Ganged Up On And Sore

Wednesday The 11^th Of December 2025

Part the First

I once more find myself detached from your good self and detained away in a nuthouse yet again! The last time this happened, the authorities invented a bunch of lies about me. This occasion was no different. They’ve gone with the old chestnut of most typical accusations which pursue me around, the old  common blag of me lighting/igniting uncontrolled fires. The Good Book does say that trouble follows man as surely as sparks fly upward! This is because of a teenage arson charge since long before the Battle of Hastings. According to the so-called powers that be, if I’m not fiddling with electrical wiring, I’m turkeying around with gas canisters. Apparently, my risks are ‘accelerating.’ In rapport with a five minute assessment on my doorstep, by someone who might not even have been a real professional, but a fraudster who only simply wanted to repossess my home, my appearance is ‘compounded’ by drug and alcohol abuse. They’re bloody charming, aren’t they? I’ve never been so flattered.

The real reason I got sectioned is because…well, it’s too ridiculous too mention. Or, as my friend Katy tags it, too ‘ridonkolous’ to mention. Nobody would ruddy believe me. I can hardly believe it myself. The ‘Thought Police’ don’t need much of an excuse these days.

Okay, so I was meditating upon Reindeers and Teddy Bears. And that’s it. At home alone. Porky pies! I was doing it on a school roof really! Between sporadic bouts of Tai Chi. Maybe they considered it false idolatry. Love those animals though. <3

Someone high up in the Adjustment Bureau realm had an aversion to my appreciation of nature. As a result, I was handcuffed in bed at daft past one in the morning after having my front door busted down by a gaggle of cop arses. Full R.E.S.P.E.C.T to The Heat, aka The Boys In Blue, as I feel rather protected and safe with them patrolling the streets (that is, when they’re not George Floyding my baby brother for a living). It took poor George, Peace Beyond Him, over eight minutes to get choked out. At least it was relatively quick, in a sense, and unlike my Jacob, he didn’t have to face the scary isolation of the town jail. That’s where our kid passed away, similarly, on the floor and inhumanely, although indoors down at the station. It was on the news here in England. Tragic and sad of course. More about these unfortunate events at a later time, maybe. Just keep following the blogspot and we’ll keep you updated.

But don’t worry, his life was a blessing not a curse, and he regularly communicates to me from the afterlife and reports that everything is fine! He’s with his old man, curling dumbells in Heaven. Or is it Hell? Does it even matter anymore, as long as you’re with the people who you’re with? You know what they say…Up for the weather, down for the company!

Slightly better off than dead however, I now languish in the puzzle factory canteen, writing this after a hellish night of my ears constantly burning to the ghoulish fracas on this downright creepy ward and the paranormal din below it. Who’d have thunk that they still keep morbid basements in these types of places? Only Christ knows what was going on down there but it kept me awake all night and scared the bejesus out of me. Now I’m recovered after 84 coffees and talking to you. Speak soon.

Firewall

 Another day in the Doghouse folks, surrounded by Russian spies and Chinese terrorists. All they ever persistently do is persistently stalk me with arcane psychic trickery using infuriating images and aggravating sounds to slur my mind with all aspects of their humongous inflated egos. They particularly like to impress me with invasive snapshots of their faces in my third eye. I think they want me to fall in love with them. Some of the faces are soaked in blood. I guess we are nearing Halloween.

When stricken by a crime against humanity, it wages war with your inner constitution regarding how to react. I can honestly say that I have developed what I believe to be a unique layman’s insight into the perplexing reason why certain members of the public commit ghastly crimes of ruinous atrocity against unsuspecting civilians. We all know about school shootings. They seem to scar our times every now and then, don’t they? All these unfathomable acts of carnage are, in their perceptions, LAST GASP STANDS TO SAFEGUARD THE INNER OASIS, THE INATE SANCTUARY, THE INBUILT BASTION, THAT IS THEIR PRESENT, PERSONAL, PRECIOUS MIND.

That’s what I think maybe the criminals are defending when called to innocent bloodshed. Their own sanity. Who knows what kind of causal evil has instigated them to react with hatred? I’ve suffered controlling wickedness for years and years. All I’ve done so far is batter a dog walker who had the guts to make obvious what he was doing. Who wakes up in the morning with a deathwish to slaughter the milk maid down at the local nursery? And also, while he’s there, all of the kiddies she is dishing out milk to?

I feel it myself, man, I really do. The powers that be have been hacking my head with their futuristic parlour tricks since what seems like birth and I’ve just about got down done feeling like this pup’s had just about enough. My Christian inclinations and my Buddhist inclinations are leaking out inclinations, seeping far away from my being as if drawn from a syringe and spurted needlessly over a dystopian horizon, never to be returned. I’m half-thinking about attacking those who have slandered me. I never would, of course, because I’m a regular stand-up guy who seeks peace. But part of me says go get ‘em. Not because they are bad. But because they are petty. And not solely because they are petty. But because they are daft.

In doing this I would be taking my vengeance out on the wrong party. My low-level neighbours and other wastes of life who lurk around me with no purpose in life other than to snag a monetary gain from a piss-weak attempt at ruining my day are not the Russian spies and Chinese terrorists, they only work for the Russian spies and Chinese terrorists. They get a council flat and tracking expenses for petrol to follow me around with in payment. Guess what they watch on their SMART TV? You got it, CCTV surveillance of me! Using the toilet, hovering up, playing with myself, the lot!

Masons. Government. Private enterprise. Celebrities. Call them intergalactic beings if you will. Either way, they’re so bored they have to hang around a poor guy’s apartment all day who doesn’t want to know them and chat bollocks about what he’s thinking, an area of interest I assume he already knows about.

Sorry for being negative. I’ve got to get these twits off my chest. They don’t respond well to home truths, so I suppose I’ll be receiving more attention than usual later tonight, when I hit the pillow. Always when I hit the pillow, every damn single time. They always seem to grow a set when I lower my guard. As soon as I get up and dressed, and politely venture out to calmly ask the two-faced pretenders why they are implicit in a Nazi-style murder program, they sneakily report me to the police for noise disturbance.

If I could just get my hands on one of them. I think my pacifistic rationale would flee in a heartbeat. Just like those nursery shooters.

