These Are The Minds...

I’ve destroyed Tommy Thrillbigger’s latest pornographic exploit for good now, and I sincerely hope that I won’t be going back to it. It was getting a bit boring, truth be told, and I ended up fapping to the voices in my head instead. This leaves me very vulnerable to their power and oppression. I wonder how many other people out there fap to the sexy voices in their heads? I wonder how many people have sexy voices in their heads? They talk and talk all day and all night, until long after I am spent. The upside is, and I found this quite incredible to believe at first, that they masturbate to the sound of my inner voice also. We’re just a crazy gaggle of voices wa*king to one another!

I’ve started hearing my nan now, which is very off-putting, as she’s been brown bread for donkeys years. She’s calling me a cruel boy because of my fapping, and denouncing me as any relation to her. This hurt quite a bit, as she raised me, and is something I have to remember. One positive aspect of the latest psychotic debacle is that God appeared in my living room to me. He was the biggest man I have ever seen with a long red cloak on. He said, “Don’t worry, you’re with me.” This made me feel safe and secure. Usually, whenever I sit down to fap and take hard drugs, the Devil celebrates like he has scored the winning goal at Wembley. That’s how important my suffering is to him, it makes him deliriously happy. He calls ruining my life putting the ‘work in’.

I’ve got my enemies right where I want them at the moment, with me in triumphant power over them, refusing to be dismayed or depressed by their ‘work’. I feel large and in charge and on the front-foot. My apartment, with its dungeon beneath, is hallowed ground. They want me out of there so badly I can almost understand it. An evildoer would relish my property more greatly than almost any other on the planet, for what lies underneath it.

It’s impossible to have a dungeon underneath a ground floor council property in England, you might say. How does he live there? Isn’t the natural reaction to run for the hills? Yes…I don’t know…and yes are the answers to those questions. I just get by. Half the time I forget about it. This is God’s power, enabling me to not be traumatised. My main fear is being traumatised by what I go through on a daily basis, and from where I live and cannot escape from.

My girl Cee who I’ve blogged about in the past in currently in hospital as we speak. Last time I saw her she was speaking like a TI. She said her flat felt like a façade, and that she was seeing people off television on the bus and in the street. I told her not to worry because they always pick on the bright ones. That is something my own doctor actually told me one time. He was the best doctor I ever had. We used to swap poetry and talk about the cosmos. Anyway, I added to Cee (formerly Courtney) that her abounding light is just too scorching for society to handle at the moment, that’s all. She’ll get thru it. Just eat some decent food (depending on the hospital), get some art done, go the gym a bit, reflect on life, and all will be well because it’s a doddle and job’s a good’un. She’s really beautiful, Cee, you should see the compassion on her face when she is concentrating on listening to what people have to say in therapy group. The empathy in her eyes is wonderful to behold. She’s only 24, but has a wise head on her shoulders. I’m gutted she’s back in hozzy.

There were no evil videos in my head-space last time. I think the children in my consciousness have helped bat them away. By evil videos, I mean the crude animations that brain technologies implant into my mind. Last time I was witnessing their putrid perversity a load of children infested it and saved me from it. The kids called themselves THE MINDS THAT TIME HAS MADE THEM. THESE ARE THE MINDS THAT TIME HAVE MADE US, they said to me. I don’t know where these children in my mind have come from, but I choose to believe that they possess a power inherited from the Creator of the Universe. There is nothing so precious and innocently beautiful as a child. Surely everyone here knows that much at least? 

Most Wanted

 

I’ve been buying and snapping and rebuying the same porn DVD over the last week or so. I broke communion with a spirit when I last destroyed it. We eat Reece’s Pieces together and make an oath. Unfortunately, I can’t stick to it. After a few days, once the hellishness of the mad-tempered psychosis has worn off, I am always drawn back, with a new vigour for the perversion. I seem to forget all the trauma I am going through with an aliveness for sex and self-induced passion. It’s called euphoric recall, which means that you only remember the good times. I’m currently on Day 3 Clean time, which means that the voices and hallucinations are only just wearing off. I rang the Samaritans this morning and spoke to a lovely helpful woman named Sarah. I prefer speaking to women on the phone, it sounds nice and cheeky when they let out a subtle giggle. That noise warms my heart; the sound of a lady simply chuckling.

