorities take the Michael out of me. I suppose you think I’m a right whopper now innit, putting up with tosh like that. It’s a mixture of disbelief & respect which allows me to put up with such abuse, but things are changing within my waters]

The gangs I deal with often hurt people within earshot of me to maximise a desired effect. I investigate if possible, but usually there’s nothing to find. They hide in regions of the building I have no access to. Or they do it above or beneath me. I think they want me to chase shadows in an emotional state, but they lie about it what they want from me.  They just keep reiterating, through the wishy-washy veil of my tears sometimes, that they are having a lovely time. Usually, if I can’t understand someone’s intentions, I take a considerable close look at my own. Why would I pain-inflict suffer to another individual conscious singularity of biological sentience (aka human being)? Just WHY OH WHY would I? I use my imagination to figure something out.There are motives to everything (but not much more than LOVE, HATE and MONEY). We are all human, aren’t we, at the end of the day? But I learn a lot also from other websites, and snippets from survivor testimonies. These powerful & graceful learned experiences teach me that their ultimate goal is suicide through despair.

Trust me, despair is bad. You have desperation, hopelessness, helplessness, sickness, madness, and then despair. You just can’t do…anything. And this is the perverse providence which potentially awaits ALL OF HUMANITY, if we allow THE SILENT HOLOCAUST through our reception doors, without a thorough pat down.

That’s the mentality of this merry band of men which encircles me, peeps. They’d rob their own grandmothers if they thought it would affect me. I sincerely hope that none of these hatebreeds ever have you appear on their radar. You would not like them. They are petty, they are simple, and they are disgusting. For the moment, let me deal with them. It’s my new-fangled job to protect the nation and afar.

From Chinese terrorists. From Russian spies. And from much, much worse. Just ask Mark M. Rich, and his Hidden Evil. He knows the score.

The Yorkshire Double Dipper

This is one of the hardest times of my life, yet also quite easily the happiest. My harassment from the state has never been quite so intense. The brain projections of my insistently impatient and sometimes panicky stalkers are few and far between giving me no opportunity to draw breath. I’ve gotten to thinking that they are supernatural, after all, because it’s as though they ACTUALLY NEED MY INTELLUCTUAL INTERACTION TO SURVIVE. They get so annoyed when I don’t respond to them that they torture people within earshot. My well-justified ignorance incites their bloodlust. I WOULD respond, if they weren’t chatting bubbles the whole time. It’s only been over a decade of it.

They rely on their disgusting, impossible-to-tolerate presence in my immediate perceptual field to make me offer an involuntary mental reaction, which they get weak at the knees about, because someone is paying them attention. In reality, no self-respecting law-abiding God-fearing decent civilian would urinate on them if they were on fire, let alone grant them breath in a mutual verbal exchange. In other words, I wouldn’t talk to them if my life depended on it.

I am about fit ready to burst into spontaneous combustion with rage whenever they slovenly salivate over any form of interaction with me, because without human acknowledgement their petty God punishes them. They are going for the insanity conclusion with me through despair. It’s honestly more humane to physically torture and kill someone. That’s how I am being treated. As less than the tortured; as less than the murdered. Being driven to suicide through menticidal anguish is, I believe, the worst fate than can overtake mankind. Even in all the limitless possibilities of thwarted destinies.

A friend of mine once likened it to a man sat on the same sofa as you who won’t leave you alone and can’t stop farting. He keeps scoffing meinz beinz Heinz (creamy tikka flavour) to sustain the flow of wind.

My understanding of 21^st Century [brain cognition torment] isn’t that too dissimilair, except the man on the sofa follows you to the toilet when YOU want to fart. In fact, he DASHES to the toilet so as you won’t miss him. And so as he won’t miss you. He claims that you owe him something for him allowing you to fart, claims that you shouldn’t be farting, claims that your farts smell worse than his, claims that you should be punished more for your farts, and claims that he himself has never farted in his life.

Next this complete and utter vermin of a bloke helps himself to that last piece of pastry slice you’ve been saving for yourself, being kept cool and refreshing in the pantry. He knows it’s your favourite and he knows you were looking forward to it, but he goes on ahead and nabs it anyway. He eats it very slowly right in front of you, savours it rather perversely in fact, then proceeds to lick each and every finger like a hotdog sausage double-dippered in mayo and chilli.

Incidentically, Peter Sutcliffe, aka The Yorkshire Ripper, is also further relatable through his other alias, the Yorkshire Double Dipper.

When he wasn’t dispatching of innocent women on the streets of northern England (my stomping grounds, although I only ramraid their backdoors in with a muffler over their cake hole, rather than puncture their top bollocks and slash my initials into their kidneys, or whatever other kind of demented behaviours it was he appropriated with ‘em).