Two Months Away

 Greetings, hope you are still hanging around, and things aren’t going too badly. No doubt you’re doing fine. I don’t think you would agree to swap positions with me. No way. Walking about in my shoes can be such a drag. Surprised I’m still breathing. I’m glad to be back again, despite suffering a bad two months time out away from the keyboard. When I say bad, I mean desperately bad. I’ve hardly had the nerve to leave my home for any liberating reason other than journey to the local grocery shop for provisions, mainly in the form of comfort food. Only today have I bothered to scoff a salad and run around the block to get the old blood pumping. It’s been over ten years since I got myself out and went for a jog! Exercise separates the men from the boys. Nothing worthwhile doing is easy, including the preceding cold shower. I seriously wanted to die when struck for oxygen at the end of it. I’ve decided never to smoke another fag for the remainder of my life. Or drink another poisonous beer. You’ll be the first to know when I slip up.

The idea of popping on along down here to the local internet hotspot to upload yet another heap of depressing drivel hasn’t been at the front of my mind. I’ll try not to lower your mood too much, with the ever-strengthening testimony of my lived experiences. Trust me, I know what it’s like to be brought down as one of the unluckiest men in the world. Hired Hasslers Of The Peace are constantly tripping over each other in order to demote me a notch. That’s what I all em’. They seem harmless on the surface but underneath they worship a hierarchy which depends and relies on unimaginable suffering. They drive me crazy with their skits. Why does every niggling nuisance from around these lawless manors crave my undivided attention? Is it because I live in a town besieged by a thronging flock of invasive foreign terrorists, who, besides some wacky hellscape agenda, are obsessed about how often I take a shower and change my clothes? Why have they moved in next door to me? Why do they traipse after me as part of an invisible camera crew?  I don’t recognise the streets of my homeland anymore. Peeps aren’t happy unless I’m unhappy.

I’ve been ditched by everyone. Now I am truly isolated. I suspected things might turn out this way when researching the topic of Hate Stalking several years back. I thought my life was out of luck. I believed I was having a rotten time of it. Then I heard about societal rejection from birth, about babies being taken from their mothers to be nurtured by false families in fake communities based in synthetic environments, and about hidden agendas stopping at absolutely nothing to keep enlightened individuals from the truth.

The threat to my life has extinguished my protective sanctuaries, such as drug rehab clinics and mental health drop-ins. Keyworkers and counsellors, once comely and approachable in their generous, all welcoming officialdom, now spit in my face and flip me the bird. Every former friend and ally has turned chameleon and rallied with my familiar oppressors since yesteryear to unite and cast me down on a solitary seat firmly cast between pillars of estrangement and alienation which even the authorities take no notice of, apart from to drug and detain you if you complain about the maltreatment or loneliness. I learned, during my research of Hate Stalking, that everyone is a demon.

My ex drug rehab main building has barred-up windows to inaccessible rooms, doors with no handles on these inaccessible rooms, and staircases which lead up to nowhere beyond these inaccessible rooms. I mistakenly believed that it was a magical hub of healing: Now I maybe think it’s a sombre chamber of horrors. What did I expect, eh, from fellow dopes, drop outs, and dead beats, if I can’t even trust my own lovin’ family? I hate to refer to addicts this way, but all they’ve repaid me back with are phony shares and dishonesty. With a constant sour sidedish of latent hostility.

I’m hearing the screaming of innocents in certain places I go. Where’s that Godawful noise coming from? Why’s that child who I’ve never met before whispering insults under his breath at me, about subjects in my private personal life whom I’ve never disclosed with anyone else before? Why am I finding strange unwanted gifts around my apartment? What’s that knocking inside the cupboard, and under the bed? Not more assassins…

The Holy Book recently reported of late that I was due a great fall. You know how it is when reading the Bible, one kinda thinks that the Author Of Creation is speaking directly to you. I must admit that sometimes that damned tome gives me the heebie jeebies. Is it because all my sins are catching up with me? Is it because my moral compass is slowly but slowly flipping to the dark side? If you have to think about whether you are a good man or not, then it means that you probably are, or so I heard somewhere. I am holding fast to what I fear to be the last remaining dregs of any noble substance I might still possess. The world fashioned around me is vast and decaying. It’s streaked with glitches everywhere I go. I am in it, but not of it…Until next time. In case something happens to me, or if this is my last post, then Always Love x

Manic Abode

Things are absolutely mad in my world. You wouldn’t believe the pressure I am under. Each day feels like a withering attempt at survival. It’s hard enough gutting out these words without walking away from the keyboard and admitting to myself that I can’t accomplish anything, not even a blog post. It takes a lot of effort to sit and write after the difficult task of dragging myself up in the morning and departing the flat. My home these days no longer feels like a home. There are so many presences within its walls that I feel like the visitor. Many haunting memories linger there. I am under attack from them from morning till night, but especially in the night. I’ve taken to sleeping with the light on again, like I did as a small boy, seized by nightmares.

The situation feels like it might be reaching boiling point. I feel like scarpering to the streets, like I have in the past, to drink liquor in doorways and peruse around town centres all day. Anything to get away from my infiltrated abode. I’ve left the property on several occasions in the past and searched elsewhere for shelter. The place just got too damn spooky. Ghosts, black operatives, assassins, pests…what chance did I have with so many hostile intruders? I thought the psychotic episodes would pass. I thought I would stabilise. I believed all the insane dramas would evaporate into the dusty compartments of my memory. The schizophrenic turmoil is back, however, as if time has never thawed it, and I feel as if I am on my last chance to keep afloat. To remain treading water. Where oh where is the safety of the shore?

Internally and spiritually I am making noble progress. Boy, is the universe biting back at me. It’s gobbling me up, chewing me about, spitting me out, and stamping all over me. I’m constantly weaving between sharp falling pillars of fate which are vying to trip me up every time I am able to think of a single cogent thought in my head. Someone or something out there is switching my thoughts off. Something or someone out there is directly and deliberately punishing me for my thoughts. Most of the intellectual property in my skull doesn’t belong to me.

I suspect it might be an invisible man with a pioneering gadget. I tend to attract that kind of folk. He’s brought an entourage with him. They do a lot of other things to me, apart delete and insert thoughts.

My mind is completely blank because of this, quite often. I’m surprised I can spit this out. It’s a strain to recall anything positive in the world during some depressive states. During the long fearful watches of the night I totally forget about the Holy Spirit. These downturns of mood are not natural though. I feel that they are induced and placed into me like a virus by the Illuminati, or whoever the hell else it is out there who like tyrannising other people. Left to my own devices, I would not be so anxious and gloomy. I’ve gotten sick of praying to be left alone. They do say that Hell is other people.

