The Kleptomaniac

I wanted a flash fiction story from my favourite pupil, one she could use in her end of year exams. I’ve been a teacher at Coventry College for over a decade, and never have I come across someone who could write so well at such a young age. Destiny, my fav pupil, is barely into her twenties, yet the weight of her literature suggests someone far older. She’d been incarcerated due to poor mental health halfway through her studies. I’d taken the time to go and see her at The Hospital Of St Cross while she was there. I remember walking into that off-putting and sterile environment with genuine fear; what medication did they have her on, what experiments were they performing on her, was the food being poisoned? Psych units have a very depraved history.

            “Hi Professor Cameron, I’m glad you came, come in and sit down. Can I make you a brew?”

            I’d taken a seat in the visitor’s reception area, a room of bare windows and beige furnishings. “Yes, that’d be great Destiny. Thank you. It’s great to see you. Milk and one sugar.” I took a moment to consider her fractured existence as I waited patiently for her to return with promised brew. It was just the way I liked it.

            She sat down, facing me, and handed me a journal. It was a posh notebook, decorated with pictures from magazines and newspapers. In it were letters to me; many many letters addressed to me, ever since I met her on enrolment evening. She confessed her love for me in each and every one of them. Some were marked with lipstick, and some were illustrated with graphite pencil. I’d known we’d shared a bond, but nothing like undying love rendered in ink. I skimmed over them with a smirk on my face as Destiny slurped her cuppa opposite me.

            I kissed her on my way out, and I cried in the car park before driving to my rural home on the outskirts of the city. I couldn’t bear to leave her there suffering, a puppet played by that tyrannical system of oppression, and wished she could return home with me. My wife has been dead six years, and I never thought I’d ever find anything remotely approaching genuine love or compassion for anyone ever again. Until I read Destiny’s work.

            I’m now on my porch, rereading her letters. I’m drinking Jim Beam and lemonade from a tumbler with a tray of nibbles beside me, Bombay Mix actually. I’m beginning to get a sense of how she feels like when I’m teaching her in class. She describes the way she looks at me like someone on a first-time visit to a zoo ogling a wild parrot or some other exotic animal.

            Destiny thrived in the institution, and got out unscathed to resume her studies with me. I’m currently sending her a text message: E-mail me a story about a kleptomaniac. I’d love to hear your thoughts, beliefs and passions regarding the subject. I robbed a Twirl from the petrol station earlier today.

           I prompt her, she writes.

           It’s time to go inside now, to do writing of my own, as I have a love letter to reply to.

© Zombie Publications 2025

 

Dual Existence

I’m thinking that the creature is more or less gone by now. It’s been nearly two weeks since it reappeared. That’s just about enough time to cause me a world of hurt. I’ve had enough of it, so bye-bye, time to go, pesky cretin. No night terrors last night, just mad dreams as usual. I’m dining with my persecutors on the astral plain, they are my friends and I forgive them. When I’m with them, I’m telling them about what they have done to me back here on Earth. I’m talking to them as I would if indeed I ever came face to face with them. It’s a blurred kind of parallel mystery going on; an inky smearing of two dimensions. When I’m in the dream state, I am consciously aware that I am sleeping in my bed back on this usual planet. I tell this to people in the dream. Talk about dual existences.

Sometimes, I begin to feel when I’m waking up slowly. The environment starts to smudge, like leaking paint, and I arise in my bed. Often I am ready to come back, because a cop is biting me for example, but sometimes I have a destination in mind and I am not ready to return. Last week I was lucid and running towards a kebab shop in the dark. It was a game of time before I woke up, a race against the clock. The lights in the distance were seductive and intriguing. I thought to myself: I have to make it in there! The abstracted and whimsical swagger across the car park was epic and long-drawn-out. When I got in there I realised I had no currency and that I must look out of place because I was from a different world, but I asked for a burger anyway. They looked like big clumps of shoes coated in breadcrumbs.

I found an old empty porn DVD case this morning. I ripped up the jacket design sleeve and threw it in the bin, but not before seeing a screenshot of a woman with massive jugs. If I go into a sex shop, and peruse the DVDs, all bets are off once I look at the screenshots on the back. It’s about that time that I take the goods to the counter and purchase them. Then I’ll go home and score illegal drugs. I’ll take, watch, and let the demons come out to claim me, as they always do. Something supernatural happens when I watch porn on drugs. I see special light coming out of me, all my psyche and my aura leaving me in spectrally glowing tendrils. Most of the time the light comes out in the shape of people. People! Leaving me! Who were part of my inner soul. Now I’m clinging to the constructs of characters I have left inside me. We are all made of other people. You are not you! You are a part of everyone who you have ever met. There are so many souls that cling to another, it is almost frightening. Your social circle, your friends and family, your work buddies, your ancestry…they are all in there, a part of your spirit. They will never ditch you if they truly love you.

Pornography artwork is so powerful, it’s almost mesmerising. It’s a real hook. With me, a five minute knockout was never enough (hand shuffle). I had to do long-lasting stimulants and explore the whole scene. Every single shot observed, and the best ones on an A-B loop. But eventually, the novelty wears off and you get bored. That’s when the sexy voices come in, but I’ve had enough of sexy voices too. Because they are evil, and they shouldn’t be there.

