Gavin

I had a blip early last week so we are all the way back down to Day 6 again. It’s ever so disappointing, but rather than dwell in my sorrows, I’ve decided to hit the ground running and jump right back on the saddle of recovery double quick-time. I must be getting boring by now, I suspect, rambling on about relapses every couple of weeks, but it’s the story of my life. Don’t worry, I’ll be feeling good again before either of us know it. And then my blog posts will take a different pattern, of positivity and hope and light. Or maybe they won’t. Perhaps I’ll just keep on failing and failing down this slippery slope I’m on.

That creature returned amidst my latest bout of psychosis, and did the exact same thing, holding me to ransom and hostage over my bed for hours on end again. Once more, I was sooo scared, I was sooo afraid. Eventually yet again I got over it though, and started to be active. This was after I sat on the floor of my bedroom and looked at this thing in the eye. It took a lot of guts on my behalf, that did. The local pack of gang-stalkers all crowded around me pretending to be going to a concert when I tried to relax with a drink in public, but that old skittish codswallop is like water over a duck’s back by now, I don’t pay no attention to it.

Since then I invited my boy Simon back to my place to be present with me while I checked under the bed. I just wanted someone there while I did that. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing there, and the last two nights sleep have been steeped in relief. It’s like a giant weight off my shoulders knowing that there isn’t something lurking in the dark, because, as I’ve just said, just several days prior I was giving the thing eye contact. So now I can rest easy in my castle again, free of hybrid rats and mutated tarantulas and other creepy crawly beasties.

Precious, the woman underneath my floorboards, told me to delete her blog post. She has lost all faith in me. I’m utterly tearful to report such sad news, but I can’t oblige her. Please pray for forgiveness on my part, as I have let her down terribly. But no more. The buck stops here.

Finally a note on Gavin. Gavin is a young boy deep-rooted in my spiritual consciousness. He’s always dossing around me in a football strip, Everton I think. He gives me advice on what trainers to buy. He can be a Samurai warrior or The Incredible Hulk with his shape-shifting powers. He looks after his big sisters when he does that. He’s my little Gav, I love him a lot, I ask him for protection although he is only about 6 years old. I think he is wiser than his years portray. He can be anything he wants to be, but mostly I want him to be a performing keyboarder. He plays the keys with lollipop sticks attached to bubble machines.

 

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.