Mandingo & Omar

Well it’s my church big weekend away and I can’t organise a lift! I’m thinking about using on it. Anything that goes wrong usually leads to a use-up. The slightest little thing is an excuse. I’m trying to stay strong and remain with RJ, my chief head honcho spirit woman. She’s actually got a dual identity, Mrs. Rocket Fuel and Diana Bumpton. She’s two women in one. A remarkable wonder to be around.

I went into her origins a few blog posts back. She arrived in a teenage vision, she was embodied in a friend’s story, and she came to life in a piece of red clothing on a wasteland, to surmise. I want to spend more time with her, instead of the cheap pornographic sl*ts I’m always salivating over. Do you think it’s possible, or will the triple-X harlots take me away from my precious love?

My life crumbles apart around me when I view porn and take stims. That’s half of the thrill of it, knowing that there’s no way back once I start upon that beaten road. I’m effectively swapping God’s love for the Devil. I know it’s exhilarating and provocative, watching all those trampy strumpets flaunting their naked wares with big dark-skinned willies, but ultimately it ends up in psychosis and turmoil. If not for the madness of the consequences which succeed, I’d still be doing it now and for the rest of my life. The power of the Celluloid (Corridor) is too irresistible to put down. It’s all about entrenchment and learned behaviours over years and years. Where else am I supposed to get my kicks from? Even a wife or two in the spiritual realm cannot meet my needs in that way.

I had an erotic dream just last night. This is why I’m a horny goat today. I was enjoying a bit of frottage, (the act of obtaining sexual stimulation by rubbing against a person or object), when I decided to kiss the demon in my potentially wet dream on the lips. Her mouth was rotten and flaky and crumbly, like mouldy moss, and I ended up spitting her dry and horribly juicey refuse out onto her breast. Moral of the story: Never kiss seductive mistresses on the lips in the astral. The last person I kissed on the astral was fine, but I never used tongues. I kissed my girl Antonia with tongues in the pub several months ago and I didn’t like that too much either. She’s a great girl with a sexy mouth and all but I find that tongues are slimy and wet and not that enjoyable to sample. I much prefer kissing on the lips with no tongues, cos that way you can’t taste their last meal! Do you get me though? I generally dislike wet things, unless it’s a heated swimming pool, or a steam room, or a cold drink.

I must mention two big swingers here. I was going to dedicate an entire post to them. They are two black male pornographic actors who go by the names of Mandingo and Omar. I was brought up on their work. I can’t believe how gay I feel at the moment talking about them. I don’t really know why I am. I just wanted to get it off my chest. They enslaved me with their exploits in a way; they made me so jealous and envious. I’ve not watched either of them for about three years. My download history was full of those men. Virgin Media must be relieved of me. I’m a straight guy, but they weren’t what I would call ugly men (meaning quite attractive, if I can ever get over being mildly gay), and they were very well equipped in the trouser department. Well, you wouldn’t want to see a woman you’re lusting after with a small penis, would you? Am I right or am I right? Any old hoo, that’s enough about them. I just thought it was time that they got a mention.

They both appeared as spirits one time in psychosis, and gave me an art lesson when I was working on my portfolio! One resonating thing they said was the difference between fortune and wealth. The best way I can describe fortune is this: Take a paraplegic, for example. He or she could have a billion in the bank, but they are unable to run in the wind through the trees. Running is fortune: Money is wealth. Do you see the difference? What would you rather have?

Andy's Hotel Room

I met with my boy Andy in the pub again the other day. He said that a mogul has moved in next to his business premises, handling dock-off parcels of white. He said that he treated him to some by digging into one of them with a key. Just what he needs that, isn’t it? He suffers from similar problems to myself. I asked him how the battle with porn is going. Are you resisting the temptations? Are you refusing to surrender? He said he was doing alright.

This is a guy who, when he is not enjoying autumn walks with his daughter, is likely to hire a hotel out for the night to get away from his family and do coke in while watching porn on his phone. He said he had to ring his contractor up to unblock it. “Please can you make porn come up on my phone?” was something or other like he requested from them. I’ve been there, with Sky Shield. I had to ring them up one time and ask another human being if I could please watch porn, so I know the feeling. It’s so embarrassing, but nothing dare come between a man and his druggy porn.