Anyway, I’ve been up since three in the morning drinking Bud and listening to music. I’m becoming dependant on my tablet for music in the mornings, it gives me a kick up the backside and gets me ready for the day. I said a solemn prayer last night which I feel is helping me through today. I asked God to not let the bad spirits around me bother me, and to relish the time I spend with the positive spirits. I’m going to list the names of the good guides I have with me here:

1. Most High (God)

2. The Father (God’s Friend)

3. Gilbert Fitzgerald

4. Xi Lee

5. Diana Bumpton (Red Jacket)

6. Rocket (Red Jacket)

7. Apocto (Angelina Jolie)

8. Hazel

9. Plain Jane

10. The Equestrer

11. Meredith

12. Joan of Arc (Lucy)

13. Bennie

14. Black Environs (Brooke)

15. Mathilda

16. Lydia

17. Prue

18. Chloe

19. Vik

20. Gavin

21. BeeBee

22. Jenny

23. The Intellect

That’s a comprehensive list of the names of the positive energies surrounding me. It feels nice to list them in black and white, as they’ve just been floating around in my mind. And it’s nice to share them with you too. They should be shared, as between them, they have saved my life, and I really swear by that, it isn’t a catchphrase. I owe them a lot. I call them the GENERAL COMMISSION, and I call myself their spokesperson. I AM THE SPOKESPERSON FOR THE GENERAL COMMISSION! (Apologies if I've left anybody out, there's just so many to keep up with.)

 

Otherness 12

So I’m living with this creature underneath my bed, right? And its mind is in my mind! At first it was scenting me, and it stank to high heaven of nostril-offensive reeking sh*t. It put its hand on my telly, in full view of my mince pies (eyes). Oh so clever. Last night I physically felt a shiver of fear course thru my body, feeling it tug my covers. A momentary lapse of defences. Then I recovered. I’m sleeping with my feet tightly tucked in under the duvet, not hanging out over the edge of the mattress. It started talking the other night. It said, “You’re trying to cut me up!” because I was putting angle grinders under the bed where it harbours. The pottery I did several years ago look like alien sentinels, and I’ve been mounting them alongside the bed as well, bordering it in. It’s all a fight of the mind. Visual cortex combat.

I think that my mind is hooked up to a computer, and that a very determined and wicked handler is putting commands into my brain. Commands like a special effect, going “He-he-he,” like demoniac laughter. You know, like a nice little witch’s cackle here and there. I’ve seen screenshots of torture programs on PCs. They’re like music libraries. Hundreds if not thousands of sounds. The sound of a wolf scraping its claw; the sound of a knife on a chalkboard; the sound of a child screaming for mercy. Nothing is out of turn in the torturer’s collection centre. They can not only put noises inside your head, but outside of your head too. Think of your mind as a 360 degree sphere orbiting around your skull like the halo from a light bulb; they can put sounds underneath you, to the right or left of you, and above you. For years, concerning the pain dungeon underneath my flat, I told myself that this was the case. In recent times I have learned to live with TVs (torture victims), and their oppressors, as they are both within earshot of me back at home. I am more or less living with them. I see my own home as a kind of chamber; one that I front with ill manners and minerals on a daily basis. Ill manners are a bad attitude, and minerals are strength. That’s how I fight the Devil. He built a secret bunker underneath my flat for the purposes of bringing me down into it, only I am too strong to kidnap and too powerful to capture. I’ve learned this from God, who will not stand for such vile underhanded and dastardly endeavours.

Enough negativity already. It is now Day 12 on my 28 Day Principal. That means that I am 12 days clean. 12 is a new special number. It started two years ago when I was at Tranmere Rovers’ football ground. It was a big event. We had presentation talks and a buffet. I met a woman who was truly special. Her face was amazing. She reminded me of other civilisations, because she came from afar. I’d never experienced anything like it. I mean, I’ve fell in love at first sight before, with Bennie, my spiritual benefactor, but this was different. It was similar in a way, but hard to explain. I started thinking about Aztecs and Sumerians and Vikings and Romans and Aboriginals every time I looked upon her sweet pretty face. It didn’t make any sense, but felt unique. She was so strong in features, her jaw was so set, her eyes were so inviting. So, from now on and evermore, Day 12 of my recovery numbers is dedicated to her. Surprisingly, I can’t remember her name. I don’t think I got it, but she chatted me up first in the dinner queue. I’ll remember her forever. I really do believe in Love At First Sight. Like I said, I experienced it with Benny. But this woman had a sense of wisdom and worldliness about her that blew my mind. I could tell that she had travelled, tell that she lived, loved and lost, tell that she had laughed. I felt like I knew her well. She was like a ghost particle in human form; something seen to be believed, something mystical and wondrous and enigmatic and singular, so singular, like a sun or star. I was the satellite drawn to her orbit.

I call this Day 12 mental state OTHERNESS. I am now OTHER. The target has always been RARE (28 Days clean), but now I’ve shortened it to OTHER also to give me a bump along in the road. We need hikes up here and there; we need helping hands across the way. I invented it, I created it, I enjoy it. I didn’t conjure it up because I was finding 28 too difficult of a target, it was delivered to be by this baffling and cryptic mysterious woman. So I’m taking it. RARE will be so special this time – it’s special every time like, but not so sugary honey-glazed candy-coated as this time will be. I’m on a journey, I’m going somewhere.