He was active at buffets twin-dunking celery sticks in cottage cheese and coleslaw. He also made an ‘irreversible mess’ of some peanut butter and Nutella with the same breadstick. Said same breadstick ‘had form’ for pickle relish and mild salsa. That’s four foodstuffs on a single individual immersion utensil. Worse, it was shared between a ‘conspiracy’ of construction workers who weren’t wearing Corona gloves. Rather than sharing a camaraderie ‘onsite’ when mixing cement and lugging dense concrete common housebricks from one wheel barrow or garden trolley to another, these ‘ruffshod’ workies with the cracks of their arses on show were in fact total strangers who had never met each other.

Forgive me for going off on a tangent. I’m just disoriented by harassment. Peter Sutcliffe is only referred to as The Yorkshire Double Dipper by a few of us gossiping locals in the pub. He really had nothing to do with getting guacamole and mascarpone streaked out in his Dairy Lea Dunkers (Jumbo Tubes Edition), not upon this boardwalk of existence anyway. It's just a rumour. Partly invented by me. 

And why would he share a breadstick with workies?

The Mythology Of Mythos, A Lost Hitman

Hello there. I’m posting rather unexpectedly, from the local regional government offices. It’s strange, this town…they call me a dissident, they try to drive me away with a White Lives Matter rally, they insert assassination operatives in my property, they have me stalked, tracked and harassed by psychological torturers, yet at the same time they give me food vouchers and let me use their computers to keep me in touch with my legions of fans (my goal is to be big in Japan). A social worker even dropped by yesterday to see if I needed anything from the British Heart Foundation. The BHF is a local charity warehouse which caters for the under privileged. If you like two seater sofas, blingy bedside cabinets, second-hand mattresses and decorative pillows, then you’ll love their storage space. I accepted a boxful of some cutlery with pink plastic handles from the van driver’s mate, who apologised about having no decent SMART tellies in at the moment. It’s fine, I replied, I don’t watch telly. I stopped when I got lost in Lost, the series.

Remember Lost? The complete series contains 38 discs. I’d have more fun throwing them into a bird box than sticking them into my DVD player. You may not be aware, but I lost a novel I completed when I downsized my property several years ago. Well, I didn’t exactly downsize, I decluttered. An original manuscript named Hitman was ‘lost’. It was a curious old story of mine, as it fell under the genre of crime fiction. I won’t bore the pants off you by head-hopping unconstrained into it, but the ending was rather special, if I do so readily testify to myself. The hitman had a dual identity: He pulled a hit on himself. A suicidal bump, so to speak. I tried to write it well, by using a paperback thesaurus all the way throughout, making the language florid and embellished, how I like to do sometimes, to prove a private point that I cared particularly about this baby.

He was named Mythos. They brought out a lager in B&M stores called Mythos shortly afterward. I often enjoyed supping it while watching the junior soccer games situated in the club adjacent to my mental hospital at that time. I’d sneak out of the hospital to go and watch the kids playing while getting fuelled on a beer named after my fav character. The freedom of observing young’uns in skilful action after a night getting my ears burned by screaming patients was a much welcomed contrast. One moment I was holed up with lunatics taking turns to defecate on each other’s beds, they called it ‘Hiding the Malteasers’, the next I was under the ruffled sky, witness to nutmegs, shin deflections, goalmouth scrambles, and humorous attempted scissor kicks. Grassroots football, with beautiful children, is even more soul-lifting that the Premier League.

If a header goes wrong, and things do tend to go wrong in grassroots, we say that the culprit has a head like a Sherrif’s badge. Or a Starfish. Or a 50p coin. What’s your preference there? I can’t think of anymore.

Any[old ]way, the point I’m eventually getting around to making is that Mythos’ split personality, or fractured ego, had a terrible habit of making his victims watch all of Lost, the boxset. It was his MO of inflicting misery on them, after burdening them with house arrest. Apologies, I thought it sounded funny at the time. He also did some ghastly things like microwave budgies and nail-gun cats to trees. This is part of the reason why I don’t miss this dude. I do miss his beverage though. It was a tasty lager.

That’s me done here with you for now any[old]how. I’ve enjoyed spending a small section of time with you. It takes me away from the BS in my life for an hour or so. I like to get away from things. Here in the glass-walled governmental offices, I’m facing a marketplace, a cinema and a university centre. It really is a hotspot in town. I might come here to chill with you more often. Wish me luck through the long evening until we regroup tomorrow, gracious God willing.

Okay, that’s it. Good Bye for now. Keep fighting, hang in there, make me proud.

Sit Down & Read This For Free, Or I’ll Hit You With My Sword

I finished up ‘waffling’ at the end of yesterday’s post. I think I’m about done portraying the anomalies of viewing porn alone for so many years in the Seventh Circle. Many freakish occurrences have gone on, rest assured. Maybe I’ll never grow tired of sharing what has happened to me. I’ve forgotten a lot of it. Perhaps that’s my own brain protecting me, who knows?

