Pause And Read This

wEdNeSDay the 11^th of DecEMbeR

PaRT dRei.

So, I’m now a veggie, but I have been scoffing fish goujons on barm cakes. All part of the hospital menu garbage designed to make me gain weight. Call me a cynical pessimist, but I remain convinced that it is the chef’s specifically scripted detail to get me bloated and fat with her conveyor belt stodgy yuck. I break the will of this morbid defector by jogging up and down the exercise yard. The last time I munched on a joint of topside* beef, India’s most sacred animal I believe, the humble cow, cooked lovingly at home in the oven for around 45 minutes and serenaded with a prayer of thanksgiving, I imagined, while licking my bloodied fingers, that the thing’s essential still conscious anima could see the world thru my eyes. I felt possessed by the creature, like two organisms in one. So I ventured outside and showed it a magnificent gothic inspired church steeple in the moonlight, made phantasmal with a backdrop of picturesque lightening from silvery thunderheads. I thought:

THIS IS WHAT I AM. THIS IS WHERE I LIVE.

I reckon I feared it more than the sight of the meat cleaver. Following this, I nipped to the pub and showed it something special on the pool table. The improbable gamesmanship involved positioning three billiard balls simultaneously tight against the baulk cushion. My cueing was impressive, inspired by Snooker gods such as:

Alan ‘Angles’ Mcmanus

John ‘The Wizard of Wishaw’ Higgins

Mark ‘The Jester from Leicester’ Selby

…and, naturally, of course…

Ronnie ‘The Rocket’ O’Sullivan

…to name but a few…

Incidentally, in sport, if you require a nickname and music with an introduction by a Master of Ceremonies, it means it’s not a real sport. Ha! Only joking! Yes it is a real sport, and maybe the hardest sport out there if you ask me. Practice for all eternity and you’ll still never nail a 147. I need a telescope to see the other side of the table!

 

FRIDay the 13^th Of deceMBer.

pArt tHe beginner

 

There seems to be a swimming pool underneath the ground floor of this modern day asylum. Due to my experience with microwave hearing, I have the ears of a Barn Owl. I perceive splashing in water at night, strange yet true. Maybe it’s sound effects from hidden speakers. Lord knows, they play enough woeful agony pain ridden audio tracks throughout the small hours. The motive is to induce fear and quell brainwaves, as we all know that scared-y cat behaviour is the anesthetic of courage/bravery. The miserable wailing I can hear heightens my sense of unlawful persecution, nothing more. If someone wanted to hurt me, I believe they would have already done so by now, although in saying that, I do not wish to tempt fate and awake the warrior with taunting via the powerful Gift of Declarations in the Mighty Name of Christ Jesus, although I will be pushed into it if necessary.

 

!!! I REFUSE TO BE DEMEANED

 BY THE EVIL ONE !!!

 

Why drag me to a hospital? Why not Britain’s version of Guantanamo? Surely we have one…

 

In this institution of mind readers, with much of the outside world, my internal monologue, along with my mental 3^rd Eye imagery, is frowned upon and reviled. Not because of its content

 

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Iusuallywatchpornoverandover

andrecantShakespeariansonnets

 

but because of its liberty. Those pesky Chinese terrorists have attempted to erase 66.6% (approximation joke) of my mind with their special clandestine technologies. I’m fighting with my all to maintain precious cherished memories from childhood. Images like eating ice cream on the beachfront with my lovely mom, or playing stark naked in the paddling pool with my princess sister, or posing for a photo shoot in front of party lights…these are all kosher currency for the Menticide maniac’s brain weaponry. This oriental Black-Op is invisible, able to walk through walls, has a penchant to eat raw human flesh, and he wants your intellectual property for his Microsoft Slideshow. Remember folks, forewarned, is forearmed. They’re on our shores, they’re in our homes, and they want our children’s minds, including all their recollections of you. Fight back with The Lord. Be as creative in any endeavour whatsoever as you are possibly able to be.

 

When I am able to turn over a pleasant sentimental memory, a dirty perp tries to delete the thought just as quickly as it arises. Whether this is with thru-wall weaponry or satellite based laser thingymajigs/whatchamalacallits is of no consequence – the rotting scumbag shouldn’t be doing it in the first place, via anything. My detestable handler reckons he is God’s gift to Mystic Meg, and he’s causing all my cruel cerebral corrosion with the powers of his psychic mind. He maintains this delusion when I can visibly see the yellow stun gun in his trigger hand. Whatever. Be damned with him and his minion network. I’ve only just decided to wage a comeback fight to keep what is rightfully mine. Memories, baby. I like most of ‘em.

 

*Topside is a snooker term. It means north of the blue.