Every time I get there, a new spirit comes out to play. Her name is Air Monroe, she was one of my first characters in fiction. She embodies my love. She IS my love. The world is a far nicer place with Air Monroe in it. Because my soul gets sucked from, and all my ideas are recorded by the government, I got to thinking that this character is the moniker reason behind the very popular brand Nike Air. She goes back decades. Maybe you think I’ll getting delusions of grandeur there, but it’s not out of the question. I’ve been a MK-Ultra victim since birth. My head is like an open chocolate box. Reach in, take your pick, and leave a parting note in its place. That’s my mind. Interfered with, messed with, f**ked with, unraveled and unscrambled from day one.

I remember one time that I was thinking of two massive hyenas to suit my darling little spirit Chloe who could have them as her pets and soon after, later, I saw two hyenas in a Beyonce music video. A lot of mental illness these days is caused by the telly and celebrities. I met a patient in hospital who said that Kenny Dalglish was causing his sickness, talking to him via microwaves in his brain. I believe it, as I have an awful lot of celebrities talking to me in my psychosis too. I once met a bloke who said he was ‘thinking’ Hollywood scripts in half an hour and seeing them in the movies several months later. I thought he was barmy at the time, but that was before I was barmy. When you are barmy, and you full well know that you are barmy, you see other barmy people in a different light.

 

Pastor Light

 

Well nothing much has happened since yesterday, so this will be as boring as all the other posts are. I can’t help it, I don’t have an exciting life. I enjoyed half a chicken in the pub, which I’m going to repurchase shortly, because it was nice, and went out for a bit with Tez and Barry. Tez used to be a Kingsman in the army, something he rarely shuts up about, and Bazza gets ridiculed for looking like my long lost brother. The conversation is hardly riveting, but it beats my own company.

Tez has just had a blank cheque come through from the army, worth 5 grand, to look after him, giving thanks for his service. He only has a year to live, but the fact that he is shortly going to die makes him laugh. He finds it hilarious, Bazza is always saying. It doesn’t bother him one bit. He still keeps drinking and taking drugs. He is very passive-aggressive, and takes some getting used to. Bazza is a simple bloke, he doesn’t believe in the spirit world or anything, and just gets on with things. He calls me the Big Dog, and I call him the Pimp Daddy. We’re orite together.

No night terrors last night. My dreams were splendid as is mostly usual. I was dreaming of King Kong. He was ripping the roof of my house and making it hard to hide from him, but I would rather face Kong than the dark humanoid heart. I’ve just been to church, my powerful Christian friend Stuart led the proceedings. He done it really well, it suited him in a preacher position. He is so easy and gentle, he is an inspiration of how to be. Then the Pastor took over, and the light through the window fell on him in a rather angelic fashion. I sang along to several ‘Jesus Bangers’ quite loudly, and felt better about myself.

Now I’m in my familiar seat at the library talking to your good self, whose presence I sincerely value a lot. Without you, my life would take a downturn. I wouldn’t know who to reach out to. I’m pestered by the Devil, he hounds my every negative thought occurrence, but I have the almighty arm of the Lord wrapped around me too. Just saying this to someone helps improve my mood, because I can’t talk like this in the pub to anyone. I’m knees-deep in the spirit world, and am just getting over my Full House over a week ago now, where I had between 25 and 30 presences in my flat with me. They have subsided now, and I feel more alone. Never totally alone, because I hallucinate the presences 24/7, but more so alone. It’s harder being alone than it is with presences, but I never wish to go back to them. The brain isn’t large enough to comprehend what is happening, so I kind of pretend to ignore it, if that makes any sense.

ME ME ME

Hi again. A few night terrors but nothing extra freaky. I survived the sunset once more. Rose again to get dressed for a SMART meeting, which went well. I didn’t contribute all that much, just listened, and I wasn’t all that interested in other people’s stories today to be fair. But I’m here, I’m talking, and that is a vital component of my day taken care of.  It’s hard thinking of what to blog about. I could report on the news, but I don’t watch it. I could talk topical and relevant, but I wouldn’t know how. So I guess it’s just ME, ME, ME all the way. I used to say something similar about my mentor, R.I.P; that he would talk to absolutely anybody, just so long as the subject of conversation was himself.

I’m thinking of treating myself to a Nando’s, to mix the diet up a bit, or I might purchase a pastry dish from Waterstones or Greenhalgh’s. But the pies crumble apart in your hand, have you noticed? You end up slurping up the residue with your tongue. I’ve had a few cans of Bud this morning to perk me up a bit, and I’ll soon be enjoying a pint in the local boozer. Nothing much to report, I know, but this psycho-naut is having a wee spell of downtime. No bells and whistles on this period of the year, getting over the cold, rarely venturing outdoors. I’m just laying nice and low and downbeat, eating, drinking and smoking, nothing too adventurous. That’s the way to be, for me, for now. Definitely no drugs, and definitely no porn. I can’t imagine doing those two at the minute. The desire has left me for the moment, and I hope that it stays away.