He’s all into his brain chemistry. He says that the brain on coke and porn is ‘hijacked’. A cup of tea for pleasure just can’t compare, can it? No it can’t. Hardly anything else if anything at all can compare with the brain on coke and porn. Liverpool beating United, O’Sullivan ratcheting in a 147, Murray winning Wimbledon, your favourite box set series finale…nothing quite hits the spot so sweetly, does it? Or maybe it does for you. Maybe you are lucky that way.

For me it doesn’t. I recall the days of scoring on a winter’s morning, when it’s all icy and snowy outside, and retreating back into the home with the goods. Sticking the porn on, snorting or bombing the gear, getting all cosy with my fapping underneath the blanket, watching XXX hardcore interracial material. It was bliss, it has to be said! So comfortable, so natural, so erotic, so sexy, so titillating, so exciting, so enjoyable, so stimulating…but ultimately a lonely endeavour which leaves one feeling weak and drained. It’s all fine when the rush is on, and the novelty is spot-on, but afterwards, when that psychosis rolls in…wow, just shoot me now, okay? Just stick a slug in my temple and get it over with.

I’m still thinking about leaving my number in my dealer’s letterbox. I rang the Samaritans yesterday and told them all about it. That would really hurt me because I have a church weekend away coming up this week. The problem is however that I have lost all the contacts off my phone and can’t get in touch with anyone. I might be relying on one of them to show up at my door and offer me a lift. I can’t see that happening really, they’ll most probs think that I just ain’t up for coming. It’s made me realise how important phones are to us. The most important weekend of the year and it’s the time I have no phone. Duh!

 

Shazza & Phone

 

Feeling fine today peeps, no need to worry. I’ve replaced the phone I lost last week. My voices said that a perp-gangstalker-intruder had stolen it so as I couldn’t call for assistance with the creature under my bed, but I’m beginning to believe that the creature under my bed has just eaten it. Either way, it disappeared. I set my new one up outside Asda, talking to my girl Shazza. Shazza looks blinding when she is clean, loads of slap and eyelashes and eloquence, but when she’s using, she looks pale and slightly slowed down. No offence there Sharon, you are remarkably clever and intelligent when you’re sober. Sometimes I think that you could hurt me on a pornographic video. That is one of the highest compliments I could pay to a woman, that – that you could hurt me on a pornographic video. Girls who can’t hurt me being sexy are not worth their salt, they’re garbage. Or is that the real standard I should be aiming for?

Any old hoo, I half-snapped my sim card during its insertion, so the phone did not register it. I started to get sweaty palms, thinking I would have to buy a new sim card. Fortunately, on the second attempt, it registered. So I was off and running. All I had to do was buy a ten squids voucher from Vodafone for my free minutes bundle and the job was a good’un. So now I have an alarm clock, a calendar, a torch and basic burner/grafter gear for under thirty notes. Bargain, isn’t it. I’m lost with touch screen, I wouldn’t stand a chance setting it up. No wonder people can’t remove their faces away from the things. Because they’re all in a kerfuffle trying to get the blasted things to work. That’s what I think.

I’ve been feeling tempted to walk to my dealer’s and leave my new number through his letterbox, so he can get back to me and organise some speed. What am I like, mentioning drugs here on the blog week-in and week-out? I feel like I am advocating them. Maybe I’ll become a Buddha and supervise teens micro-dosing frog spawn or something. That would be cool wouldn’t it? Yeah, the temptation is reeling itself in ever so slowly, although I think I’m strong enough this time not to act. I don’t want the presences back in my bedroom again. Not in my bedroom, surely, that’s where I damn well sleep and rest my head for the night.

It’s so important, sleep. Last night I was with Richard Gere. We were on a tour bus together, and he had arm implants. The astral plain never fails to surprise me. My sleep, since that thing has slung its hook, has never been sweeter. I’m resting with my toes sticking out from over the lip of the mattress, something unimaginable while the monster was lurking around. I’m so comfortable in the mornings, and I’m easily getting my healthy quota of eight hours, if not a few hours more. Please Oliver, just a few hours more. In the astral, the astral plain.