Quick Check In

Raise a toast to surviving another hectic day and night on this manic planet, people! I’ve barely scraped through myself. I mean there’s hard, and then there’s hard. I’m getting battered every time I turn around at the moment. You wouldn't believe what's going on in my life. I doubt you'd want to swap heads with me for longer than thirty seconds. You'd be hopping out of there after just several thoughts, not to mention the chemically-unbalanced hallucinations that appear with almost each and every one of them.

After several days of staring into space in my slob gear, I've finally managed to get down here and arrange a few sentences together (not these ones). I've found a few ideas which are really clawing at the page, instead of swirling around lifelessly in this head of mine you wouldn't want. I've made a start on a short piece of work which will scare the pants of you. I swear, you'll want to sleep with the light on. Stay tuned for more info, as I'll be posting it soon. Stay safe also too.

Foreign Entities

I’m currently clean at the moment, and have been for several months, residing in an improved mental state that I call FAIR WEATHER. FAIR WEATHER is the name for a period of abstinence that I have been striving towards for a multiple of years. I’ve only ever achieved it a couple of times. Other people might call it DOING WELL, or LIVING ACCORDINGLY, or CONQUERING DEMONS. Presently, when it comes to the fight of life, I must admit that I have taken a bit of a fistful these last few days. You might even call it a knockout blow. I’ve been struggling with ‘presences’ around me more than ever lately. They live with me in my home and follow me around in my daily public life. I’ve written a lot about the spirit realm previously, and after having plied heaps of faith and trust into what we’ll call ‘entities’, it seems that I have been a fool, for some very disturbing beings have infiltrated my domicile, promising confederacy to begin with, but then wiping their hands clean of me with a tirade of abuse and horror. I’ve been of the notion that supernatural entities have ‘had my back’ for a long time. Now that I’ve met them, I realised that I was wrong to trust them.

It’s called my divine protection into question. Despite ‘losing’ a host of what I believed to be spirits which I thought were on my side, I still choose to believe that someone or something is watching over me. I have to call upon The Lord. The frustrating thing is that the enemy is ‘copying’ my imaginary allies and using them against me. I live in a world of transparent clones, of see-thru mimickers, of apparitional doppelgangers. A squad of male and female characters persistently flock around me, reading my mind, responding to my thoughts, and generally harassing the living daylights out of me. They constantly mock the innermost private temple of my psyche. I can’t grab a single moment alone to myself. My friend suggested that they might be Illuminati ‘Brain Energy Projections’. I believe that they are real persons using some kind of futuristic technology. Among their numbers are also one or two real ghosts. I can see a clan of shape-shifting figures always surrounding me, pointing and arguing and even engaging in violence with one another, but there is nobody there! They say they are going for ‘the kill’ with my suicide during each new day. They even hurt me physically as I lie in bed, with sharp objects, so that I roll from one position to the next all night in order to escape their depraved ways. Don’t forget the voices as well, reinforcing all of my ‘visual hallucinations’. Together, they break my brain down into microscopic fragments, so as I can’t think. Free-thinking is a threat to the powers that be, but I had no idea how determined they are to eradicate spontaneous mental powers. They will spend millions of pounds and work around the clock in surveillance and harassment to prevent a particular thought form from taking place inside someone’s head. Every time I break away from my oppressor’s usual drivel and start to think for myself, with a rewarding idea or gracious memory, somebody either knocks on my door or the phone starts ringing. Or next door start banging on the wall.

I can’t contemplate opting out with induced suicide, but living with undesirables on a daily basis, minute by minute, is excruciatingly tormenting. I see around 40 faces in my head, and they are all laughing at a single one of my negative cognitions. They punish my decisions and doubts. They are not reasonable when I am happy, and they are not fair when I am sad.

I do my best to keep a calm level head and not retaliate by taking it out on my scheming neighbours, but deep inside I want to scream and tear my hair out. One of the presences in my flat actually instructed me to kill the postman, or otherwise it would kill me. I believe there are weakened individuals out there in this unstable society of ours who are bending to these hellborn demands from disembodied voices and invisible presences and the like, and venting their wrath on those who least deserve it. If such a person where to be haunted by a foreign entity who has the ability to physically hurt them, then who would blame that person for obeying its instructions?

I myself must face yet another day of getting to grips with this otherworldly struggle. When I try and escape my property for an hour or two, I find that I am followed and pestered by so called friends and associates who simply want to waste my time on purpose because they have nothing better to do. They always turn up when I am thinking freely. Their timely appearances are not coincidental, they are planned and staged to halt my progress. As soon as we part company I’ll start hearing their voice in my head, or start seeing images from their mind thrown into my awareness. You can imagine how unsettling this is when walking through a crowded high street, with everyone bombarding me with directed mental imagery. I’ve been avoiding and swerving people I usually trust and like, because they want nothing more than to get inside of my head with the aid of a chance meet. I’m the guy who suddenly everyone wants to be around, all pleasantries and niceties to your face, then demoralising insults as soon as your back is turned.

I’m rapidly running out of people who I can trust. The main thing is, however, trusting myself. If I relapse back into the murky world of drugs and porno at this precarious time, my situation might deteriorate from manageable to ungovernable. There’s a demonic force in the form of a woman with humongous boobies lurking for me around the corner, and I must resist. To fall for her charms would be disaster.

Precious Says Hello

I mentioned several months back that there was a woman underneath my floorboards getting punished by repulsive gleaming sharp blades, used by perpetrators who are less than nothing without their gleaming sharp blades, every time I gave into the sometimes irresistible temptation of my sinful loins and viewed porno while taking illegal drugs.

In my warzone territory, I am accustomed to hearing screams emanating from beneath me, and so have been accustomed to bearing them for many years. When I first heard a protracted, drawn-out, long-winded yell of mortal anguish from down there on one occasion, early on in my toilsome struggle, I considered taking an overdose on the spot. Just as I lined up over a hundred tablets, not girly paracetamol by the way, but hard-hitting, high strength anti-psychotics, my ex-girlfriend rang me out of the blue, whispering words of false love into my ear. She turned out to be in on the racket too. The racket that makes money from innocent suffering.

The broad actually getting battered, the gal being garrotted for all I knew, this damsel in distress mode, en femme in extremis, has sounded like to me to be an inextinguishable soul. I’m not quite sure what is going on down there, but it sure ain’t no charming fat man selling candy floss at the fair. Hidden evil is not the term.