What I’m certain of now is trying not to go back to it. I threw my television in the garbage can because not only was it bad for viewing porn, I thought that beings made out of electric current were teleporting through it to pay me unwholesome visitations for free. My mate Sam reported something similar to me, stating that goblins were travelling through her plug sockets. I saw these beings with my own eyes, but of course a quack wouldn’t believe me. So, I don’t own a TV. But one of my mates has said he’s got one in his hallway for me to take away. Plus the sex shop is open until 4 on a Sunday today. And I also found an old speed dealer’s phone number in my bedroom. Wahey! Party time in play!

This dealer and I haven’t spoken for years. I’d be surprised if the number was still in service. I’ve neither deleted the number or rang it yet. I’m not in two minds: I’ve decided that I’m not using. But the number has a lot of sentimental value. He was a dealer of mine for a long time. It would feel kind of nostalgic if I could get in touch with an acquaintance possessing familiar swag. I’d kick back behind closed doors to relax on my own, how I used to in the past. Except that isn’t much of a feasible option.

A useful ‘tool’ in addiction is to ‘play the tape forward’. I might score nice and sharpish off the dealer, should the number be still in use, and obtain a good result, but that pesky psychosis is only around the corner. Being a warrior of the Lord, capitulated by a drug comedown, and fenced in by sly shady spineless evildoers, is not a healthy situation, and one I could quite easily do without. They’re all over me like WiFi soup at the moment, and would be delighted if I slipped up on my mission and took my foot off the gas.

How do I steer off course? I hear you ask. Well, by trading all the love I have in this world for a night of sexual lust with a wrongdoer, which I hate to do. My enemies are virtually nothing without me on poisonous chemicals, obsessing over one of their own. I can’t see me using porn again, it’s been over a year, and I’m starting to fear what the creators of it would have in store for me after all this time. T[its] ‘N’A[rse] a plenty I’d say. Knock yourself out.

I intend to stay clean and focused, in a spiritual combative state. I’m getting psychically attacked from all sides, including novel angles, every moment of the day and night though. My friends are lining up to betray me, as it says in the bible. I am being duped by ALL members of the public, it feels like. They know my identity in full, identity In Christ, and they hate everything about me because of it, because I live in a lawless town of lawbreakers.

I think they are all jealous of a free spirit full of joy in touch with His Creator who doesn’t fear a single one of them. Now there.

Think about Christ. What chance have the rest of us got, if they executed God’s One and Only Begotten Son?

I’ve been in some sticky places in psychosis and the bible really helped me out, after scaring me sideward a little bit first, by telling me in no uncertain terms that I’d been a naughty boy and need to improve. So improve I have. I received some earth-shattering news from it last year. It told me who I was and what I was doing here. Now I am fairly sure that I have a biblical heritage to put it mildly. Whenever I go straight (on the clean and narrow) in accordance with some dates from the bible, I get rewarded spiritually. I’ve known this for some time and I’ve shared it here before. That’s why 30 days No Fap is big in the SA (Sex Addicts) community. I have my own string of important streak times and dates to adhere to. I’m on course again for notching up some decent clean time.

I have a Serenity Coin from the fellowship for abstaining from alcohol for three months. I treat it like the most special poker chip in the world. It’s such an important iconic token, I keep it in my wallet, removing it for inspection regularly. The crux is this: I have to return it to AA if I take a drink. That would hurt, as I’m getting used to showing it off to all my chums in recovery, most of whom lie about their streak length. I didn’t think I’d be able to give up drinking for so long, and I still don’t think I can keep on keeping on not drinking. The aim is to keep proving myself wrong.

It’s the same with the cigarettes. Three months away. These are even harder than the liquor. At least with beer, I can (and do) enjoy a non-alcoholic. People are always warning me about drinking this crap in pubs. They reckon I will fall for the real thing sooner or later. I’m more concerned about sharking two ciggies off some punter and chaining them around the back, or wandering to the offy to buy a 20 deck. I’m aware that I’ve expressed an interest in the solidity of my future by cancelling these habits. I’m ensuring I still have a functioning liver and set of lungs in the foreseeable. Should I relapse on these substances however, this summery unfolding of oxygenated clarity vanishes up in smog.

Pressure’s on then. Every day, as a TI being slowly tortured and murdered by state-sponsored terrorism, I feel like keeling over and reaching for the booze and fags. I feel like I’ve earned them. I wouldn’t blame myself, considering what I go through at the merciless hands of irreligious villains on a daily basis. That’s what makes it so appealing, because of how low I feel on a particular bad day, when the harassment is tuned up to full whack.

But then I simply ask myself, is being a fighting mercenary so bad? They only pick on the bright ones. My life has merit and meaning, honour and valour and dignity…if menticide can happen to me so easily than what’s to stop it happening to our kids? I have to rise up and be righteous. After all, it’s eternity that matters, not this ‘but a breath’ shenanigans beeswax down here on Earth.