Still savoring my shield from the Most High. It looks like interwined empty yellow paddling pools, if that makes sense, with loads of toys and spaceship-like fluff hanging off of it. I really would be a fool to use and relinquish this specialized anointing from God. The only porn star calling to me is a big-breasted f**k doll who I viewed the last time I watched it. She is so attractive, it is almost beyond belief, and the sexiness looms in my loins like a swelling balloon. But I need drugs to perform, and drugs make demons appear in my flat, so that’s the bottom line, it can’t be done. The demons would reappear, the monster underneath my bed would stick its head out for a butchers, my shield would disappear, and I’d be back in the Seventh Circle of Hell, which is an especially traumatic place to spend one’s days and nights.

I feel like I have a shield. It’s doing great things for my mental health. I feel confident about the trials and tribulations to come flooding in my direction. Every time my mind is flat and low I think of my illustrious shield and healthy thoughts re-emerge in my head. It’s a blessing, I love it, pure energy.

 

Suitably Fine

Hello everyone. I’m in a suitably fine place at the moment. I’ve just got one of the hardest weeks of my life out of the way. Now it’s onwards and upwards. Psychosis was the theme of the day today in Pathways. It seems that everyone has got it at the moment. Then why do I feel so alone with my personal affliction? Most people who admit that they have it don’t go into too much detail. Maybe because it’s just too bizarre to share eloquently. I’m sick to the back teeth of it. It’s cursed me for over the last decade of my life. The strange part is that it has nothing to do with my mental health. It causes bad mental health, but it’s not a cause of bad mental health.

Anyway, I stayed in throughout the whole day yesterday, deeming it too cold to go out. Several but not too many cans of alcohol were consumed. The night was a rolling terror fest fighting the presence underneath my bed; alas, I came through it to survive until the daybreak of morning. Now I’m up and active in the local library talking to your good self. I’ve signed up to a new course this afternoon related around anger management but to be honest I’m failing to be excited about it too much. I’m failing to be excited about anything really. I’m thinking that my purpose is merely to get through a struggle, and not enjoy any happiness or bliss. Sheer survival might be the order of the day. I imagine that I’m working in my sleep, space-hopping to different realms on some kind of secret intergalactic mission, making several other inhabitants of various realms aware of my plight. I pray for lucid dreams, and I’m getting rewarded. I’m waking up with my mind blown sometimes.

I used to keep a dreams diary, but I wrote it in writing too small to read. It was writing meant for a magnifying glass. I believe it was shielded by the subconscious somehow, to prevent it from interfering with the veridical. Or something like that. Now I keep meagre notes about the people I meet on the astral and the circumstances surrounding them. Often, by the time I have a rollie in my gob and a coffee in my hand, I have a complete story in my head of where I’ve been and what I’ve done.

My boy David Abraham used to say that dreams are simply the last remaining thoughts in your head which you have before you drift off to sleep. Try telling him about intergalactic space missions in the pit. David was a good Christian family guy, before his wife cheated on him and wrecked his home. I liked his wife, Natalie, she had a fondness for egg salads. You should have seen their wedding portraits on the wall, they were beautiful. I used to go round to their home and watch horror movies together. Natalie has moved back to Preston, but David has quickly remarried and had another child. He battered his child once on the football field, because he fouled another player. I mean, really battered him like. Punched him, kicked him, the lot, it was all a bit excessive. He didn’t come across as a very prominent Christian when he was doing that! He also like to take penalties with his big toe. You know, where you poke the ball with your toe. We used to call them toe-bungers when we were little. Big Bad Bob in the local youth club was king of the toe-bungers. He used to hit the post and claimed he scored a goal, because the post was painted onto the wall. Okay, that’s it. See ya next time out!

 

Festivity Period

 

Happy New Year! I hope your Christmas was great. I got a couple of dinners out of it. A friend named Jacqui laid a spread on, Chrimbo Eve. It was very special, I felt connected and engaged. It went tits up over the New Year with another use up, but now I am determined to stay on the right path. I know, I know, I’ve said all this before, but this time is different, I feel it in my marrow.

My dealer has just contacted me, because he knows it’s my payday methinks. I politely refused his offer of a big dog and said that I am okay fine for the moment. Then I deleted his number again instantly. He might be all kind and friendly when he is selling the goods, and meeting up to deliver them, but afterwards, once I’m on a comedown, he doesn’t care about whether I am standing on a bridge or balanced on the bathtub with a razor blade in my hand. I’ve lost several friends to suicide. You would never have thought they had it in them. I remember them fondly and pray that they are sweet on the other side.

Usual psychosis went down on my last use up. I am sexually enslaved to a bad spirit who excites me with her evil mantras. She started to take control of my mind by making me spell out the names of my good spirits to her so she could work her wiccan magic and tear us apart. My knees turned discoloured by the drugs. I was a physical and mental wreck. And guess what? Another creature appeared in my flat, hiding under the bed. In case you are wondering, it is physical, not a shape shifter. And this one bites me in my sleep. Can you imagine the terror? It takes all my mighty will power and steely determination to stay there.