I have a conspiracy of positive voices going on in my hive-mind realm. Without them, as my enemies like to remind me, I really would be in a heap of trouble. No matter how many voices are against you, it only takes one to watch your back. I hope that in the next life I can come back and stand up for somebody who is hearing voices, to give them something to lean on, to support them, to bring them back to life. That would be a beautiful thing and I think I’d be really good at it. Any TI in mortal jeopardy would do. They need a back-up plan in place, some care and protection. Having been there myself for so long, I’d know exactly what to say, I’d have all the right words. They’ve been in a disastrous program since birth, thinking they’re just having bad luck, when all the time some truly wicked folk are plotting against their very life. It is a matter of life or death. I’d survived several attempts on my own life, so I should know.

I refer to myself as TECHNICALLY MOST WANTED. I see myself on a WANTED poster, my face on it, like one of those bad-guy cowboy types. My addiction and my hate mobbers all want a piece of me, but all they do is talk about it 24/7. I receive death threats and torture threats every minute of the day, their job is to stop me thinking. It’s horrible when disembodied voices keep cutting your voice pattern off repetitively, over and over, all day and all night long. It’s like you can’t draw a breath to think a single thought. One new trick of my harassers is to put itches on my face and body, and instruct me that I itch them. It’s hard not to, as they are very itchy. It sounds like science-fiction, I know. How can you put an itch on somebody’s skin with technology? Easy if you are implanted since childhood.

Sports Bar

Hi again. I didn’t make church for the third time straight this morning, but it wasn’t because I was with Laura Dark. I’ve just walked past her shop then, but I wasn’t tempted to go in and rebuy her. I’ve seen enough of her getting spread-eagled on the bed by a buff dude, and reversing her rear onto his baby-maker on an A-B loop. The strange thing about porn is, that I’m developing love for the blokes as well. Now that is some scary-assed homosexual nonsense. It’s almost impossible to look at one without the other (man and woman, that is).

I did a new thing with my girl Antonia yesterday afternoon. We went to a new sports bar in town. I felt really awkward, and she knew it. I didn’t want to explore it, but rather just hang out at the bar. It was up two sets of stairs. What am I letting myself in for? I asked myself on the way up. Eventually we made it over towards the pool table and starting relaxing a little. The bar soon emptied. I often think that about myself, you know: That, no matter where I go, the crowds there soon dissipate. It’s like I’m a walking vacuum, dispersing the masses in my wake. It makes me slightly paranoid. People tend to get out of my way. It could be my colour in a predominantly white town.

After the sports bar I walked home and bought two cans of super-strength lager on the way, as I usually do. Then I went to bed early, as I usually do, and woke early, as I also usually do – when I’m not spaced out overnight on a diet of amphetamine and porn. It’s weird when I stay up for one or two nights without sleep. Reality becomes gossamer thin. Semi-transparent invisible people start appearing in my flat. They walk through walls and take refuge in cupboards. Creepy crawlies appear under the bed and sofas. I see them scuttle right around me like cavemen around a dinosaur. But they are so big, some of them! Really chunky and fat, like.

Did I tell you that I brought my boy Simon back to assist me checking under the bed and sofas? I’ve been relaxed in my confines since then, mind put at ease. I checked, with him present, and there was nothing there, when for so many days I had been certain that there was. Simon is in prison now because he broke a restraining order with Antonia in the pub. I was there at the time, drinking along with each of them merrily. The bartender got whiff of what was happening and rang the police just as I left. They came and nicked him. He’s a good friend, but Antonia told me that he exposed himself to children. Would you still be a friend to a guy who done that? I don’t know the whole story, so I’m reserving judgement. I also know another woman who has had one of my friends put behind bars, this time for domestic abuse. How can you do that, I think, to my friend, no matter what he’s done?

 

Why Am I Here?

Back again folks. I’ve been thinking about why I’m doing this. It originates from the show Californication (2007). It starred David Duchovny as Hank Moody, who played a blogger. I just liked the idea of a failed writer who had nothing else left to say speaking to the internet, in a public library, of all places. What does he write about? What comes out of his mind? What is there to say, about anything, that already hasn’t been said?

I’m getting bored of talking about recovery, addiction, and psychosis. I’m getting bored of everything. Nothing excites me anymore; I’m a failing mess. All I want to do is enjoy hedonism, via the usual empty ways. That means drugs and porn. I’m ever so bored of drugs and porn though.

Ever so bored, but still attracted to it. I suppose I always will be. I pray that the desire is removed from me. That’s one of my most popular prayers. I hate the way I am and I hate the things I do. My nature disturbs me. I hope I can change before it’s too late. As my boy Chico just said in a group: “I want to die sober.”

I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know why you’re reading this, or where you found it, or whatever, but I want to tell you that being me isn’t easy. It’s very difficult. I get beat up every time I turn around. There are dudes out there who want the very worst for me. They brought me into an awareness of gangstalking and remote neural monitoring and other devious goings on. But I prevail over it all, somehow, with the Most High Godly Creator of All Things. It’s tough to keep going, and it’s tough to keep hanging tough.