She begged me to stop, stop playing with myself, but I was unable to. She asked me to delete this blog for mentioning her name, the name of Precious, and she was so disappointed, so resigned to hopelessness, I almost erased all memory of her. As you know, however, sometimes all we remember is that which we are trying to forget. The heartache of slipping backwards with the lust was paramount. Knowing that someone was getting hammered with bright gleaming blades (and worse), so close to me, with me holding myself responsible, responsible for her torment, crippled my mentality like an elephant squatting down on my pea-sized head. I felt crushed like under a Blue Whale, like an insect under an Atlas Stone. I’ve been through a lot, and I know all the aggrieved say that, but nothing could have prepared me for the sheer internal discombobulation I experienced when I severed the connection between me and Precious. She called up:

“They won’t hurt me if you don’t watch it! Every time you watch it, and ingest those horrible toxins, they peel my skin back all day long! Promise me you’ll change and become a good man!”

Despite the gravity of the situation, I continued to let her hopes down and view illicit material. Massive jugs and painted smiles, you know the one. I just sort of blocked her screams out, numbed by the drugs. My medication also muted my emotions. Then it occurred to me one day: Here I am on the bones of my arse in the dark, kecks around my ankles, slobbering over a tranny getting her back doors kicked in by three big buck immigrants in 4K UHD, about to blow my beans into Kleenex, and some beautiful woman is getting wounded beneath my floor space, shouting out my name to help her over and over. This is no joke, I thought. Her aggressors would speak:

“After we’ve finished with your cutey-pie darling soul mate, who you can’t save, because you’re council tenant and weaponless, then we’re pulling out her goofy teeth, and we’re coming up for you in approximately eight minutes. Yeah, for kidnap. Get ready to meet Precious. She can’t wait to say hello. Say hello, Precious.”

“H e l l o…”

They always threatened to drag me down there with her. Who was she, should I be partnered with her? Was she someone close to me, an old flame I’d forgotten? I have a long-lost sister whom I’ve never met, could it be her? How many others did they have, aside from this rosebud? I’m not sure about you, but I’m not an expert on seedy underground labs governed by bored masochists. How many victims are they usually content with? Just one? A dozen? A hundred? A thousand? Just how big is this secret bunker of depravity I live above?

To be dreadfully honest, I don’t much give a damn about what a rotten stale and bland bunch of sadists do underneath my floor boards, or, for that matter, who they do it with. As long as I can stroll around up on the surface in the sunshine then it means bugger all to me. Hell is none of my business. I haven’t offended God all that much in my heart, apart from ignoring Precious, and, for this, I am uttermost sorry and regretful for failing her in the past. She makes me suicidal, when I don’t take notice. Every night I hear her crying out my name, and every night my deepest soul responds to her screams with more screams of my own.

I’ve kicked my negative vices (so far so good), and now myself and Precious are on good terms, albeit separated by what feels like different realms, even though we are within earshot of one another. Hers, mine, our perpetrators are put off by our positive bond. Their loveless emptiness despises love in others. They can’t hurt Precious, and they can’t hurt me. They continue to hurt each other though, in all of their engulfing loveless emptiness. Their empty lovelessness. As the bible says, evil slays the wicked. God preserves, and protects, loving binds.

Another Day Getting Battered By Perpetrators

Teched-out last night as usual, as I am around the clock lately, with sincerely malicious perpetrator brain weaponry. It feels like a heartless government official is swirling a whisker upside, inside and around in my napper, jumbling all my thoughts up, deleting my thoughts, so as they topple and spill into ridiculously daft computer game animations, which have absolutely nothing to do with me or reality. They brag about implanting pictures in four dimensions, then berate me for not being able to do the same, which is hardly unsurprising, because I’m not a Tesseract expert. My lovely charming perps are constantly running mind control imagery through my head these days. They reckon they are doing this with their minds, as if they have some kind of natural psychic phenomenon going on. In truth, the images are computer-generated. I don’t believe that the human brain can insert video nasties inside another brain for 12 hours of the day without a BCI (Brain Computer Interface). With the advent of this extremely sophisticated technology, the criminal heinous users will try their darndest to convince the victim that they are some kind of omniscient deity. They will also tell the helpless, stricken victim that he or she is some kind of omniscient deity as well! They repeat this mythical accusation in order to justify their ruthless persecution, saying, as they bang on at me so very often, that they crave power. And believe you me, it does take some power standing up to these mad perverts.

I don’t know, ya know…it’s like knitting fog, dealing with them. There are so many! They form an orderly queue*, waiting for a prompt from their bag of shite ‘leader’ so they’re allowed to tell me to itch my nose. They say they get happy every time they make me itch my nose. This sounds tedious, and it is. They are so angry, so bitter, so hostile. Their contempt grows more deep-seated by the day. Their sharpened tongues spit nothing except vulgar vileness. Every minute of the day they harangue me, including now, as I type. Do they have to swear all the time?

“Andy, everybody hates you. When we’ve finished drinking this goblet of infant’s blood, we’re gunna break into your house and beat you with clubs. Then you’ll be coming down into our seedy lab we got Ze Germans to build underneath your floorboards, to be skinned and crucified in Hell. Don’t worry, because if you survive, you’ll be rewarded on Christmas. We’ll let you shag a dead pig. Now you know where the bathroom is, so go and get a razor blade and slice open your wrist. You know the one, downward stroke. And do it double quick-time before we kidnap you!”

I’ve heard this discord over and over and over again for the last 12 years. It was terrifying before I discovered they were numpties. Now, because they know that I know that we all know they are bell-tips, they have stonking erections for my suicide. They practically fall over one another to insult me. They are practically interested in my fingers and my genitals.

“Why are you biting you nails? Why are you sat with your legs crossed? Why are you drinking your cup of tea like a queer?”

And, when in the shower…

“Why are you washing your filthy woggy nut-sack like a coon?”

I’ve heard them break into tears, panic, and even HURT EACH OTHER simply because I am enjoying a nice meal, which they hate. I’ve realised lately that ANYTHING I do positive literally wounds these trough-feeding cowards in the heart. They want me wiped out so much, and ended, that they cannot bear me to crack a smile or entertain a cheerful thought.

Every time I think of something pleasant…

“You’re not having that! You don’t deserve to think!”