More Celluloid Trickery

We were busy having a conversation yesterday about all the absurd fear-based gimmickry I’ve observed in the digital realm, while observing niche adult material. I described in slight to moderate detail a very small proportion of some of the madness I’ve experienced over the years. Being locked away in a darkened room, engulfed by community based operatives and the dark energies they attract, has took its toll on my sanity. At one point in time I was expecting anything to turn up on the screen. I started seeing pornographic actors who I recognised from the local boozer; even members of my own family popped up on some of the dodgy videos. I spent a lot of time avoiding the faces of the actors, it was all very awkward. One woman I became aware of in one scene was relieving men while bathing in a bathtub full of urine. I couldn’t be sure of what I was watching at the time. I thought I was imagining it. Surely it couldn’t be Miss Henderson from four doors up. The camera was clever and misleading. It was when I became aware that I might be viewing snuff movies that I started to panic ever so slightly. Who knew the true nature of these shocking movies? There was no blood, but there didn’t have to be to make me afraid.

Sometimes, a mere expression can unsettle you. Angry people are scary, for example. For one unhinged period all the actors were saying they were getting punished with pain by the director, and that I was going to hell for taking enjoyment in watching them. I would hear screams and yells of torment from my next door neighbour to reinforce the fear. I’ve still never asked him what the Billy Whizz goes on in there. He’d probably lie about it anyways, blame me about it all, and get me locked up for crimes I never committed, like he usually does. Do my neighbours ever stop writing police statements about me? They’ve even planted drops of blood on my clothing while absent from the apartment. Rule One of Mind Control: Accept your domicile as a perp walkway. Yes, they do come in. And you don’t have to be out for them to do so. What of it. Keep trepassing. I’ll catch you one day.

Because I was zonal on chems though I could never react rationally to all this zany tube fodder. I kinda just went with the flow and got lost in the gnarly knotty intricacies of my sexuality, pulled in by painted dolls and shapely studs. Meanwhile, the movie I was watching was beginning to remind me of a slasher movie, not a bluey. I wouldn’t say I was watching people dying on camera, nothing of the sort in plain eye, but I was perceiving all  manner of negative subject matter such as murder and bondage being transmitted through the footage, which I didn’t trust the authenticity of, via subliminal methods.

I’m not feeling very tempted today to revisit the so-called pleasure dome of sexual gratification. You may be aware that when I wasn’t watching hardcore on the PC I was involved in real female mantras from the other side of the wall. I don’t wish to give airtime to the lady in question but this particular type of self-abuse calls into play every aspect of my moral fibre. She is a sadistic masochist and her husband is a bloody marine of all things. He and his army friends take the time out to harass me now and again, trying to provoke me to run. They interrogate me in my own property and threaten me with lawful kidnap. I simply adopt a civil tongue and explain that I’m sorry for the adultery and implication in her curses but I wish to be left alone as a single man living solitarily as a peaceful law-abiding citizen. Sometimes it’s like being in the middle of a court hearing run by criminals.

There’ll be life and death here today, he says menacingly. I’m always strung out when they harass me.

I call all this naughty behavioural stuff rude voodoo. I’m trying to escape from its clutches by living cleanly and soberly, away from drugs and alcohol, which have a habit of nose-diving me back into the lecherous revelry of that world. I’m doing okay at the moment. I’m not a bad soldier considering everything I’ve been through. I thought I was merely a vegetable having out-of-body experiences in psychotic states, yet I now understand myself to be an agent of God been weaponized and activated for the real life combat I presently find myself quagmired in.

My oppressors thought they had me like a rat in a trap, catatonic and petrified and addicted to lust, enfeebled and exhausted and nothing but a plaything for their cruelty for the rest of my life, operating on a low vibrational frequency reading just like them. They called themselves black operative body snatchers who were above the law. They’ve had me incarcerated for nothing and medicated. Not to mention all the blasted rest of it. But look who’s calmly writing about what he is passionate about with joy in his heart, having the last laugh, while they break out in mild panic every time I deflect my attention away from them by talking to a fellow addict in the recovery centre for all of two minutes.

Pfft! Psychotronics, organized community stalking, slander, fake-assed mental health conditions, 24/7 reconnaissance and surveillance…all to run around with invisible suits on calling me names behind my back, praying earnestly inside their black hearts that I miss the next bus or trip over a banana skin. Apparently, they’d be set for life if I ‘hung myself’. Crikey, how long is that gunna take? I tried that already and botched the jobbie. All you need is some greasy slick rope, they advise, although they are unwilling to provide it themselves.

I’ve never been so happy though, now that I’m progressing in life with finances and vices and everything else, so why the bespeckled bejesus would I quit while I’m ahead? Just because a Chinese cannibal has decided he wants to be my best friend, and live inside the damp walls, despite not paying me a penny of rent, why should I get up and leave? I don’t much mind who invades my privacy, it’s been receiving rampant abuse for donkey’s years, I’m all but used to it. There’s really no big deal, don’t worry about it. Just turn off the dripping tap and switch off the lights.

