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.

 

Calling From The Depths

Day 42. I went for a pint this morning only to be knocked back at the bar because it wasn’t 9 o’clock yet. I didn’t think there were licensing laws anymore. I thought you could drink as soon as the pub opened. Apparently not. I had to wait twenty minutes to get served! Just been breakfast club for the usual cooked-on toast. I’ve got AA, SMART, and a visit to Pause to look forward to. No rest for the wicked eh?

It all seems so tedious and mundane, walking around the town from place to place, but it’s only when the options are gone when you fully start to appreciate what you’re missing. At least I’m active, and I value being active, out and about. Being trapped behind those closed doors in psychosis is gut-wrenchingly terrible, I can’t stand it anymore. So I’m grateful that that isn’t the case today.

I’ve got enough in the bank for some porn and two 8-balls, if I want. But hey guess what – I don’t want. Well I kinda do, but I’m not going to. Because it always ends in tears. The voices will come back, the hallucinations will come back, and the Devil will gain a foothold in my life again. I seriously don’t miss that cretin.

My main persecutory voice I call Mr. Banana. It’s my new nickname for him. I miss him even less than the Devil. I wonder what he’s up to now that he can’t harass me anymore. For some reason he only harasses me when I’m strung out on drugs. I think I’m too powerful to harass when I’m clean and straight. There’s no point, I’m too strong, I’ve got all my mental scenarios and my inner voice rip-roaring along at 200mph. There’s no room left in my brain for hate-mobbers. It’s clogged with the General Commission. The General Commission is the collective term for my Protective Spirits.

I’ve got a new scenario, apart from the swimming podiums. The General Commission are all playing on a sinking ship and I’m a King watching it capsize, entranced by their beauty, unable to tear my eyes away. It’s a revamp of the end of Beowulf (2007). In that, Angelina Jolie plays a demon bathing in the waters, enticing the new King to join her in the depths. I would walk over hot coals to be within winking-distance of my General Commission. They are so gorgeous (because they are Angels), I’m so lucky!

They are playing guitars and doing cartwheels on the sinking ship. It’s on fire as well. Prue, my oriental schoolgirl angel, is floating in the waters. It’s sunset. You can see a hint of cleavage above the lapping waves. She’s made of gold, and she teases me in with her eyebrow. I can’t remove my eyes from them, and I take my first step in. I must be with them, in this eternity or the next, it’s destiny, it’s meant to be, it’s all I want, all I have ever wanted…