During the comedown, it was a Full House. This means that every single good and bad spirit I could encompass was present in the room with me. It’s hard remembering that I am all alone, because I feel like I am the central member in a large party. We’re talking about thirty presences, plus voices on top! It’s hard to calculate how many people’s voices I hear. I call it a snooker maximum 147, although there are potentially many more. It’s just one after the other. They all line up to have a pop at me. Their latest insinuation is calling me a BIG BLACK F**K UP! They reckon I have ruined my mind on drug.

I saw a giant bright flashy firework emerge from Heaven through my window. This was the Creator giving me my power back in the form of an energetic parcel. The imagination can be restored with one of these parcels; it has nothing to do with brain chemistry, I feel. Instantly my thoughts started to improve and I began to get over the beast underneath my bed, which is another genetic mutation with a dollop of tailored mind power. The Most High appeared in my room, and put a shield around my body. He’s a big guy in a red cloak. I value this shield with my life. If I use again, I lose it.

The Advent

The Advent was a time in my life when I became a detective for the Lord. My mission was to lead light into torture chambers dotted around the town and beyond. By merely acknowledging their existence, favour and fortune would be brought to their occupants. It all started one winter’s evening after a dodgy lasagne and four cans of mild.

I started following some familiar graffiti. It led me all around the town, and I live in a very large town. It was on the walls, on bus stops, on phone boxes, everywhere. Everywhere I explored, down every snicket and ginnel, I could not escape this graffiti. I felt like Columbo being led astray, knee-deep in cryptic clues, down every side street in Dark Alley District. I ended up in some very scary places, in the heart of the wilderness, and still I saw this graffiti. I was also following clues in litter, mainly involving McDonalds paper cup lids and straws. They led me around the mulberry tree.

I was also hot on the heels of my clone. My clone was a mega powerful evildoer who’d stolen my likeness. He had a factory full of TVs (torture victims), being processed on production lines like tins of tuna. Locating and walking past that factory on a bleak Sunday morning was non-rational and sorcerous. I felt like I was in a horror movie dream-state. I felt like I was in one of Eli Roth’s Hostel movies, about to get dragged into one any second and be pain-inflicted for all of eternity. It was all very real to me. I was hearing screams and yells of terror and anguish every time I turned around. That’s part of my psychosis; my psychosis had obviously followed me out into the streets and into the wild.

We’re not talking about a poxy shed, with someone tied-up in it. We’re talking mega office blocks and multi-storey car parks and industrial buildings, full of thousands and thousands. I did seek out the solitary sheds, though. I found them so far as Blackpool, wandering beaches in the middle of the night. The strangest thing was, I wasn’t even drinking alcohol to keep me going; I was wired on pure adrenaline and curiosity. Pandora’s Box was wide-wide open. It’s very difficult to translate. Words do not do the experience justice.

I was knocking on stranger’s houses at all hours of the day in distant areas and accusing them of having people in their basement. All I had to do was let the victims know that I had perceived them, and God would do the rest and get them out of there by uplifting their souls to Heaven or something. I was also finding a lot of pipes in the floor around the place, which I believed were breathing apparatus for underground TVs. There was virtually a pipe in everybody’s garden. I used to whisper down them.

During this weird and wonderfully oddball outlandish mission, I was planet hopping to Lizard and Insectile realms. I was very surely convinced at certain times that I was surrounded by shape-shifting lizards. This lasted for weeks and weeks, when I was running on sheer wit’s-end survival power. My fear was outdone by the curiosity. I simply had to know the scope and breadth of the darkness in this universe. At one point a saw a truckload of beautiful semi-invisible people walking off a lorry in the distance along the horizon – some of the people I was saving. It made all the trepidation worthwhile.

Of course the U.S government were involved, mixed up with many other voices in my head. They were telling me what to study and analyse – mainly television aerials on rooftops for some reason. And all the time I was getting my head shot at with invisible tic-tacs (ultrasonic pellets), which were dulling my senses constantly and making me numb to everything I was perceiving. Not to mention the head transplant. Did I not mention the head transplant?

Before all this happened, I perceived an invisible Chinese medic performing a brain transplant on me in my bedroom. He took mine out because it had been pelleted to destruction and gave me the brain of an oriental criminal instead. This is what made me super-psychic with all the clues. You couldn’t make it up could you?

I stayed clean for nine months during The Advent, my record. How I abstained from drugs and porno for so long is perplexing to me. I was staying out for days at a time, and time was erratically unaccountable. It was midnight in the afternoon, and morning at midnight. The day would pass in but a breath, and all I’d been doing was walking around looking at graffiti, litter and pipes. Very surreal indeed, to say the least.

 

Life IS Loss

I lost my dongle the other night. It had years’ worth of unbacked work on it. Art, writing, photography, music, the lot. How could I be so careless? The last time I lost a dongle (they always have loads of unbacked work on), I found myself punching the wall over and over in frustration. It’s hard to describe how important an artist’s portfolio is to him- or herself. The process of loss takes days if not weeks to be fully digested, when certain forgotten projects from the past crop up in the mind, projects now deemed gone forever into the nether. Unread, unviewed, unobserved. I liked to look back upon my body of work and boast about myself internally, it amounts to the only good thing I’ve ever done upon this blue spinning rock. How could I be so careless?