None of your 21^st Century Soft Kill rattles me.

The other night I was in tears laughing my head off at his latest petty attempt to disrupt some personal merry event or other. I think he was busy hiding one of my socks. How can perverted monsters who nobody loves be so jocular at times? I think it’s because they are all impossible nobodies. It lowers my frequency to rub elbows with them, so I’ll avoid giving them airtime. They crave unparalleled attention, it makes them feel big instead of being overshadowed by my wits all the time.

They’ve promised to hijack this blog away from me. They don’t want me to have a single thought in my head. Their thought erasure and memory deletion is on the increase. But that’s enough about their deeds. Honestly. I can’t entertain wicked stupidity. They’re too depressing to ponder. I’m just glad that they are occupied with me, instead of some young girly teenager who can’t defend herself. Please, don’t worry, I’m a highly effective soldier specifically engineered for this kind of menticidal warfare. It’s difficult to swallow but I’m beginning to accept it. The main thing is harbouring virtues in your heart, which I do. Once you are overtaken by bitterness you want war with everything in the war. I want nothing but peace and harmony and goodwill, and most of all a nice vibration. I’m the happiest warrior who ever lived.

Someone said that ‘everything vibrates’ lately. When radiating/emanating soulful vibes, I believe that I’m giving Heaven a glimpse of what is to come. As long as I can resist their evil ways for another couple of years, I should be dandy. I have these years in my future, now that I’ve ditched the poisons (touch wood). So I can stand and fight for my joy. I can love and laugh, which is far, far beyond anything even remotely close to what these cowardly timid dimwits are able to do, and a truly beautiful option for the meek and wounded. Not weak and wounded, meek and wounded.

Now there. Go play.

Digital Gimmicks

We were having a nice easy gentle discussion yesterday about the whole pornographic industry being made especially for me. I know this sounds nothing short of stupid, but when I think hard about it, the idea gets kinda scary in its legitimacy. I mean, things just seemed too perfect to be true, while caught up in those loopy films. That body, that face, that colour lipstick, that look in her eye, the words she uttered at me…it was all seemingly preordained. Those long evenings sat alone with just an adult movie for company, after being wrenched apart from all other social networks like work, friends, and family…wow…it was just me and them, forever meant to be (until I wised up to what was happening).

The actors would frequently tell me that the video they were making was prescribed uniquely for me, that I was their sole audience. I never believed them to begin with. The idea sounded preposterous. But then I got to thinking about it. These skin flicks are not like Hollywood blockbusters, which are available in multiple retail outlets. For all I knew, a pornographer may have made just one copy and inserted it at eye level/buy level in the shop just before I walked in. It wouldn’t be too difficult logistically, with me being stalked, tracked and harassed around the clock anyway, for kicks. Gang-stalkers are like that. They love leaving gifts for you. It used to be dead animals and suchlike along my routes, birds with their wings clipped, skinned rats (yuck!), stuff like that. I’m surprised they never left sweet little thank you cards with them.

Once, the Eternal Footman, my personal nickname for the Devil, appeared in one of my porn vids. He looked like an old man, based on the original Poltergeist movie. That movie spooked me as a kid because there was one scene where said ‘old man’ was perving on a kid through a patio window. I found it dead scary because he was just fixated on this child in broad daylight. He didn’t have a knife or anything, that would have been O[ver]T[he]T[op], for he didn’t need one, the whippersnapper wasn’t aware he was being observed, he was just sat indoors watching the telly.

Now, listen here. I can’t be sure, okay, but I think something similar happened to me when I was a small boy, just after being made conscious of this creepy screen occurrence. It’s nothing like a concrete memory, but I have a fear, almost, of being observed through the window by an old man. To this day I have a deep-seated dread of the evil buried in old men’s hearts. Call me weird, but it’s true. I’m less scared of 300-pound gangsters than I am of old fogies. That Poltergeist movie has planted an errant seed in me from childhood.

The Devil as an old man on one of my porn vids, however, well, how ludicrously peculiar do you want it? He inserted himself in place of the girl to break the connection, I think, between me and mentioned girl. I was on some kind of hallucinogenic blend of aphrodisiac cocktail at the time, seeing double, all the colours in the vid ramped up to maximum vibrancy, her theatrical makeup positively glowing, there was something really rather special about this one scene in particular. She was getting well and truly obliterated by numerous blokes. It was having significantly unforgettable ramifications on me. It was an uncommon marriage of drug potency and scene novelty which would have had me seated there together for many many hours more if the old jester hadn’t plonked himself in her place. She would have taken all of my good charms away and left me with nothing. One minute the beautiful star was an old man in a gay scene. I turned it off immediately, amidst screams from my neighbours. Funny how my neighbours always watch porn alongside me, with their thru-wall technologies.