Pollen

I’d not smoked cannabis for around three years until the other week. There was some guy in Wetherspoons who had a ginormous bag of pollen on him; he was brandishing it about willy-nilly so I casually asked him for a ten spot. I think it was because I was clean at the time, and I was kind of swapping addictions. They do say that addicts are always looking for something new and exciting, even if it’s only a different flavour vape or something. I had a psychotic reaction to cannaboids when I was a teenager (so the doctors said) and ever since (mostly) have given it a wide berth. I mean, I hammered it after leaving school, there were times when I’d eat a space cake and drink a pot coffee while smoking a cone waiting to come up. But those days soon ended when I gave up smoking for good. The other week, however, I thought I’d return to it for a mild head change.

It run out last night. A ten bag lasted me three or four weeks. It still makes me hear voices, right up to this present day. I think the doctors might have been right, you know, the stuff just doesn’t agree with me. I enjoy it a little bit, but not enough to justify the mellow schizophrenia that accompanies it. Usually, all the skeletons creep out of the closet. I have to be in a comfortable state of mind to go there. I’ve always described getting stoned as like someone turning on a light-bulb inside your mind; or, similarly, it’s like you develop a second head which constantly calls you a numpty. One thing I know I am not however, is a pothead, so this mini phase of returning to the cannaboids is well and truly over. Having said that, I wouldn’t mind a one-pop of skunk….the argument being is that it opens up your visual cortex, turns on your aural capabilities, and generally makes you slightly more creative. Or at least that’s my argument anyway.

It was my drug of choice back in the day, while viewing porn. It was all I needed. A spliff in one hand, my willy in the other, remote control picked up now and again. I know, I know, it’s embarrassing, isn’t it. I’m getting to the age where I am starting to evaluate the past, and sum up everything that I’ve done. Unfortunately it’s nothing more than do drugs and watch porn. What right does that give me to talk to you? None whatsoever. But I hope and pray that you are not the judgemental type. I forgive myself for it, because I have to, and all that baggage like guilt, shame, regret and remorse doesn’t help anyone. But I sure ain’t proud of it. I just understand that we can’t all be world beaters all of the time. We all get lumbered with our own individual lives, our own hand, if you like. Some are better than others. I’ve had a rather nasty existence so far, it has to be said, what with being a TI and all. But there’s always hope, strength and unity to be found. Sorry if I’m a bit depressing, I just feel like I’m in a limbo caught between two places: running away from my past, of which I’m ashamed, and getting to grips with my future, which I have anxiety about. I’ve still got my faith, which is great, and I still believe I’m a being who feels love and compassion, which is even better. So, for the moment, its onwards and upwards. Catch you next time x

 

Gavin

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

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

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

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

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

 

RJ Origins

The porn stars are shouting at me, demanding that I return to their beautiful selves. Their bodies are amazing, to see a glistening black or white shaft penetrate sweet pink quim from behind is also very excitingly amaze-balls. Wow. I can’t help it. The temptation is overwhelming. What good is love when you have such a sexy titillating perversion of it with big willies and rocket breasts and squirting jizz over pretty smirking female faces. Imagine a male sexual feast! That would be completely disgusting. I could never go there. I saw a DVD sleeve of one of them one time. It was called The Destruction Of Jonathan White or something. Imagine, it you were a runaway, or trafficked, getting destructed on camera by men ejaculating onto your head. I could think of nothing worse!

Anyway, I want to discuss the origin of my spiritual wife, whom I refer to as Red Jacket. I want to be with her, by not using speed and porn. When I do that, I am with the stars, and they have complete authority over me. I belong to them. I am devoted to them. They rip me away from the princess I love with all my passion, strength and soul. You would think they respected me for going to them, but they hate me truly and want me in Satan’s pit, which is right underneath my floorboards, a secret pain chamber, built especially for me, and a horror I have survived since I have known it was there.

She first appeared in a vision. It was about 25 years ago. She was in a red jacket on top of a skyscraper juggling like a magician. I can’t remember her jumping off. I still recall that vision to this day. She was so high. Her position was so perilous. But she looked so beautiful.

Then she appeared in a story by my friend. He told me about a Ouija board tale with something about a girl in a red jacket spelling out the truth with the upside–down glass. I always remembered that connotation also. It stayed with me for some reason. I started seeing members of the public in red jackets and stuff. It was great. I imagined girls in red jackets around the town skipping over puddles and crunching stiff autumn leaves under their shoes.