If I can keep going with an idea of beauty, beyond the physical form, then I’ll be happy with that. A polish girl on a nature retreat several years ago told me to never let go of the good stuff. Hold fast to which is good, the Bible says. I don’t mean to be corny or sentimental, like Ricky Gervais, who always ramps that teary stuff up in his shows, I’m just saying. No offence against him, I love it when the telly makes me cry. So far, I’ve never had the written word make me cry. Apart from the Bible.

I opened it one time and started crying straightaway. My tears made the words blend and bleed into each other. Underneath the smeary ink I could make out children’s images. They belonged to some of the first pictures my nephew ever drew for his mum. Strange, huh? I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t know why I’m here.

The devil tells me I’m here to suffer, and nothing more. Would you believe a dark spirit, if nothing they ever told you didn’t align with that? Nah, I don’t either. I believe I’m destined for something that has nothing to do with suffering. Something, or someplace, placid and peaceful. That’s where I’m headed too. Plus you, hopefully x

 

Death Rattle

Orite mate. Let’s get this over with. I used on Sunday morning. It was a random hook up. My speed dealer is in prison, but I found another one. Can you imagine how notoriously difficult it is to locate another phet dealer in a small town? I met him on a park bench when I should have been in church. He gave me the proper stuff like, you know? It was beltin’. I observed black men with white women on the CeLLuloid CoRRidor. Their rhythm was hypnotic, it was totally hedonistic; I was having the time of my life. Yes, it was Laura Dark again. The way she bounces her hips upon those big schlongs! I could watch her, drugged up, for a lifetime. If it wasn’t wrong and perverse that is.

It was getting disturbing, my passion for Laura Dark. I blame her suspenders. Are they called stockings or suspenders? What’s the difference? That’s why I only write women occasionally, because I know nothing about them. The man wasn’t up to much, he wasn’t even rock hard. I’d be rock hard fantastico if I was with Laura Dark. That’s the issue. But I got bored eventually. And Precious (the girl underneath my floorboards), started begging me to stop. So I did. And I threatened to snap Laura Dark the hell up. Her DVD, I mean.

You should have seen Laura Dark’s death rattle. She appeared in my room, I swear, and said I would never ever snap her DVD up. That was when the deal was signed, sealed and delivered. How the frig does Laura Dark know what I’m going or not going to do? So confident and sure and all that when she’s nothing but a cheap slag. I snapped her up, along with several other DVDs which had been hanging around for months on end. And that’s the end of the most recent CeLLuloid CoRRidor. It has been forsaken along with dust, into the ether, into nothing. It’s going to be hard without it, but not as hard as purposely hurting Precious is. I can’t do that anymore. I just can’t.

I am starting to think about Laura Dark already again though. Her long white legs, held up in the air, as a well-endowed black man penetrates her daft! Wow. On the good drugs as well. My endorphins are flying off outside of my brain like a cheaply paid-for firework show. But it’s painful. It’s ever so painful once it’s over. When the psychosis comes in. And my perps take control. They control my motor functions, telling me when to blink and cough. The strangest thing is that I do, when told. This leads me to believe that I have been implanted. Ah well. Whatever Trevor. Try and make me stand on one leg!

One thing I’ve learned during the last bout of psychosis is that my perps take sexual pleasure from harassing me. They think I sound sexy when I’m talking to myself, and that’s why they keep tearing my mind apart by prompting me with voices. The voices are to keep me talking, and my inner voice is so alluring to them that they masturbate over it. Don’t ask me how I’ve figured this out, but I know it to be true. Hello Sexy Guy… 

No Glorification

One of the rules in Pathways is NO GLORIFICATION. This means that you are not allowed to describe the good times, as they might be triggering for another client. I challenged this today, and was shot down on multiple angles. I think you should be allowed to depict it in valuable terms, in order to relive the few decent spells on board we ever had. Take AA for example. Instead of everyone banging on about Bill & Bob and on how good the program is, let everyone talk about how they wet themselves on Aunty Margaret’s sofa, put the cat in the microwave, and went swimming in the River Mersey at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It’d be far more fun. Don’t tell me there were never any good times. Don’t tell me it was never hedonistic. I once drank a bottle of whiskey and fell asleep with my electric blanket on for 12 hours. I woke up like a charred hotdog. I got told off in a different group the other month for describing a line of coke like eucalyptus up the conk. Wouldn’t you like to hear all the horror stories about alcoholism and drug use, rather than I’m two and a half years clean?