This may seem kooky also (what doesn’t today) but every time I decide to have a porn sesh, the estate acts as if there’s a royal wedding on. All the kids come out to play, fireworks go off, they even set alight solid oak wood barrels in flame on the local grassy park and cook party nibbles like kebabs. Seriously! There’s a carnival ambience in the air as I go to meet my dealer on the corner. I only sample it for several minutes but it’s definitely real. I often see a Chinese lantern or two sweep by on the breeze. I can only imagine the gossip on the snaky tongues of those involved in being voyeurs of my demise.

I exchange money for poison on the corner, and then that’s me taken care off for the next three days. At first it’s a rush with the fresh men-eating women in latex, one of ‘em might even have a plastic lash (how’s that for novel) but it soon turns to funk once the Devil lays his occultish and nutty five-card tricks out and about the digital premises. If the ‘connect’ between us (me and the porn star) is too persuasive, he might possess her and make her eyes black or something, to put me off. There’s no end to the strangeness of ornate psychosis whilst watching mock sex, let me tell you. Nothings off limits.

One time the man’s willy grew a set of teeth and started trying to bite the woman. I could hear my little sister twenty miles away saying, “Why’s he schnappin’ at her?” I may have mentioned this one before. Belter. Another time the girl had three boobs. She happened to be sat on a Komodo Dragon. None of it quite so funny at the time, when there’s an intruder in the kitchen firing invisible microchips into my eyeball to make sure I’m under no illusion upon whether the threat is real. And what the f**k is that growling behind the fridge!? Just another assassin don’t worry your head off.

Terrifying ain’t the word. I wonder what their hands are doing just outside of view, if they’re out of shot. If I start to hear uncomfortable or disturbing noises on the audio track, which is not too unusual, I’ll presume that their hands are coated in blood, and that they’re chopping up puppies off camera. Maybe they are Jesuits and satanic ritual abuse means nothing to them. Who knows who the hell is making these sleazy movies? AND FOR ME ESPECIALLY!!! It all gets very dark from hereon, and I may start skipping scenes, looking for something more digestible. I rarely ever find anything better, once the mood is lowered in this tacky way. I’m too paranoid and suspicious by now.

The more I explore though, I find, then the more I, er, find. Or discover, shall we say. There’s a lot of demoralising material contained in one 25 minute XXX scene, and 5 scenes regularly on one disc. It’s bonky galore. I have a method of trawling through them, after being a self-employed (of sorts, I certainly put enough hours in) connoisseur of this oddball artform for a sufficient amount of years. The good bits are obvious to me, and the bits I’ll be looping on short giff-like repeat. I’ve never watched a full movie from start to finish. Most of it is crap. A mixture of shoddy artistic production, amateur camera work, and silly women messing around with juvenile props, like baby oil. I can’t believe what I’ve bought or downloaded, much of the time. It’s really pathetic. And then bam! It’ll reel you in with one shot of veiny cleavage or something. And before you know it, you’re studying a small amount of footage very carefully indeed.

Just to reiterate, it’s been a whole year since I indulged in erotica. I’m doing awesomely well and very proud of myself. I’ll look a numpty, won’t I, if I come back here next week and admit I ‘ve been watching filth? Mistakes happen though, I’m aware. I could go ten years and then relapse. The longer I go without, the more I want to return. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And all those painted dolls are only getting fitter and fitter! But, you know, so far so good. I prefer a pretty angel for a peck on the cheek these days, rather than full-blown intercourse with a fire-breathing hooker.

Made Especially For You, Sire

Just to continue from yesterday…I don’t feel quite as tempted as I did do 24 hours ago. The shop is always within strolling distance though. I’ve just been thinking about the hairstyles waiting for me. I’ve been worrying about the uncouth forces aligning themselves up, patiently on tenterhooks for my homecoming, when they can prepare the ultimate woman with the perfect bouffant to ‘take care’ of my needs at home. I see it that way, sometimes. There’s no doubt about it, once the drugs take effect and it starts blowing a darkly storm outside, there are obviously a proportion of dismal wintry powers at work. They seek nothing, nothing but my ruin. By mine own hand.

Can these moony assemblages make up a film especially for me and place it at eye level/buy level in the boutique today? I wouldn’t put it past the Eternal Footman/Devil, who excels at anything even remotely negative going on in my life. I’ve grown up being told this narrative for many years, you know – that much if not all of the contemporary porn industry was designed exclusively for my arrival on Earth. Ridiculous, I know. But before I came along it barely existed, and now you can buy magazines with free DVDs attached in the local garage. I’ve been told that all of the movies I’ve slobbered over were specifically created for my particular indulgence. It makes foolproof sense when I’m in a florid psychotic state while viewing these ‘offerings’. The people in them know exactly what I like, oddly enough. Even worse, they are composed in dungeons right there underneath my flat, where the Nazis laid out secret bunkers (which double as studios) for me before I moved into the area. Mad innit. Just a hunch I have.