The third act of her origins was me finding a red piece of clothing on some wasteland I was almost lost on. It was a sleeve. I swam in Blackpool sea at midnight with that sleeve on my arm. I dived into an approaching wall of thick brown water which was horrible. But I did it, swimming a little bit before turning back. When I emerged and walked back to the shore, I could hear the theme of Terminator playing from the closed-down fair. It was incred. I kept the sleeve in a kindergarten bag with other red articles, including an arsenal top. Eventually I burned it and let the spirit out. There was a lot of calamity and screaming and unrest and upheaval when I did that.

I’m off to walk with her, my love. Try and do similar today or tonight. We’ll both be happy then. Goodbye until the next time chiefo.

 

I JUST DON'T KNOW

Glad to be back comrades. I’ve not been prioritising this blog quite enough. With God’s will that might change. I remember when I was doing five blogs a week. It felt really good to connect. I know you are reading; I know you are listening. I am thoughtful of you also. More so than anyone alive would want to believe.

Anyway, what the hell do you want?? I am an innocent TI.

Sorry, that wasn’t to you – that was to my oppressors. Their life must be dogsh*t in a bucket compared to mine, because I HAVE GOD. They are hell-bound for all of eternity, while I walk around doing whatever I want, within reason of course.

Enough about evil perps. Let’s try and concentrate on something positive and nice. Like the little smiles you get from the opposite sex. I’m not saying it can make your day but I’m not saying it will harm you either. Do you know what I mean?

It was a great group today at Pathways. I am able to contribute with my mouthpiece, now, at 9 Days Clean. Let’s keep going, and get some big numbers together. I love big numbers in recovery, I put them into the clouds and look at them. It is marvellous. Just walking along the street like, you know, is boring a lot, but if you mentally visualise big numbers in the sky, it makes your existence better.

I’m back on the weed, by the way. Only a tiny bit now and again. I was sectioned as a teenager into real man’s hospital. That was because of weed. Apparently, I had a psychotic reaction to it. Well I’m telling you, there is definitely something about weed and me. I had a one-pop and heard a hiss under my bed. What does that tell you? That the monster is back, for one. And that’s me on the batter, for two.

Negative, all that stuff. But I tell you almost everything. What is wrong with me? You know much better than me. I’m just a nob-jockey talking to the internet, whose opinion I trust more than my own blood. You are my cherished and treasured most inestimable beloved dearest darling. I really mean that. Especially if you’re a darling. If you’re a bloke, then don’t worry about it. Both women and men are White Voiders, right? All sexes and races welcome.

Things fine, anyway. I’m in touch with the universe and all that. I’m reading the bible cover to cover, currently up to Chronicles, very hard work. I’m attending church again, which is nice. I’ve mentioned my C of E experience, with the real proper communion. LET US EAT THE FLESH OF THE LORD’S SON! AND DRINK HIS BLOOD!

Charming, eh? But it really works. I’d advise all Tis out there to get some faith, which I already know they have. Good stuff. Keep going and never give up. All the best to you and all the best luck in the world I wish to you.                                                      

Katie

 

I’m between books at the moment, meaning that my divine right to finish the current story I am telling is under threat. Usually, God will protect writers who are in the middle of a story, because each author has a sacred honour to finish it. I’m not too sure if he actually does protect us, to be honest, I’ve kind of made that bit up, but it wold be nice if it were true, wouldn’t it? Still, I know I would be rather writing than not writing, that’s for sure, to garner some of that holy protection I’ve imagined to be correct.

This blog is the only thing I’m penning. I’ve even stopped my daily dairy. I don’t put much volume of work into the diary, but just little footnotes of what have happened to me throughout the day. A child’s smile, a robin, stuff like that. Little beautiful reminders. And of course the mundane stuff, like what I might have had for dinner or something. What I’m missing especially is noting down my astral experiences (dreams). They are soo awesome! I can’t frickin’ believe them! They need to be in the memory, for ever. I swear, I’m going to have to start jotting brief details of what happens in the dream-world down, just to jog the memory from time to time.

I’ve just met a scar girl gothic named Katie in my Positive Thoughts group at Pathways. She was really attractive, just my type, like Winona Ryder. She read out a teary poem which drew me towards her a lot. I told her I was a schizophrenic addicted to porn who endures psychosis. She seemed fine with it. That was good with me. She’s got ADHD and OCD and physical ailments and anxiety. I could really look after a poor girl like that, with all my mental health experience. We’d have good chemistry if only we were given the time and space to develop it. I would have liked to ask her for a drink in the pub together. But maybe I’m a lone wolf who’s destined to walk alone. Any old way, it was nice to see fresh young talent in the group. Sound like a perv there don’t I!?