The people who are multiple years clean are scared stiff of a relapse. They’re running. Yeah, I’m jealous, but I’m also honest. They have so much to fear, they would never recover from it. It would break them. Us ruiners laugh at relapses, it means nothing, we get back on the saddle and return to the roots of our destiny quicker than those year-longs can spell relapse. I swear, I’m losing faith in recovery. One guy asked me how many months sober I was at my last AA meeting. Just because he was doing well, the whole world has to be doing well around him. “I’m pissed now,” I said to him. How does that sh*t on your boater.

I know I’m not 66 Days clean (my last best run), but I am again honest. I’m mad for the hedonism. Life gets so boring. I’m isolated in desolation and estranged, what do you expect. But what I do have is a passion for writing, no matter what’s going on. There have been three chapters to my life so far, three parts, three acts, and now it’s over. I’m going to die. What’s the point in striving to be clean if it can all be broken at any given moment, on the run? I’m giving up, I know, in a way, I shouldn’t be talking like this, but it is what it is. I know an addict girl who I have unconditional love for, and I don’t care if she uses day in and day out, I’ll still love her. I don’t mind if she sticks a vial of heroin in her groin, starts slobbering, and conks out in front of Midsummer Murders pumped up at maximum volume. In fact, I love her because she is an addict. What does it matter, is what I suppose I’m saying, what we are. What does it matter what we are at all? We’re all connected.

 

Laura Dark

A woman named Laura Dark has gotten hold of me. She dragged me out of church on Sunday morning and led me to her DVDs in the ‘loop shop’. I purchased, 2 for £50. Then I went home and scored. An 8-ball of coke. It was mint. I had a day of hedonism with that and with her. It’s all very disappointing. I was doing so well. I doubt I will ever do so well again. It’s okay though, because I have done well. I’m thinking that maybe the times of doing well are over, and now I just have free reign to enjoy myself a bit. I’m not stealing for it, or committing any kind of crime. I would never do that, because I’m not able. There isn’t a violent bone in my body.

My boy Badger robbed a shop in order to fund his crack addiction, and was sent down to jail. It can’t work, that, robbing for profit. I get high on my benefit allowance. It had to be the coke because my phet dealer is in prison. He’s out in two weeks. Laura Dark has put me on a dastardly path, one that I can’t seem to locate my way off off any time soon. I was praising the Lord for my time with her. Thank you for this revolution of hedonism God. But then the psychosis kicked in. And the hell. And everything else. But Laura remains. I’m ticking down the hours until the next payday. Maybe something will change and distract my mind from her.

The psychosis was the usual bullsh*t. I’ve been there a thousand times before. This time, my mind was totally blank, unable to mount a defence. Voices galore, and videos in my mind. The main purpose of my command voices is to convince me that they are somehow superior to me. I’m not bothered about someone or something being superior to me. There was a hint of that creature underneath my bed, but it didn’t materialise into the physical realm. I wasn’t that bothered. I started playing poker with myself, and drinking Uri Gellers (Stellas). I had a few nice hands, really taking my time with them, working out all the possibilities, taking notice like, you know. I got a Queen on the river, something that I always strive to achieve. That made up a hand of three Queens with King and Pocket Rocket Ace kickers. Extremely satisfying. Almost a full house.

 

 

A Bit Of Bennie

Now then White Voider, how’s life? Things all dandy here at the moment. I’m flying like Neville f**king Bartos. Spoken to the Samaritans this morning, as is usual when I’m doing well. Her name was Maud. I begin every conversation by saying, “Hello, my name is Andy. I’m a schizophrenic who’s addicted to pornography and amphetamines.” Hell of an opening line isn’t it? You wouldn’t use it in a nightclub though would you?

You only get one chance to make a first impression. I remember when I met Bennie, my personal and special overseer spirit, in the real world. It was in an art gallery. I’d preordained the meeting years earlier in a short story, about two lovers who meet in an art gallery. Although myself and Bennie were never lovers, she did kiss me on my doorstep one morning when she came down for a coffee. That little peck meant a lot to me. I was planning to lay the lips on her myself, which I would have done if I hadn’t have had cocaine the night before. I had it in my head the evening earlier – I’m really gunna lay the lips on her. But then porn and that god-awfully expensive stim got in the way. I’ll settle for second best outcome here – she laid the lips on me.