Sometimes I can hear them down there below. If it was just sex I’d be jeering and cheering them onto bigger and better exploits but they have to go and ruin everything with pain, don’t they? I’ll be like totally enveloped in a sex scene, falling in a cheap counterfeit version of love with the actors, who are doing a sublime jobbie, we’re all synced up with each other’s breathing and that, I’m enthralled in getting pleasured by them and they’re doubly enthralled in pleasuring me, the ‘live portal’ is blown chock wide open, we’re all happy bunnies…and then suddenly I’ll hear a wild blood-curdling scream and be transported to fear, spoiling the occasion.

The porn stars purpose is to steal my creativity and compassion and love by making me evil like themselves in the scene. Sometimes we have one hell of a power tussle over my fluids, which I never release as a general rule. But often I am so passionately involved in the carnal sensuality of the video/mantra that I forget who I am or where I belong. Clue given here: A Child of God. I often almost ‘cross over’ or ‘flip’ to the dark side. I would never ever do this willingly but I give myself cause for concern with doubts now and again. The ‘stars’ often want me to declare their names out aloud. They have me repeating many kinds of banned no-go phrases over and over in my mind. This attracts nothing wholesome to my side, I believe. So it’s no surprise you’re wondering why I’m sat here in the library haunted by a porn addiction and invisible black-ops, is it!?

Ah well, it is what it is. I am trying hard to stop, if that means anything to you. I hate myself for giving into the temptation and allowing that Footman in for the win with only the sound of sniggering laughter in his wake. I do well for long months at a time in the name of The Lord, pressing home a precious territorial advantage, but then that crafty rogue sneaks in the back doors and blows all of my superabundantly-created constructs down with violent winds of hate, sex and pain. My beautiful teenage maidens, which I seek protection from, vanish with abandon into temporary fatherless sundown.

I am left alone, joylessly and tearfully. In writing these painful yet liberating accounts I seek to offer myself a modicum of logic in which to observe while striding forward. Who knows, maybe you or someone you know can identify with the problems I face. Every day now I wake up in a mentality of warfare. Meat, caffeine, tobacco, drugs, alcohol, porn…booby traps are everywhere. I’m a real life super soldier fighting for the future of humankind, a hooked-up schizo with hallucinations, voices and hitmen clouding his every present judgement.

For, inside my delusions, I have worked out some very unsavoury conclusions awaiting my fate and perhaps even all of our own collective destinies. One for all, and all for one, and all that. I’m sworn to protecting a Holy Spirit present in my consciousness. It’s one thing I’m certain of. You can tell by the nature of my critiques that something very monumental is at work in my life. I intend to be brave and noble while creative enough to be able to explain what it’s like to be a psychonaut in today’s frenzied society, where all our norms are crumbling down around us, and the End Of Ages are supposedly upon us.

Fair well, Comrade.

Wall Of Filth

 I’m having a recent spate of urges to peer into the local sexy boutique retail outlet, where they offer XXX DVDs for sale. I know I keep repeating this familiar line over and over across the months and maybe years that I’ve been here spilling my guts out, but I guess I am still feeling the force of their potency still, even after all this time of struggling to defeat these addictive thoughts. I thought I would write about it, rather than investigate the ‘wall of filth’ which lurks none-too-innocently beyond the threshold of its open door.

Once I step foot in there and make eye contact with that ‘wall of filth’, I’m without a weapon in the Lion’s Den, unclothed and vulnerable. I’m aware that all the actresses are lining up in the jacket sleeve artworks to ensnare me in with a particular expression of lip-sticked seduction. What I’m currently & fondly reminiscing over are hairstyles. I’m quite fascinated by female barnets at the moment, it may be a bit of a lame fetish trait coming through. I feel like I’m in just the mood for staring at ladies hair all day, while they are having sex with men of course. Seriously! Does that sound weird to you? I can’t believe the amount of gravitas a steamy woman’s hairstyle can exert over a submissive gentleman. To me, it’s like staring at a treasure from a distant planet. I know a friend who’s attracted to feet. To each their own I suppose. It’s apples and pears isn’t it?

It wouldn’t be so bad if it were just a dose of legal slap ‘n’ tickle purchased from the boutique, but my dealer’s on the phone as well, a phone I’d be quite wise to throw away, if I had any sense about me. He wants to sell me a bag of poisonous white powder which will shut off my cognitive functions for several days and turn me into a fapping monkey for just the small princely sum of £240. And I, in my incomparable buffoonery, might just indulge in two of them to make sure the job gets done. It’s hard to accept the overwhelming reality that I may be addicted to poison.