But so be it. Life IS loss. I don’t wanna get too deep on the subject, because I’m likely to start weeping or something, but do you know what I mean? I’ve lost my little brother in a police station, I’ve lost my dad to cancer, I’ve lost a double miscarriage, I’ve lost the rest of my family due to estrangement. I’ve lost my mentor, I’ve lost my sanity, I’ve lost my physical appearance. I’ve almost lost my soul. Where does a silly old dongle rank amongst that fiasco? My work means nothing, in a way. I believe God will appreciate it in a different realm for all eternity. He’s read it, He’s viewed it, He’s observed it. God is my witness, and, I believe, with my creativity over the years, that I have served Him well. I didn’t let anyone down with my paintings and my message boards and my compositions and my collages and my sketches and my sculptures. It’s just a shame that none of it remains. Only their creator, my good humble self, who can recreate again, and never stop expressing. Expression, I also believe, or depression.

What if I lost this blog? Then it’s no fear. All I need is a pen and a piece of paper and my giftings from the Good Lord remain intact. I’ve always said this, but give me a studio and I’ll give you the world. I’ll always remember my artistic production with fondness and love.

Imagine if I lost my home through a bomb or a storm or a forest fire, or if I was a sole survivor in war-torn territory? Things could always be worse. I would burn all my books in a heartbeat rather than lose my love for God and his Children. Love is the most precious commodity on this blue spinning rock. On the other hand, I could have my own exhibitions going on but with a dark hateful heart. What good is art then, without a loving sentience to appreciate it? I offer all of my talents up to God, what’s done is done, I made a mark on myself if not on anybody else, and I pray for new giftings in this latest chapter of my life. I know that one of my vocations is talking to you, whoever you are or wherever you may be, about art and about my recovery and about my life. Our relationship is just starting. If anything happens to this website then I’ll simply get up and start a simpler one, but I must always keep writing, because writing keeps me.

I’m 7 Days into beating my addiction. A week ago today I was sat on a park bench scoring speed from a stranger in the cold. I took it home and sat in a dark room all night fapping on it, no pornography involved. I haven’t watched porno in a month, but last night I had the most erotic dreams, involving women and men spurting all over the place, taking me back to the banned content I came into contact with as an adolescent. That would wreck the rest of my life up now, if I came across stuff like that again. So would going back to the familiar interracial fodder I was used to on the internet. I haven’t watched it online for about three years. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to own the internet again. They say 50% of it is porno. It would surely wreck the rest of my life up. Cocaine and porno make me a very ill bunny.

 

Letter To Pathways

 

Thursday, 18^th December, 2024

 

Dear Pathways Management,

My name is Andrew Donegan. I have been attending Pathways on and off since before the Corona Virus. I feel part of the furniture in this magical place. Unfortunately, I still suffer quite severely from drug and alcohol problems, although I have made notable progress along the stormy way. Pathways has been a port in choppy waters for me, I hold it in very high esteem like most people, but recently I feel that I have fallen victim to professional error.

This is because I have been ‘graduated’ from the service. I do not feel like I am ready for this. The groups I will now be losing include Positive Thoughts, Mutual Aid, Men’s group, Tasty Bites, and the Rambling group. Between these, I have a steady routine for conquering the mundane and ultimately defeating my personal afflictions. Without them, my afternoons are blank and empty. Now I am faced with whole days with nothing to occupy myself with. I fear that my addiction resistance will suffer incredibly at this prospect. I understand that we all must move on eventually, but I feel it in my gut that the time is not quite right for me. I wouldn’t be appealing like this if I agreed.

I would like to be granted a reprieve from my graduation and maybe be accepted back into the program with perhaps monthly reviews to see how I am getting along. I sincerely require Pathways in my life at the moment, and I feel it would still be present if I saw directly eye to eye with my current keyworker, Ste Illingworth, which I don’t. Myself and Ste used to play football together and I feel that our previous friendship has thwarted our working relationship. If at all possible, I would appreciate a second opportunity with a different keyworker.

Yours with very much faith, Andy.

End Of A Era

I’ve just been ‘discharged’ from Pathways, my local Drugs & Alcohol rehabilitation clinic. They prefer to call it ‘graduated’. I think it’s complete and utter BS. They don’t understand that I really need the place, although I wasn’t about to start grovelling. I can still go to certain classes, but some of them will be missed. Now it will be more difficult to fill my days and it was hard enough in the first place. The afternoons and early evenings in my life have just gotten an awful lot more problematic to navigate. What am I going to do now?

They go on about Pathways as some sort of magical hub of wellbeing and recovery. It makes me think of Russell Crowe in the movie A Beautiful Mind (2001), when he is still attending the local library to educate himself as an old age pensioner. I mistakenly thought Pathways was like that, somewhere which always made you feel welcome and would never turn you away. I was wrong. Now I’ve been kicked out into touch with no support.

Apart from this it’s been the usual old codswallop, up all night tweaked out of my mind fighting demons until the morning and beyond. And I mean literally fighting them, this isn’t a figure of speech. I’ve taken a major step and deleted all my numbers, so I now have no access to chemicals. I’ve only ever done this once in my life before, as I believe the only feeling worse than using is wanting to use but not being able to. Wouldn’t you know it, but as soon as I delete them, a dealer turns up outside the pub last night. I ignored him.