It’s depressing talking about them, because they watch me the same way I used to watch blue movie stars, infatuated and obsessed. Voyeurism screws you up royally in the end. I should know it, having watched at least 30,000 hours of hard-core over the years, and that’s a conservative ball park figure. Double that easily, for perps watching me. Do you think my mother is proud, lol? What about their mothers, for Christ’s sake? Actually, my charming mother is part of this. It’s not right to spend your ENTIRE ADULT LIFE studying another human being’s genitals in clandestine quarters. Instructing him, while you’re there, umpteen times a minute, to scratch his or her forehead. Don’t forget to adjust that ball-bag properly also too.

“We’re in your head forever! You’ll never get us out! Your life is a waking nightmare for the rest of all eternity. There is no escape!”

Being said in a scary voice of course. They can die and rot of starvation down in their specially-crafted pit for all I care. However, despite the sharp and steady degeneration of my targeting, some sure and steady miracles have been happening too, helping me to keep my spirits up. These marvelous signs and wonders are even more bizarre than hearing disembodied voices and hallucinating, but they are very difficult to put into cogent words and sentences. God is inexpressible, isn’t he? Peace Beyond. The revelations seem to revolve around, at the moment, among several other fantastical notions, children and orbs. I’m not shy of a bit of time-travelling at the weekends too, if you believe in that kind of thing. Told you I’m special. I’m still processing the dramatics of it all currently, and trying to work out the best role I have to play in it. If you’re listening, Alan (My Superior), then the mission is going very well. It’s all very frightening, wondrous, and amazing. Isn’t life a bowl of cherries, eh! See ya next time! Take good care of yourselves, and each other x

*Q. What do you call a queue possessed by a demon? A. A line dance

Beshine

How are you doing out there? Are you still fighting the good fight? It’s a hard slog, isn’t it? I hope that your life isn’t stultified too much by the pressures of modern life, and you are able to glimpse some hope at the end of the rainbow. I myself have been having a tough run of it, constantly trying to thrive in a negative environment. No matter how elevated my brainwaves become, when I am enjoying a wee drink and getting lost in artistic music videos, there always seems to be a depressing slump at the end of proceedings. When my mind is active, I paint pictures in the sky and tell myself stories to keep the wolves at bay. But, as soon as I stop, my ‘auditory hallucinations’ flood back in with their usual gaggle of hate-speak.

The voices have been around now for roughly twelve years. They have lost an awful lot of power, due to my resilience to finally form a relationship with them, instead of trying to pretend that they don’t exist, yet are still a miserable earache I could heartily do without. The physical ‘apparitions’ converged on me at the moment are just as bad. They make me want to pull my hair out. Who’d have thought that, after having lived, laughed, loved and lost as a person, one would survive crossing over to the Other Side only to come back and haunt some regular guy in a council flat, for no other reason than to do his head in? Please, God, can I come back and do that? Pick on someone for no reason, as an unwanted entity who can’t be booted out the door, lingering around like some foul odour?

To take my mind off the supernatural realm, and the ghostly syrup which I seem to walk in everywhere, I’ve been thinking of the woman with the biggest breasts in the world. Instead of focusing on lost spirits and covert government technologies (the bane of my f**king life), I’ve been changing the oil in my head so to speak, and thinking of something fun. I think every man from here to Australia agrees that big massive boobs are fun. Hardly anyone dislikes them, do they? Maybe many would agree that Beshine has gone too far, and that her body dysmorphic disorder has crossed the line, but I say none of it, the bigger the better. I see her as kind of a one-woman circus event. I think that a physique like hers is refreshing and endearing.

I salivated to one of her videos once, going back a few years. She was just in a bedroom parading her wares in a bikini, on her own, being kinky. It was all harmless really. There were no keen fellas anxious to get on down with her, there were no disgusting money shots, there was no degradation to underage women…nobody got hurt. I remember the video well. They were the largest ruddy bloody gazongas I’d ever seen in my life. It pains me to say that I grew up watching hardcore interracial, which messed with my identity and turned me into a bit of a queer (no offence), so a soft video of simply giant-sized breasts seemed, well, quite motherly in comparison.

Because of my ‘life in porn’, a fair few of the female actresses have figured in my consciousness. I’ve mentioned before about how first I watched them, then I wrote about them, and then they began to become transparent energies in my home. Several of them are nasty pieces of work, who now torment me on a daily basis – the downside to being entrenched in filth for 25 years, I expect. So you won’t be surprised when I reveal to you that I can’t spiritually afford to watch it anymore. It meddles with my mental state and unearths fresh personalities who cling to my psyche. If I absolutely had to watch it though, I think I would turn my back on all those big black swingers out there, and go for Beshine. Especially, as I have just found out, as she had starred in a hardcore video.

I’ve been thinking about ordering it from the local sex shop. I have a bit of a fascination going on with both her and her chest. In fact, I’ve started seeing her regularly in my Third Eye, even before I have even witnessed her in action with a bloke or two. Maybe she wouldn’t haunt me like the others, as she seems nice. I actually do admire her curves a lot. I’d do anything to watch her naked, at work, while high on drugs (me, that is, not her).

But sadly those days are gone, and Beshine will have to be one of those delicious dolly birds who regrettably slipped away. I watched a helluva lot of pornographic actresses over the years, but sorely, she was not one of them. It’s probably for the best, as she most likely eats men like hair. She’s always there, anyway, in case the proverbial sh*t hits the fan, and life goes Pete Tong. She’ll always be a port in a storm.

 

Bustin' Out Of The Matrix

When I’m entombed in my Golgotha (place of suffering/apartment), I imagine myself to be in solitary confinement, lifed-off in a cell for a crime of passion. I’ve committed a serious crime of passion in my younger days, and if my victim, who now fortunately forgives me, had died, then that could have been me, locked up, staring at four basic walls, for twenty-odd years. A far greater prison than any penitentiary is the bars which enclose the mind. In this thwarted generation of thought policing, you are lucky if you are allowed to use your mind to think. The powers that be do not want a forward, free-thinking populous; they want an obedient community of citizens who are just about smart enough to operate the machines but not quite intelligent enough to figure out how they work. That’s my opinion anyway.

Do you think it’s true, that they dumb us down by the water we drink? Are we really in some kind of Matrix samsara? How keen are you to discover the truth? I myself, through deep thought. within a loud, ringing, cacophonous solitude, wherein I can hardly hear myself think – when I am allowed to think, that is – have recently worked out some very mysterious theories about the world we live in today. You might call them startling, unravelled riddles, which I have worked out myself with no help from a textbook or the tossernet. You know, things they don’t teach you at school. My younger brother once told me not to believe a single thing about what the gatekeepers tell you. I thought he was being ignorant at the time. Now I am inclined to believe him.