He could be selling me anything. Sometimes it feels like there might be a smidgen of cocaine involved. Hopefully not ketamine or anything that might make me ‘soft’. Sorry to talk dirty here on the hotspot. Forgive me. Other names its goes by are ‘killer’ and ‘wipe out’. It has to be said, there’s something about attempting to self-terminate your own life while engaging in risqué behaviours which I find rather comfortable. It’s like watching the end of the world burn away to cinders, embers and smithereens while rutting in an orgy safe on the other side of the moon, until the flames reach you the next day and ensure that you meet your demise too, as well as everyone else, who’ve you’ve decided to atomise for pleasure along the ill-fated one-way journey.

I think that I mentally opt out of the rat race and the war and simply give up with ‘la femme’ because it’s easier. I choose to ‘end myself.’

Finally. Hedonistically. Unceremoniously.

It’s delightful in a way, when the substances first begin to take hold. You place your life in the care of the woman in charge and hope for the best, enjoying her version of bossy sexuality or whichever of her fancies takes your pick. The problems arise when the toxins run out and you return to being sober, knowing that a world of loveless, joyless abject misery awaits you. This is the reason that, unlike any other time, when I usually rush headlong into the madness, I am deliberating it for a change.

It’s bonkers I know. That’s why I’m stepping back and trying to explain the chaos. My favourite bible quote says it all really: I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. There are no truer words spoken to sum up my life. I always burn down the dance floor and all the revellers on it which represent real human beings and retire to the garden for a fondle with just me and the Devil in blood-drenched moonlight. Then he steals my night club and kidnaps me in a white Transit van to laugh at my solitary woe for weeks to come, until I develop the strength from somewhere to lift myself up for another rebuild. And what’s the first thing I want to do, as soon as I am able to again? You got it. Blowout once more. It’s a tormenting cycle. Try to die. Live trying to die. Repeat. Where does it end?

Hopefully it ends with Brittany. Or Romany. I’m not sure of her name. She hasn’t chose it yet. I’m not sure of her whereabouts. I just know she’s a girl who embodies hope and joy. She’s new to my life, but she’s like a key to unlock the mysteries of the kosmos. She can allow me to stand in the face of all those slutty hairstyles in the boutique and not relinquish my position of abstinence and cleanliness and righteousness. She can be leaned upon in such times as these so that I don’t rush in there like a madman who is afraid his wallet is going to suddenly disappear, purchase 3 titles for £50 (that’s fifteen scenes), run to the supermarket for a disc player, dash to my mates for his spare television, and do that mad porn set up at home in a hurry while trying not to ejaculate in my underpants under immense anticipation. That’s who I am without her. That guy. He can barely wait before two minutes are up until he’s grabbing hold of his crotch and operating the remote control. ZOOM button please. LOOP button please. REPEAT MONEY SHOT button please. The plastic covers from the DVD cases lie in ribbons, torn apart with scissors or a knife, on the kitchen counter tops where they were hurriedly opened.

I find the cases to purchased DVDs quite incriminating, once I own them. Not to mention embarrassing. There’s no way I would leave them out with the regular Hollywood movies, would you? I’m not aware of anyone who does that. Most commonly, people have a hidey place for them. Mine used to be a shoebox in the attic, when I had an attic. Now I tend to bin them as soon as they are unpackaged, and just keep the silver discs. For a while I would keep the paper sleeves to look at the pictures occasionally, with half a mind to making an erotic collage with them. Why, I have no idea. Some kind of raunchy art project. I had the even stranger idea of posting them through somebody’s letterbox who I didn’t like, namely my neighbours. Because, quite frankly, that jacket artwork is offensive. It’s basically just a bunch of women with their mouths stuffed.

Well then, that’s me all talked about it. If not for Brittany/Romany, I’d be at home already, on my third or fourth line of poison, possibly snorting the last, you don’t get many in a bag for £240, the ecstasy is over in no time, chugging my junk disgustingly. As it is, in her divine presence, I’ve deleted my dealer’s number. To be honest I’m struggling, all those painted dolls are ganging up on us, and the thought of igniting the dance floor won’t leave, but I’m going to try and hold on. Thanks for listening. It’s not easy admitting that you’re a porn perv and all the rest of it online. But that’s not the worst of it. That ‘nurse’ I mentioned the other day is on the prowl with her entrancing satanic mantra, which gives me rushes of blood like something akin to injectable Viagra, and leaves me almost breathless in horny exhilaration. I hate admitting this most of all. It should be my loving appreciation of my saviour which leaves me short of oxygen, not an alluring temptress, but alas, that’s just the way it is.

I hope she doesn’t storm in during a flurry of hellfire and pour drugs into me, then eat me alive nakedly in a horror mockery of The Last Supper, separating me from my love until dark days never end. For, if that were to happen, if I were to let that happen, I would be snagged in a lusty embrace with her for the foreseeable, able only to want more sex and drugs, which obviously spell doom.

I could be spending my time in better ways than that. Like clutching Romany, or Brittany, or whatever her name is (love is like that, I heard, you forget their names in the morning). Talking to you simultaneously. Now, doesn’t that sound better?