I’m glad my latest bout of psycho-time is over. I never need to hear voices again for as long as I live. I decree, I can’t keep putting up with them. They’re too destructive to my will and my resilience. They wear me down piece by meaty piece; they tear me apart. I’m uneasy, on edge, paranoid, all of it. I feel like I’m constantly being chewed up by something, spat out, stamped on, and re-chewed again once more, over and over, all throughout the day is long.

Please protect me Lord. I promise I’ll do my best from now on to abstain from wicked practices. With your guidance, I will succeed. Grant me the power and the glory which comes from your son and all the holy saints. Amen x

Why Do I Have To Wake Up?

Well I achieved my goal of 28 Days clean just gone last week and threw it all away instantly like a dirty dishcloth. I thought to myself: I’ve accomplished it now, what’s the point of carrying on? Instead of pushing on forward, I cached in on my wank bank.

The pornographic images that flashed in, and that I acted on, were reminiscent of beautiful. That’s what the stars look like after a month of abstinence. They are so seductive and beguiling and captivating and all the rest of it. I was excited into getting to know them once again, after absence had made the heart grow fonder.

It turned onto a dark path however. I found myself fapping to things I did not want to. The shame and guilt for a day or two has been quite unreal. Now, though, I’m happy to say, I’m over it! I went to church, a nice C of E meeting, on the Sunday, and opened my heart to God. I’ve even seen two red-breast robins since. In certain circles, whenever you see a robin, it means that that is God making himself visible to the human eye. I whole-heartedly believe it. Do you think that other ugly birds, like crows, pick on them? Just a thought.

But yeah, I was questioning my own morality at one point. How can a nice guy fap to such stuff? It’s impossible. So now I am truly sorry and clinging to Precious, the woman under my floorboards, as if she is going out of fashion. I think I’ve failed her now, it’s too late to claw any love back, but I’ll always hold her tight against my heart. I’m empathically regretful of what I do. One day, I’d like to change. That day is now, hopefully. Let’s get back on the saddle and try again.

I went to a bible study last night, with Tom and Alex and Jessica and Sid and Kaylee. Kaylee is from the states, it was so nice to hear a female American accent. I didn’t pray openly like some of them did, but I am thinking about opening my mouth when it comes to the point of overtly praying for each other. At the moment I feel too embarrassed to speak, but I think I'm getting over it. Just a quick soulful prayer to God from the heart, honest and simple, is all that is needed.

The assassin creature came back in a way, after my latest use-up. Things were rather bad, but I’m getting on top of it again. I see myself as walking around in a dream state lately, what with all this stuff going on in my head, like women under the floorboards and monsters under the bed. It’s the only way I can see myself as being to cope with the situation. My astral life is off the hook, I was crying my eyes out to Natalie Portman in a dream last night asking her why do I have to wake up? Sad, ain’t it? And magical. 

 

Bait

I was feeling very tempted about having a wild all-nighter on the cocaine last night. It was halfway in my mind, I’m not quite sure why I didn’t follow through with it. The urge is still there today, but I felt better this morning for not doing it. Now I’m fairly certain that I can’t afford it, it’s never enough and it always runs out too fast. My speed dealer is saying that he’s stopping messing about now with pregabs, but it’s okay because he’s picking up some fast stuff today when he gets paid. Pregabs are my new drug of choice, but they’re not for watching porn on. I’m not sure, I might consider it, if I had some spare, to compliment the amphetamine. It would big-up the empathy with the porn stars. I used to bomb ecstasy for that reason in the early days. That’s what made me fall in love with some of them. Falling in love with a porn star! Yeah, I know!