Pathways did a party last night. I got a certificate for attending the walking groups, which I’ll no longer be able to frequent. We walk up mountains every other Friday or so. There were disco lights and raffles and turkey barms, it was all very jolly. The day before I attended a musical and drama performance in Holy Trinity church done by a number of people with learning disabilities. It was all very heart-warming, watching young girls with Down’s Syndrome pretending to be Lady Gaga and playing the air guitar. Very pleasant indeed. It raised up a number of uncomfortable questions, as it usually does when I am around those poor yet blessed souls afflicted with learning disabilities.

Partly because that’s how I see myself. Some of my behaviours around porn and drugs are very peculiar to Aspergers, Autism, Catatonia and general Spacca and Mong deficiency. Pardon me for my political rudeness with those last two descriptions. Social services were involved with me as a child, and I also had an Identity Crisis as a child, and I’ve also always been unusual and odd in certain ways. So when you put me with these kinds of people, I feel very uncomfortable about myself. But once straighten out this awkwardness and sense their true light, and how innocent and pure they are, I start to get over myself and enjoy their company.

 

Doodles and Canvasses

I know, they are the only things that keep one of my little toes planted firmly in the plentiful choppy waters of the art game, if you could call it that. I miss my sketching, and my painting, and my sculpture, and my graphic design, but without a studio, or computer equipment, I am severely limited to pens and paper. People keep asking me, all of the time, why don’t you draw something like a portrait, or a bowl of cherries. I say that I am unable to do so without Photoshop, because that’s where I get my perspiration from. My perspiration comes from a willingness to work, my inspiration comes from the team around me, and my desperation comes from being bored in the mornings. I’ve included a selection of random images I’ve found on my dongle (the one I haven’t lost yet), just to show you how far away from doodle I aspire to when not limited to simple gel pens. You may have seen these images before upon the blogspot, as I’ve lost track of what I’ve posted over the years. But I’m not at all happy with pattern doodles anymore, I strive for something better, so please bear with me as I remind myself of who I used to be. These were outlined to be reproduced on canvass, but never quite made the grade.

If I can stay away from the coke I might buy myself a cheap laptop just for photoshop, and get back into my drawing a little bit. It’ll be well worth the expenditure, rather than blowing my beans over big bucks impaling skinny women. You know what I mean? 

An architectural composition of life in the snow.

A mad biro inkblot.

My benefactor Bennie, holding gun.

Afghan girl, a famous photograph.

Leon The Professional and Mathilda.

Photoshop graphic design.

Michael Jackson, pointing.

The Creator

Hi there, I hope this reaches you in positive spirits. Pray that you are well. I myself (back to me now), am doing rather quite okay, considering the exquisite trials I’ve been enduring recently. I’ve been contemplating The Creator of it all, and how he might have a fingertip on my life, keeping me protected from all the dark forces surrounding me. Do you believe in The Creator? I do. I believe in The Father, I believe in God Almighty, I believe in The Most High, and I believe in The Creator. I think they are all different, but all the good deities serve The Creator. He’s the key to it all. Evil deities like Satan and Lucifer hate The Creator because he made them in bondage and misery, and they are unable to see small pockets of joy in each and every day The Good Lord makes for us.

What questions would you ask him? That would take some thinking about. I would ask him why I am so important and deserving of his presence when there are another 8 billion humans who would relish the same prospect. I know evildoers who want to batter him (good luck with that). I would also ask him which invention he is most proud of. I would expect the human mind to be right up there at the top of his list. Imagine having that much power that you can create from scratch something like the human mind, a fleshy biological brain with metaphysical properties that can receive and project visual imagery and talk itself to sleep with poetry and verse. Or would it be the human hand, the most majestic instrument tool in the known universe, capable of building battleships, stealth bombers, ice palaces and skyscrapers. Of flower-arranging, origami, and sculpting.

I think that the creator must be absolutely gigantic, big enough to make the giant balls of matter we call planets and stars from compacted dust from his special clown’s pocket. If you can understand his size, you are halfway along there on the road as to how it must be done. Like for example, if I made a snowball and put nanotechnology on it with a powerful microscope. Maybe he compressed the planets out of matter in much the same way. The question is, how do they hang there, solid as rocks, floating in empty space with nothing holding them up? Do you think that he has used invisible string? Some kind of invisible web? I might ask him in a prayer and ask him to show me in a dream or something. If he had the time, of course, and would be so gracious to do so, for example. I wonder.

I am totally uninterested in his foe, the Devil. Although I do have a question for him too. I want to know the precise estimation of my worth to him. I am obviously worth a lot, much more than Mo Salah, as he has ordered governments to stalk, track and harass me with electronic weaponry. He has instructed secret societies to follow me in the street. And most critically of all, he has built a not-so secret anymore pain dungeon underneath my premises, with the purpose of bringing me down into it one day. This you might find difficult to believe, as I live on the ground floor, and, I can assure you, I have one or two issues with it also. Anyway, let’s part company here, on a positive note, and go and talk to The Creator. Go on, send him a prayer. And don’t forget to mention your favourite blogger!