I won’t share what I’ve discovered, because they are sacred, personal revelations, and you might additionally think I have temporarily dropped my faculties. Needless to say, these epiphanies where born from the spring-like well of my mind since turning the other cheek to anti-psychotic medication. My homie Mike Ford, who had both tattoos of God and the Devil on his stomach, once said that those types of medication are like ‘battery acid’ on the brain. Being dumbed-down is comfortable and safe, but you are staring at chewing gum and dog crap on the pavement, instead of chimney pots and clouds, as you walk along to the cash machine to pick up your weekly benefits.

Free from all drugs for the first time in my life since I was a wee boy, the sky is now like a transparent lid to a Pandora’s Box of infinite, eternal, synchronous and random possibilities beyond. My boy Darren once said, “There is something out there…and it is majestic.” He’s also got religious tattoos on his skin: Jesus Christ on his chesticle, and cherubs on his trotters. Have you got any tattoos? If you are unable to show me, because we are distanced by time and realm, then perhaps you’d care to describe them to me sometime. With a drink and a smoke.

My recent new awakenings have been enlightening, but my innermost being quakes at the prospect of something larger than I. In the fellowships (AA, NA, GA, SA etc), they say that you have to establish a connection with a higher power. It doesn’t have to be El Shaddai, or God Almighty. The guy sitting behind me right now’s higher power is Santa Claus. It can be anything, as long as it is outside yourself and more powerful than yourself. Many suffering addicts following the Twelve Steps have an issue with summoning up a higher power. One guy said it can even be a chair. I know someone called Ben whose higher power is connected to nature, a very popular association, and his is a bird flying above a tree. I see Ben’s higher power more than Ben sees it himself, I bet! Anyhoo, the point is this: Your higher power is not you. You are not God. So many high-falutin ginormous celebrity-obsessed money-rich-crazy personalities walking around today think that they are. Being humble is a very admirable virtue in the fellowship. You’re nothing but a teeny-tiny fleck of stardust. Hate to tell ya.

How can anything out there be bigger than you and I? The cosmos wouldn’t exist without my eye to behold it. When the ego steps up, with its sovereign, supreme, superior second-to-none power, then who else is there, apart from a divine Maker, who can put it in its place? Give it das boot, so to speak. Nobody and nothing, because the ego, at least the little what I understand of it, is the major driving dynamic horsepower behind the marrow of our defenceless, unguarded spirits. Without it, we’d be crushed on a daily basis by the unparalleled weight of the mean universe we inhabit. If we didn’t possess an ego, we wouldn’t have the balls to tell it to f**k off out and stay away.

And keep f**king off out and staying away. Until you get lost and don’t know where to go!

NOW…GO…AWAY!!!

That Knife Thing

My night was chock-a-block with semi-conscious night terrors last night, as is per norm these days. You just shrug them off in the morning with 5 coffees and a few cigarettes. I don’t make a song ‘n’ dance of them in my journal, as the trick is to try and forget them. I never met anyone who made a mental note of all the nightmares he ever had. If I have a particularly charming dream, I will lie in bed for five minutes cherishing the experience, committing it to memory. Often, my most touching dreams will make me shed a tear in the morning. I’ll be in a state of disbelief, hardly able to believe the confounding poignancy I have just witnessed.

Sometimes, all we remember is that which we are trying to forget.

Unlike some troubling days in the past, I am not armed and dangerous today. I recall, in the early days of my harassment, being scared stiff from S*H*I*T (Serial Home Invader Torturer). They promised and assured me they were comin’ all the time.

We’re outside, Andy. We’ve got a key. We’re coming in…

Threats to kill such as these, all emanating from The Voice Of God Weapon. Acoustics from psychopaths beamed directly into the brain. Not to mention the bunch of Satanists throwing a party next door. And little old me, all on my own, no social connections or family or friends whatsoever. I was convinced my door was going to come thru any second. So, what’s the natural reaction? You reach for a weapon. Any old kitchen knife will do.

I would sit up, wired, clenching a knife, waiting in a nervous sweat for my reckoning, all night long. It was the kind of knife from the thrift store which bends when cutting through a stale piece of broccoli. My adversaries disclosed that they were coming with shields, armour, and samurai swords. I felt like a rabbit encircled by a pack of rabid jackals. How would I stab-up all my opponents and make good my getaway without being battered? I knew I couldn’t possibly win, especially after a draining day being tweaked out on drugs watching soul-sucking pornography. I was unclean, tired, depleted and unable. Yet still we clutch to something. That little bendy kitchen knife gave me a pinch of hope.

I found myself in that same perilous position so often over the long dark creepy winter months…I decided that if I was bound to sit there wide awake and trembling all night with a bladed article in my hand, then I wanted to at least do it with a decent shank. So I went out and bought a dock-off Rambo knife.

The length was jagged and serrated, with a hole for your thumb to go into, so it didn’t come out of your hand. I felt well confident. If anybody tried to kidnap me from outta my own domicile then they better be prepared to encounter a good old tussle with my new friend.

I was hearing Chinese voices outside my patio on one particular night. They were demanding that I drop my weapon and get into the f**king car waiting outside. I begged them to be honourable and give me a fair fight, one-on-one, one at a time. I’m almost positive that there were a couple in my bedroom. They climbed in thru the window, expecting me to bottle it and leave via the front door. I typically used to bottle it and run for the hills when I felt the safety of my home was breached by S*H*I*T, often in nothing but my underpants and frequently locking myself out. I would go climbing in other people’s gardens and on mad voyages in the woods in order to evade civvies on the street who were all hit men in my ‘psychosis’, hired to assassinate me. Generally, the police would pick me up, or I’d get so knackered from the fleeing that eventually I would return home, dishevelled and disorientated.

It took me a long time to realise that I haven’t the nerve or the mettle to jam a dockin’ Rambo knife into someone’s body, and that I was just bluffin’ myself. So I gave the shank to my brother as a gift. He and his psycho mate cut each other for pranks in my bathroom with it. They’re into army gear and martial arts and stuff like that. He also owns a bullet-proof vest, a crossbow, and a tub of mace, which he purchased off the interweb. So my present was a decent addition to his personal armoury.