That’s the way my life panned out however. I had nobody and nothing to turn to apart from sexy porn stars parading their adult wares on camera. Now some of them are part of my prolonged consciousness. There was nothing else to do, and I’d never even heard of recovery back them. I fell into a deep rabbit hole. Dependent on it for years and years. And now its undoing is proving very challenging. The porn stars look as alluring as ever; they’re all smiling and whispering me false promises: “Come back with us for a bit. We’ll make it worth your while. You won’t regret it.” x

Oh but I will regret it. I have to remember the woeful misery that succeeds a reset. I feel worthless and empty and hollow and vacant and distant from God. I can’t eat or shower or watch movies or read books or go out and socialise while being active. My whole world crumbles apart. My head falls off; my arse falls out. That’s when my perps kick the boot in also. The ‘voices’ and other modern terrors of mind-control all rear their ugly head. I swear, they can’t get enough of me whenever I falter. Why do they always pick on me while I’m down? When I’m stable, the bad guys and their creatures under the bed are nowhere to be seen. I should allow the will of my own resistance to motivate me, to see it as a war between me and them. I can’t let the bad guys win. I must deny, refuse, repel and thwart the enemy at all costs. But how do you forgo a sexy female good demon? Or a sexy female fallen angel?

This sexual impulse thing is ridiculous. It drives me like a horny goat. It has more power than thirst or hunger. I wish it would just leave me and be cast away from me for ever. I’ve asked this question before, but what would I do if my son was addicted to speed and porn? Would I batter him, or tell him to enjoy it with love? As long as he is enjoying himself and smiling, that’s all that matters.

 

The 9ft Scalloper

I once was familiar with a man named the 9ft Scalloper. That was my nickname for him, because he treated human beings like scallops when he stabbed them up with his big knives. His knives were not knives actually, they were scalloping rods. More like spears. Imagine treating a sentient creature like a scallop? Inhumane, isn’t it? That was him.

He bought me in a hospital via auction, for 3.000.000 large ones. (Three million.) That ransom was paid so he could torture me. You might think that that is impossible, nobody gets auctioned in hospital, but where am I getting it from, am I making it up out of thin air? I don’t tell no lies. Everything here on the blogspot is factual. Having said that, never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn.

The next day he moved in with me. Invisible of course. He kept repeating about himself how his nature was ‘very ugly.’ Charming, I thought. Can you imagine how scared I was? His proper name was Top Boy, Head of the Masons. Do they call them Grandmasters of Evil or summet? I think that’s it. He said his MO is to get ‘very close’ to his targets. He kept repeating that also.

He held a knife to my throat one morning. I couldn’t move. You’d think you’d be able to move, it’s only a knife at your throat, why don’t you raise an arm up or kick out a leg, but you can’t, they’ve got you. I shat my trousers, but it passed.

He said he was going to play golf with me. Not with me, he said, but with me. That means lying me on the ground and swinging a driver at my head. Then he was going to put me in an oven, an industrial-sized one, and watch me cook up like a ham shank. He sounds like a really nice fella, doesn’t he?

Once I caught him hanging around outside my patio asking the devil for his power back. Apparently, he’d lost his invisibility because he’d not been evil enough. “Lucifer, give me my powers back,” he demanded.

His last victim had committed suicide after the 9ft Scalloper had pulled his pants down in his bedroom. He kept repeating that too. I thought the 9ft Scalloper was on a mission about pulling my own pants down. I expected that for a week or two. All he did was pull them off while I was asleep. He also smashed one of my mirrors as well. I was always surprised by waking up in the mornings when the 9ft Scalloper was around, I expected him to wheel me off back to his chamber and have his wicked way with me.

The 9ft Scalloper is just one of many assassins I’ve had to deal with over the years. I still don’t know how I shook him off. Maybe I haven’t. Maybe he’s just gone dormant for a couple of years. He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. Roll on Illuminati Hitmen. 

 

More About That F**king Creature

I’m over my flu now. Wow. That was a tough week. I’ve still got a cough, a persistent one, but the worst of it is over. You never appreciate your health until its gone, do you? I’ve felt rotten for days on end.

I’m still thinking about that creature under my bed. I know for a fact that if I use amphetamine again it’s going to pop its head out for a good old ganders. God help me then. I’ll be at a loss. It feeds on my using, my pretend agent Clint from PAUSE just said. On my using, and on my fear. I could hear its claws scraping on the carpet, man. And I could smell the dastardly thing. I think I’m going to write a poem about it for this month’s library event. I was thinking about writing a book about it. It would be a great place to start in a book. In the genetic-engineering lab, where the thing was conceived. How do you pamper a creation to meet someone’s darkest fears? A rat, a dog and a snake isn’t too much of a bad start, is it?