 

Battering Pay Day

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Splitting Helicopter Beams

I was going to talk about helicopter beams. You know, beams being fired out at humans from helicopters, to give them schizophrenia? Don’t pretend that you don’t know what I’m talking about. It’s commonplace in this day and age. They poison the mind with an electronic virus, boosting the signal so as the subject can still continue to hear voices and hallucinate. Very real indeed. I’ve started splitting them on my own, with a little help from God. They disperse and dissipate around me sometimes. I walk free. No weapon formed against me shall prosper. I sincerely believe that. Ever since a bullet bounced off me in the car park.

I was just walking to the shop last time, after a binge. My energy was low as is per usual, and all the hate mobbers were out in force. When I’m down, I notice an increase in flashy motors driving by me and everything. They really do not try to hide the fact that they are swarming around me. After a USE UP, the general public become rude and insulting everywhere I go. This is basic gang-stalking. Taking photographs is one of their many weapons. Once you’ve been involved for a number of years, they are easy to spot. But anyway, I was walking to the shop and this translucent grey ray from the air shattered around my body. My voices said that I did it with my own power, and that was why they were persecuting me, because of my power. They make out that I’m some powerful supernatural deity. They say that I am better than God. They attack you, call you weak and deserving, and when you batter them, they hold that against you as well. They are totally unreasonable. You can’t win with them.

Imagine what chance clones have got in the future with voices from the ether; they won’t stand a chance, once they’re dehumanized. Dehumanizing the target is the first page in the manual of gang-stalking. At first, they told me that I was a clone. At one point I half-believed that I was a spider. A spider! My Boy Lee Brownbill, AKA The Badger, once thought he was changing into a spider, after ingesting a spice bucket in jail. His head fell down his back and his limbs grew longer, so he reported.

These electronic viral beams can also come from people’s phones. I’ve witnessed people pointing phones at me and commenting why the software hasn’t worked with my own eyes and ears. I stress again, it’s real. If you’re reading this piece here at the blogspot, I take it that you have an open mind similar to mine, and believe in such stuff. In this day and age, someone can shoot something out of their mobile phone into your head and give you a electronically-generated malady that mimics acute schizophrenia. Voices and visions, baby, voices and visions. I fap to mine. That’s how much they mean to me.

Pay day tonight, at half nine at the cash point. I’ve been thinking about spending all my doe on coke, but I SERIOUSLY can’t afford to be doing that. I think I might have a nice week of fine dining and drinking and smoking with no wolves at the door. I can always get high over the Christmas period, there’s no rush. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and abstinence for a while never hurt anybody. I think I’ll just be patient and wait another week or so till blowout. Till my voices sound sexy and spazzy to me. It’s a great turn-on, that combination, sexy and spazzy. Don’t forget bossy also, while you’re there! Lol! They tell me to get hard NOW, while sounding like a remedial. I shouldn’t really say it, but it is great horny fun. Masturbating to voices in your head! God! You wouldn’t want it for your children, would you!? But neither would you want dull porno…

 

Big Dog

 

I went for the not-so phat bag of coke in the end, after wrestling with the desire for several hours. I tried to be normal for once in my life, but it didn’t quite work out. I succumbed to the temptation. The beak was pure power, as they say; top-notch, grade-A swag, which is a bad thing in a way, because it makes you want more. Sometimes, when it’s not up to scratch, it puts you off from craving any extra for a long time. At one point, my head was wobbling like an alarm clock, and my arm was shaking. That’s what I want. That lets me know that something is actually going to work in my system. It’s slightly nervy and frightening, but dangerously exhilarating at the same time.

I avoided the CeLLuloid CoRRidor (porn), because I had none and couldn’t be arsed buying any. Instead, I fapped to the voices in my head. I know that this was relinquishing the former position of power I had over them, but it is what it is. I feel I’ll be able to maintain that power for a lifetime, if I don’t give up faith and concentrate on the matter at hand. You only have as much power as you think you have. The voices, when I fap to them, have three ranges: Sexy, Bossy, and Spazzy. They sound off in various mantras and put me in a stubborn trance. It all feels like a big game, but they do turn me on a helluva lot. I’m ashamed and embarrassed, obviously, but I’ll get over it. It’s Day 4 now, and I feel free from it yet again, although I have still one eye on the USE AGAIN ball, even though there is no way I can afford it. I don’t know, maybe I could get a little whizz in between the Big Dogs.

Talking like a druggie on the blogspot, what am I like? What defines me, however, aside from my drug use, is how I react and bounce back from psychosis. The thoughts that fill my head afterwards are quite unreal, they keep me occupied for hours and hours, almost as long as the drugs last for. I call it the upside for being a total down ‘n’ out. I didn’t feel like a down ‘n’ out upon the astral plain last night, however; I felt like a wizard. I had a handful of lucid dreams, wherein I knew I was dreaming. Fully conscious and aware, in the dream state. It’s such a good experience, it’s at least worth the same price as cocaine.

I enjoyed a bit of frottage with a girl named Nellison, then went for a fly in the sky, then rode the cockpit of a plane as it took off from above an astral city. The main centrepiece of the city was a double apartment block which was a cross between the Hilton hotel in Manchester and the New York Twin Towers. It was exquisite, man, sheer mind-bending fun. I think that the Good Lord is rewarding my dream life because my veridical existence is so monotonous.