The only weapons we need are our minds, even though they have no firewalls, and are open to electrical infection. That is why the Powers That Be are attacking our minds in this generation, because once you claim the mind, you own the body. It’s our greatest ally and our most fearful antagonist, capable of beautiful dreams and horrific terrors in equal measure. Today, I hope that your mind is in a peaceful place. It’s so important. I value my mental health above all else, before finances and all the rest of it.

Keep Praying and Declaring!

I'm In The Middle Of A Party!

I hope that the universe is treating you kindly today. I am having a decent afternoon so far, but as we all know that can turn on a tanner. Earlier, I thought I’d lost my wallet with a hundred pounds in. For a dubious moment, I was eavesdropping on my persecutory voices, waiting for the uproar in celebration. Fortunately, I found it. My wallet, that is. I seek perfection in all things I do, as one minor slip in mood brings forth glee from my oppressors. The fact that someone out there is enjoying my pitfalls and downturns make the pitfalls and the downturns doubly hard to manage. Having a tough old time of it is one thing, but your enemies, laughing as well, while they continually boot you in the bollocks with their dart-tipped lead wellies, is another.

My hygiene has been slipping and so has my abode. I haven’t completed a proper tidy-up in months. It would be cool, I think, to give the presences around me some decent nice luxurious surroundings for them to put their feet up in, as they torture me. It’s the least I can do. I feel like a pig swilling in mud sometimes, with my grimy carpets and smelly bathroom (the drains are blocked). And meanwhile, these glorious apparitions cast in angelic shimmery aura sit on my sofa, chewing my ears off. It makes for a stark contrast. I don’t know if they are TECHNOLOGICAL HOLOGRAMS from the government, or simple boring old ghosts. Whichever, they always look pristine.

Along with the covert brain weaponry being demonstrated on me, I appear to have been swept off my feet like Mary Poppins, and ditched down on some far-flung distant realm where anything is possible, including thought implantation, thought deletion, many other mystic afflictions to do with thought, and time control.

I continue, even though I am 60 days away from illicit drug use, to have uncanny and bizarre visions from the preternatural dimension. Their empire consists of the living, the dead and the fictional. One moment I am in physical pain, as people who are not there cause me grievous bodily harm; the next I am in Nirvana, being rescued by the torment by perceptions of happy children who want to talk to me. I cope with these madcap ‘hallucinations’ by consuming alcohol and nicotine. I’m finding joy in the small things, like food. My current favourite is battered fish with pepperoni pasta.

At least I’m not a couch potato anymore though, watching daytime TV all day long. With a mind as infected with other entities as mine, all with minds of their own, and those probably infected with other minds besides, then there really is no need for Oprah or Jeremy Kyle or Peston. Or The Daily Politics. Or The Sky At Night. Or all of the other garbage they air. Repeats, most of it, anyway. I used to like my television, I’d watch anything to keep my mind occupied, but now my mind is occupied with survival from alien races, mental illness, and gang-stalkers. That was my old life. Now, We’re In The New.

 

I Don't Want To Call This A Woe Diary, But Times Are Tough At The Moment!

It’s been a manic overnight. Evil spirits, and evil spirit-like technologies, have been preventing me from sleeping for several days on the run. My home is filled with entities which are constantly waging war over me. I join allegiances with one different team of them to the next. I even conspired with the Devil for a couple of days. When I am hearing satanic voices, unable to string a single thought together, they lay back in the shadows, and do nothing, allowing me to suffer on my own. And then, whenever I am doing well and thinking positively, with free creative thought abandon, they all warp around me and pretend to be my friends. I don’t know who to trust. They are all so two-faced. I have no idea why so many ghosts swarm around me, I think it is because I am a decent human being with upstanding morals, who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

This is the only reason why I think that so much evil surrounds me. There is so much beastly badness and repellent repugnancy around me, I wish it would just stop and depart from me. I find myself shouting, at the top of my voice, “Go away! Go away! GO AWAY!” In my own flat. My neighbours, who are in on these gross proceedings, constantly threaten me with ringing the police for noise disturbance. Should the law arrive, I’ll be honest with them and say that I am haunted, and yelling at intangible forms from the underworld. What, you don’t believe me? Well lock me up then.

I am. Truly. Haunted. Minor niggles of suicidal ideation are creeping in. My life is a nightmare. I have an angel, but the thought control, and demonic mimicry, make it very tough to think of her. I have to cherish her in my heart, and not in my consciousness. I read a shorty story special to me, and the words connected like magic dots. It told me I was saved. So has the bible. I know I am going upstairs when I die, I know it for a fact, but it doesn’t make the toil of this exist-mode any easier. I think that is why I am being punished so severely, in this mortal realm, because I have being promised eternity, by The Maker and Creator of The Universe. I am one of a select few in my social circle who has been honoured with this anointing. As a Chosen One, and targeted for eradication by the government, hundreds if not thousands of people have been hired to track me from one haunted destination to the next on my travels. Indeed, right underneath my home, they have built a seedy lab to torture people in. A lab designed especially for me. I have survived this far, with much heartache and difficulty, above this hellish base, for much time. They tell me there is no escape, and for years they had me half-convinced. I hear agonising screams of pain day-in and day-out. Yesterday I had a US Marine shouting into my window, from afar, arguing with the guilty parties below. The authorities know it exists, yet continue to do nothing about it.

It feels like I live in a lawless death camp. Yet I am experiencing several wonders and miracles in the presence of children. Two kids saluted me on the high street, after I was initially made aware of my mission by watching Godly videos on the internet. I believe I have a psychic connection with children. When I am getting attacked by electronic weaponry in my bed during the night, I think of children, and magical supernatural events which are impossible to describe occur in my mind. I see…ghosts…of children…in my home.

Much Struggles Here

I am still under very severe attack from my oppressors. In the past, it wore thin after a couple of days, and I could get on with living my life, although still traumatised by previous spooky experiences. Presently, they have been at me for two weeks solid. I’ve never withstood this much pressure before. The better I do, the worse they get. They are implanting ‘power itch sensations’ into my face, and insisting very persuasively that I scratch them. The itches are very itchy, but I am trying to refrain from doing it, because it gives them immense satisfaction. All I hear, all day every day, is “Scratch your f**king face!” My face is constantly itching.