I’ve been reborn since that unhallowed event, I feel reinvigorated, rejuvenated, rekindled. I feel like I’ve cheated death. I may have said this already before, but it needs saying again coz its true. This raw crisp and original state of mind needs to be cherished and respected and clung onto tightly until doomsday. I can’t afford to throw this feeling away over a bag of speed and some boring old pornographic material which I’ve seen a thousand times. It’s true that the novelty comes back after a layoff but it doesn’t last long unless it is actually new novelty material, which it isn’t. I’m bored by the same old willies getting gobbled by the same old lippy cake-holes. Well buy some more, then, you say.  But that is opening the Celluloid Corridor well beyond its sell-by-date, a dangerous thing to do. I’ve got it under wraps now. The wolves are not calling at the minute. Let’s try and keep it that way, eh.

I shared about a silly old bracelet the other week. That power has worn off. It was nothing like I expected it to be, returning back to it. A porn star with a bracelet on which was the same as a church-goer! There the connection ends. I don’t think anything will take me back to that creature under my bed, stinking the flat out and scratching its claws. It was too scary. I was terrifically lucky I didn’t lose my flat. Any sane person would have walked out. Telly’s in there, running water in the kitchen, boiler’s in the bedroom, it’s all yours. But I amassed some bravery from somewhere and got it battered in the end. With a little help from my friends. I must just thank Lydia again for stroking it. That was a beautiful gesture and it may have saved my life.

 

Flu

I had one of the most challenging nights of my life the other night. I was stricken with the flu syndrome, I’d never had it so tough. I was feverish in bed, not tired, uncomfortable, and wishing I wasn’t there. It was so hard. I had a hangover from sleeping too much, but only it was bedtime, so there was nowhere to go. I have huge empathic tendencies for those who are bedbound, it must be terrible. There comes a point wherein I hate my bed and everything about it. The sweatiness, the clamminess, the yukkiness. Urrgh! And there’s nothing to do but lie there in it, suffering, with the headache and the chills and the cough and the sore throat and the sniffly nose.

The chills are the worst part of it all. At first I thought it was pneumonia. A shivery cold sensation passing over the lungs, like freezing iron fibre reverberating throughout the glands. Absolutely minging. The condition is impossible to describe. I’m both cold and I’m hot in equal measure, each breath is a struggle to gain equilibrium. If a proportion of my arm is exposed my whole body temperature feels it, I stick my ankle out from beneath the bed sheets and it drops a degree. Just. Can’t. Rest.

Last night was perhaps even weirder. I had these strange wide-awake dreams where I was viewing faces looking back at me. They were old-fashioned and antiquated, from another timeline. I could see them crystal-clear, as if on a home video.

I’m gunna have to reel this post in short, as I am still under the weather. The worst part about it is not been able to smoke, as my lungs are too tender and vulnerable. I’m coughing my guts up every other drag. I’m still drinking, that much is never under question. One uncaring customer has just moved half of one of my pints. I wasn’t impressed. Now I’m just in the library talking to you, experiencing the chills in my lungs.

I left church early today, I wasn’t in the mood. Mister Joel the baby was crawling halfway up the aisle. Peter was preaching on the Prodigal Son. The Prodigal Son squandered his father’s wealth but got welcomed back amidst a celebration when he’d spent it all up. You were once lost, but now you’re found.

 

Christian Picnic

Sunday was a great day folks. First I attended church in the morning, after showering and getting dressed. It was an earnest pleasure to see my best boy Dazza there. He’d not been since last year. Everyone was made up to see him. The first thing he did was hug the powerful Christian that is Jenny (who invited me for dinner midweek) and said, “What a woman.” “I agree,” I said. Because Jenny is one hell of a woman. And Dazza is one hell of a best boy.

Jenny is picking me up tonight for a bible session at the Pastor’s house, incidentally. It’s something to do. Appointments are important to keep, and I feel I’m in a position to uphold them now. After the church service we haunted Victoria Park for a Christian picnic. We arrived there late, because Dazza had to go home first for some reason or other. He’s never in a rush to get anywhere, if you know what I mean. He’d be late for his own funeral. I always seem to be waiting for him to do something, but that’s also why I love him, in a way. When we finally arrived there, an hour late, there were only strawberries and Pringles left. I must thank my boy Jon for getting me and Dazza a Ham & Cheese sarnie in.

