Euphoria

I’ve just scored 40 pregabs, and necked ten of them already. That was over half an hour ago, they take 90 minutes to come up, so in an hour my mood will be lifted substantially. I’ve not had them for months, so they should work a treat. By the time I’ve finished talking to you (chore – jokin’), I should be in a euphoria realm. I don’t think I’m biggin’ ‘em up too much, as they have really proved to be worth their salt in the past.

Drinking beer on ‘em too which is standard procedure. Taking pregabs make me pray to The Lord. I hope he hears my prayer. No, scratch that – I know he hears my prayer. I mentioned that my child spirit Chloe appeared to me the other day. She was so beautiful to behold, I could look at her all day. I want to carry her forward with me into the next existence, as I’d be lost if I didn’t have a graceful face to look down upon from time to time. The desire to fap on illicit chemicals has faded. I feel reborn and devoted to a new fresh way of life. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance, after my assassination attempt. The creature has gone, but it will return if I am not careful. It’s an amazing feeling, escaping with your life. I should have been ripped to shreds on my bed. Not by a demon, or any other such supernatural thing, but by a real animal, created in a lab, a hybrid. I’ve read about it in fiction. And life is stranger.

In the fiction story, a man called Henry is an investigator’s second-in-command. He gets mutilated in his office by an assassin creature. It is so perverse that it shags his dead eye socket and ejaculates in the orbital lobe. How f**ked up and messy is that!? Leaves the corpse strewn over the desk in the office, in broad daylight, and leaves back to its evildoing handler. Do you believe these creatures exist in reality, these DNA mutations, or is it only me and James Herbert? Make up your own mind. But how can you smell something, if it isn’t really there?

I’m slowly creeping beyond caring about what was trying to kill me or not trying to kill me, real, or imagined. All that matters now is several hours of euphoria off pregabs. Yes, I’m on my own. And yes, I don’t give a flying rat’s hoot about it. I’ll talk to my ghosts if I have to. You should see them when they appear, ah wow, they are so beautiful. I hope to be one of them and around them when I shuffle off this mortal coil. My heart cries when I think of them in-depth. I so want to clasp one of them close and never let go, to hold their bones tight to my chest and whisper promises of love and peace and security. But they keep their distance when I am clean and on form, as a mark of respect. The bottom line is, I’m afraid, is that it’s not nice to be haunted.

I mentioned that one of my ghosts stroked the beast. By doing so, she showed it the first cause of love it had ever witnessed. Its aggression softened instantly. She showed it another alternative. It even looked slightly cute, this engineered monster, while getting stroked by beauty. I was thinking about stroking it myself, as it was getting stroked by Lydia. Lydia is the name of my ghost who stroked the beast. She’s a sincerely admirable woman. She played a blinder by showing love to the most unloveable of all brutes. She’s an amazing ghost. I want to be with her in the afterlife.

 

Gone Yesterday (Part 1)

(Written 21/03/2013) James Herbert hardly ever did interviews. It’s still proving hard to find his television appearance on the Graham Norton Show. He did appear with Graham on radio just several months ago however and admitted his belief, at the ripe old age of 69, to evil cabals (sects). The testament of one man like that is more worthy than the blabberings of a thousand pillocks.

He is of course widely acclaimed/hugely influential and so on (remember that term from the front matter in his novels) but his book The Magic Cottage was put down less than half way thru for being just about the slowest and most boringest thing ever written by a world famous author, contrary to popular belief. You can chalk that off however and backheel it under the rug because he pulled a blinder in 1999 by penning THE ABSOLUTE BEST BOOK EVER in OTHERS, or to put it more subjectively, me most personal favourite book ever.

What. A book. That is. And enough said already. Forget just about every other novel and author, the only inspiration needed comes right from that. There is an element of regret about now not ever getting the chance to let him know, to say, “Hey Herb, listen, your book Others etc etc was this that and the other...” It’s important to do that with the people responsible for moving you. It reminds them to keep doing it, if nothing else. And you have every right to approach them no matter where they are, in a weird stalker pest kind of way, because their story has bonded you to them for life. You are imparting a token of received wisdom. Call it a side-effect of exposure. Consider it your duty. Plus they appreciate it more than the flash of a camera or autograph.

So just who was James Herbert, when he was here? The guy who did the best book someone ever read, that’s what.