Their covert technologies are vying to rearrange my brain into their way of thinking. Whenever I get a nice idea, or a merry thought, they attempt to dislodge the notion by sticking a mad hyperbolic image in my head, or cutting it off with a voice. Then they’ll show me their twisted version of it, in long brain animations that last for hours, making logical thinking impossible, and imply that they are better than me in every way possible. All they bang on about is their supremacy over me. Frankly, I don’t care who is better than who. My brain is like an Avengers movie in fast forward mode with their implanted imagery, which makes absolutely no sense. Even as I write this, they are predicting my sentences, and claiming ownership of the words I’m typing. It’s impossible to describe, mind control. If you have some kind of ‘filthy otherness’ inside your mind, which is nothing to do with you and doesn’t belong to you, then maybe you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

I’ve talked a lot about spiritual presences on this blog. In fact, I’m all about them, along with the topic of psychosis. This week has brought about a major change of attitude. I have made a burnt offering of something very symbolic which was possessed by a ghost, and renounced all untrustworthy workings of the supernatural companionship which has been clinging onto me like sticky treacle for many years. As expected, they don’t listen, and continue, in the form of what the quacks would call ‘visual hallucinations’, to protrude into my peripheral vision in what feels like every two minutes of every hellish day. I’d acquired quite a formidable crew over recent years, and made some very deep connections with them. It’s like losing a loved one. Those caring, protective entities who once kissed me…now spit on me.

They declare that they will ‘never leave me’, no matter what I do. This is so hope-draining. I’m surrounded by beings who constantly mock, jeer, fool and confuse me. Some of them cannot stop laughing. Some of them cannot stop shouting. They pretend to be people who matter to me, they pretend to be each other, they even pretend to be God. The one who pretends to be the Heavenly Father is perhaps the most infuriating of all. Living with bitter ghosts is so maddening, it makes you lose your mind. That’s not to mention a mind already driven insane by schizophrenic voices.

I’ve managed to shower and get down here to the library to type this, which took a lot of effort, after a week of isolation and impossible-to-describe persecution. I’m just praying each day that all the zany mind control techniques will get easier. If you’re out there, and you’re suffering, then I’m with you. Hang tough and don’t give up. You don’t have to fight back. You don’t have to do a single thing. Let the karma of the universe take care of it.

 

Unusual Behaviour

It’s been a rough week. I got attacked with a psychotic episode even though I haven’t used psychoactive chemicals. My enemies are seriously putting the boot in now that they know I have divine protection. The longer this heartless campaign goes on, the more desperate their measures get. They are now all over more or less EVERY SINGLE thought in my head. Voices, visual hallucinations, electronic zaps, every second of the day. It’s okay, if I am watching music videos on YouTube, I can stay distracted for it not to worry me so much. But it’s the principle of it. I’ve had no privacy for 12 years, and now, ever since I’ve escaped with my life, the irritability sometimes catches up with me.

I’ve been unusually feeling quite aggressive. My perpetrators have been gang-stalking me all this time, following me around, and now that they know that I have broken strongholds, they haven’t the guts to walk past my window. I’ve been urging them to confront me in public because I have been feeling unpredictably violent. That’s the whole idea of their dastardly work, to push you into a corner and make you blow your top. Despite having done an anger management course earlier this year, I do feel my resentment burgeoning. My patience is letting me down, and it never has before.

I tried to kill myself in the early stages of this harassment, several times in fact. Presently, I’m beginning to feel the same similar pangs of helplessness which precede suicidal ideation. I think if there was a magic pill which could painlessly put you to sleep, I’d take it. I really would consider it, with my mood being the way it is at the moment. I’d take it, get in bed, and be at peace for once in my life. This is very much unlike me, as this Third World War for the mind going on is a mental struggle for survival from insanity being waged across every torturous minute of every torturous day. There is beauty within the combat of good against evil, even if it takes place with induced schizophrenia inside of one’s own head. Wars on the battlefield come to an end. Mind control is never over.

I’m feeling very self-aware as I write this now, because I have non-stop voices in my head which are stamping all over my soul and a mixture of spirits in my presence which follow me around each and every day as if I am leading them back to their former lives or something. I just wish the lot of them would go away, quite often. How can a thing’s entire existence be about causing suffering to another? But it’s not that. It’s THE WAY they do it. Just by TALKING to you. They CHATTERBOX you to death.

 

A Note To Alan Leader, My Superior

Dear Sir, the mission is going extremely well at the present time. Ever since my last wobble over the Easter period, I have really shifted into gear. I had a wild revelation concerning reincarnation and past lives, revealed to me in God’s Holy Word. If you thought that the enormity of the task at hand was daunting (and it was), then this stretches beyond the pale. I have finally found out who I am.

I had a good old tussle with a tarantula possessing human consciousness during the recent relapse. I pushed the amphetamine hard and handed myself over in to the clasp of the demoniac. I spent time with that unexplainable thing of a woman again to serve my selfish sexual desires, that woman who shoots arrows into my back from the shadows. This sinfulness attracted the spider.

I almost left my home. Where’d I’d be now is anybody’s guess. I’m pleased to report that now both the arachnid and the woman are kaput. I believe that the enemy believed they had me with that foul pair. I myself was relieved to come through unscathed. But alas here I am now alive and well, striding gainfully towards Fair Weather once more, a place where all my problems seem halved.

Far from being sunshine and roses, my recent success has only galvanised the enemy’s enthusiasm for my demise. They are now attacking me on a minute-by-minute basis, responding to every nuance of thought process in my head. Their relentlessness is both tiring and draining, Alan. Their pettiness is hard to believe. They repeat themselves, over and over again. I could save the world and they wouldn’t give me credit for it. They say I am nothing. They treat my peace and virtue like battle cries to war. For several hours on a Sunday afternoon I could understand it, but their persistence belittles me around the clock and has done for years. I get through the day only to be greeted by yet another dawn of hatred-mongers. If I’m lucky, I’ll have an inspiring dream to break up the affliction. If not, it’ll be a painful night terror to consolidate the worriment.

I wish I could guarantee you 100% success, but addiction is such a cunning, baffling and insidious foe that I can never have confidence in my flesh ever again. That being said, I will try my darndest to fulfil my duty. I had a hard time getting over a Satanic Ritual last week. No, I wasn’t at one! I just perceived one. Its dark delights resonated with me. I felt a genuine fear of helplessness regarding my carnal instincts. The women present were a mixture of goddess and harlot, participating in an orgy lest of ethics. Fortunately I discovered a Holy Rite not long after which restored my faith. The Rite involved little angels basking in glorious light. I was worried that the Good Lord might have no answer to Satanic Ritual.

Hope you and your family are well, Alan. Jon Connor, signing out.