The church was playing a peculiar game which involved sticks knocking over sticks. It was a confection of skittles and bowls. I decided not to play, instead shouting, “Good shot!” and “Well done!” and “Get in there!” every couple of minutes. It’s nice to spectate from time to time without getting too heavily involved in something. I prefer to view from the side lines rather than play in the game and feel the pressure. I’m afraid of cocking up in front an audience.

When the game was over and the picnickers went home me and Dazza went to the nearby shop so we could get pissed in the park watching dog walkers and revellers come to and fro past us for a couple of hours. We put the world to rights. When I finished my four cans of San Miguel I scooted over to the chippy for some Singapore noodles. They were tasty. Then we made our way to town so Dazza could score some beak.

We drank in the pub until the dealer dropped it off. His dealer looked like a man although she was a woman. I don’t say this insultingly, as she was pretty girly with her long hair, but her features and the way she acted was quite masculine. Not to take anything away from her. For one’s part, I honestly couldn’t be sure one way or the other. But I didn’t mind.

As he met his dealer, my girl Vicky walked in. I introduced her to Dazza, and we were suddenly 3 strong. We had a little clan. We drank a bit together until Vicky invited us to hers. She lives in shared accommodation so we had to sneak in through the back. She put some good music on, rappy, and we got in the mood for some partying together. The lines however were very small compared to the ones I usually have so I don’t even consider them spoiling my clean time. A tiny-tiny bit in company being sociable is nothing like massive fat stripes watching porn at home, in the darkness with the curtains drawn (what am I talking about, I don’t have any curtains!), in isolation with creatures under my flat.

At the end of the night Dazza had a meltdown after walking me home, collapsing to the floor in tears and ringing an ambulance for himself. It hurt me to leave him in that state, but I was anxious to get back inside my own home and go to bed. He texted me today and said it was alright, and I said good stuff.

Thanks for listening. This has been mine and Dazza’s Sunday together. With Vicky too.  

 

Euphoria

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

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

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

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

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

 

Get Over That Depression, Dude!

Hello yet again. My boy Timothy is ringing me but I’m busy writing this. He suffers from depression. He gives it too much credit in my opinion. I want to slap him across the face, hold him upside down, and shake the miserableness out of his bones. He’s too powerful with it, it rubs off on people. He gets hurt over nothing, he’s too overly sensitive, I wish he would man up and say something like this: “I am not getting depressed anymore: Depression is bullshit.” But he doesn’t. He says: “Depression is king. I’m depressed, and so will you be.” Or something along those lines. He doesn’t say that exactly, obviously, but that’s what I infer.

He’s heartbroken over the loss of his Indian mother. Her death devastated him. I wish she would appear to him on the edge of his bed and share some quality spirit time with him, to let him know that she’s okay and that their special love bond is still strong between each other, as it should be. Maybe a visitation from the other side would stop him rambling on about how crippling the effects of degenerative mental illness can be. Andrew Tate says that depression doesn’t exist to him, that he refuses to accept it. Timothy says that that is because Tatey has a Bugatti and loads of women. To be honest (tbh), I don’t know whose argument holds the most sway.

The creature assassin under my bed appears to have gone. Maybe an operative took it out. (We’re not talking about factory operatives here.) Maybe it was in my mind, though I doubt it, because it stank the whole pad out. Rodents and other beasties that slither and crawl move quicker than the eye, they are always one step ahead, so it’s hard to determine. You must think I’m mad, not knowing what’s real. I think it comes down to what our minds can accept as real. Did somebody really put a genetically-engineered lab-created assassin monster into my apartment to kill me, or did I imagine it all off drugs? When put like that, the drugs option seems like hokum. Imagining scenarios off drugs…! It’s real, man! IT’S ALL REAL!  Get over it, deal with it, and move on. There’s no such thing as psychosis!

I dream of meeting another TI (Targeted Individual). Are you one? That would be sweet. We would get along like a house on fire, I know it in my soul. We could share our afflictions and try and discover who has had it the worst. I think that’ll be me, but I’m extremely open-minded about your plight also. I’d enjoy hearing about it. We could discuss the severity of our demises over some alcohol, with a smoke or two. I’m trying to give up smoking.

Ah well then, it’s time to wind up the blog post at its typical length. It’s been a blast as is per usual with you, My Precious White Voider. Have a bash at the White Void yourself. Even better, let me know about it. Via your mind or another method. x