[mun] (DAY) 29 {DEE-sember}
twenny twenny 5
I may be due home in two days. It looks like I’ve survived the ‘Neuromodulation Suite.’ Knowing my luck, there may be one last final curveball hurdle to surmount. With the Devil and his horny mean-spirited fellowship perched securely on my shoulder, I wouldn’t be surprised if an obstacle crossed my path with one of my legs practically over the finish line.
The authorities are persistently playing tricks on me. I’ve had to box very clever as usual in order to procure the successful conclusion of my release date. Usually they just ask me about drugs. With a chequered history of setting my own mum on fire while she was barricaded in the cubby hole, shooting up my siblings at point blank range with a 4.5mm, urinating all over a marble statue of Jesus outside my local parish, and many other distinguished acts of G-Unit criminality, drugs is all they appear to be interested in. Mainly because that’s all they amount to, at the end of the day, a gang of Big Pharma drug pushers disguised in labelled smocks. “There’s a lot more to me than just drugs,” I feel like telling them. “I once represented England Homeless football team and played at several Premier League training facilities, if you’re interested in hearing about what a joy that was.”
But no, for the most part. All they care about are potential ‘risks’. Now if you would like to please just bend over and receive this boring/debilitating/toxic drug in your buttocks…
Incidentally, the last time I was injected, lying sideward on my bed midway through a thoroughly enjoyable snooze, the guy with the syringe left me there to ponder what he had just administered me with whilst wearing a holier-than-thou SMUG expression on his face, as if to say: “HAVE THAT ONE, YOU DEMENTED IMBECILE PATIENT DOUCHEBAG.”
“Thanks,” I muttered under my breath. At the time of writing, I intend to refuse their pinpoint narcotics on the basis of a needle phobia, and move on to optional oral pills.
You might think I’ve been busy ringing my solicitor and the like. None of it. My battle is spiritual. No university grad in a suit and tie from River Island can help me. My armour comes from God, I hope, and my weaponry is simple intellectual property, aka creative concepts in the brain. Stephen King calls this the ‘shining’. I call it ‘acuity’. He said it’s like having a movie camera inside your head, and I tend to agree with him on that. I believe my acuity is the grounds on which I was arrested, by the thought police, whose physical representation dragged me out of bed in the early morning. The plan was to wipe my brain clean of anything which motivates and inspires. They’re particularly kind to minorities here in England, aren’t they? In contradiction, when facing their hostility on their own turf, behind lock and key and drugged, I have only instead managed to accrue more intellectual property.
For some insane reason, I seem to be locked in a process of attracting (and simultaneously losing, on occasion), powerful invisible presences. When all thirty-odd or so are present with me, I call it a Full House. We sit and chew the cud with each other all day long. This drives the doctors completely barmy. There’s no way they’ll ever be convinced that I am sane. They’ve dumped me in the decompression chamber in the past, in order to drive them out. Better than a drilled hole in the head, I suppose! They’ll be swimmin’ me like a bitchy witch next!
Some of the ‘beings’ around me are allies, and we dream of alternative heavenly plains with one another: Others want me down in eternal hellfire. You can imagine the chemistry as we all engage in humorous sardonic banter together. This makes the professionals responsible for analysing my mental state fervently envious, listening to me laugh to myself in an empty room all day long; they are always vowing to relive me of my company, to take ‘my unseen companions’ away from me. They would rather see me catatonic, with nobody to talk to, crying in a ball. In fact, this is their plain objective/major imperative, for detention. And they call this treatment. It irritates me no end, I have to be completely honest with you.
Q. What’s worse than being fussed over by a throng of ghosts?
A. Being fussed over by a flock of psychiatrists as well as a throng of ghosts!
Hope to speak soon, take it easy and goodbye x
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