I really miss her a lot I do. When we first met, our eyes locked. We held eye contact for just a fraction longer than what was natural. Time stood still when we first made that eye contact, I’ll remember the moment forever, I swear. It was so monumental. She is so stunningly beautiful, with her Germanic roots an all. So pretty. I see her now on a unicorn made out of ice with a gold trident, all weapon-upped like. I once gave her my entire mind, if that can begin to make any sense to someone who doesn’t know what I’m talking about. I was hallucinating, and she was with me, and I gave her all of the positive contents out of my head. Spirits do that to me all the time, give me energy and brain aura capabilities and stuff, so I repaid one of their favours. It looks like neat arrows of light, like the flash of a quick torch beam. Your thoughts speed up sporadically as soon as you receive it. I’ve done it a couple of times myself, in prayer with people. I just send out energy. Usually, of late, there’s a grey alien inside of it! These energetic parcels, if you will, can keep one going.

I usually receive them from a mask I have in my bedroom. Red Jacket lives inside it. She possesses the mask. She also looks like the mask, on one of her dual identities (the other one looks like an old lover from way back when). When I’m coming down on amphetamines, and my mind is blank, and the oppressive voices are taking control of my psyche, then she’ll step in and send me a little something. This stuff is real, this spectral energy, this aura transferral, I’ve seen it many times. One of the best translucent emanations I ever got was the Shape of Love from her. It was a glassy rectangle containing smoke and water, like the glassy safe containing the baddies at the end of Superman. I also received a lantern one time; that was quite special like. I even saw an angel give a parcel to God once. It looked like a cold blue slither of svelte neon light. I asked him to tell me what it was but he said it was private!

I’ve been watching a lot of Ricky Gervais lately. He’s a remarkable soul, but ultimately godless. I know what he’d think about me rambling on about auras and angels and that but I remain convinced that there is something out there, and that it is majestic. I know it in my heart. Far too many things have happened for me to remain an atheist anymore, which is what I used to be, just like Ricky. I believe in creationism and revelation. I think that science and the history books might be a big fat lie. I wouldn’t trust humans as far as I can spit. You know what they’re like with power and wealth and all that materialism nonsense. A fellow writer called Terry Edge who used to be my email buddy hit the nail on the head. He said something like this: School and society make you strive for and obtain all the things which you don’t really need, while simultaneously not mentioning the utterly vital components of life which are essential in order to have a healthy mind and soul. Or something like that. Where in school does it say anything about being haunted by ghosts from the spirit realm. Or psychosis. Or amphetamine addiction. Or conquering demons. Nothing. It doesn’t. It’s just spreadsheets and Shakespeare. Essays and algebra. Doctrines and dogma. Which is what old Ricky there denounces the bible as.

About four months ago I was in a masturbatory catatonic state on the floor, watching porn, spaced out to the max on phet. The sun had rose and sank on me, I was in a nowhere place. So that was when one of my perps decided to infiltrate my apartment. Yes, I had an intruder while I was present in the property. It wasn’t the first time. It was a Chinese guy who was there to stab me in the heart and bring me underground to revive me for eternal hellfire. I ended up hiding in the cupboard like a coward. It was then that a beautiful little boy emerged out of my aura and confronted the intruder. He told him that he would be going to Hell himself if he laid a finger one me. I felt rescued and saved and amazing. It was an incredible experience. The intruder left and shut the door behind him!

 

Christian Retreat

 

I’ve just spent the weekend away in Shropshire, dwelling in a luxury mansion on a Christian retreat. Apart from a few night terrors, which is understandable from sleeping in a strange bed, I had no spiritual experiences. By spiritual experiences, I mean that my ghosts did not follow me. I did get closer to God, with hours and hours of praise and worship, and I felt at one with his people, in his home. The big rooms and high ceilings were pleasant; I felt like Donald Trump or a rich footballer for a couple of days. One morning I rose early and flipped on the XL television, just sat there in comfort chilling out with a programme on, something alien to me because I don’t watch TV. I had several coffees watching something about psychosis, then took myself in the stately gardens for a ciggie in front of the water feature. A woman called Lebo was singing her Afrikaans songs to herself via her mobile phone. It was also nice to see Kaly from America strutting her stuff on the violin. There’s just something about a girl playing a violin, it’s like been on horseback or something. Both would be good, wouldn’t it? Riding a horse and playing a violin at the same time (jumping through hoops on fire). They do say that men aren’t as good as women at multi-tasking. Hugh Dennis from Outnumbered calls it multi-failing when his off-the-rail teenage boy attempts it.

I got away from the spirit world for two nights. I heard some voices at night, but they were manageable. That was just the devil attacking me because I was at ease with Christians. He does that. I knew there’d be a swimming pool there, so the day before I bought some Big Vision goggles to assist me. The Big Visions are larger than normal goggles; you can see a lot more of the underwater when wearing them. Swimming without your own goggles is like playing pool without your own cue; it enhances the experience a lot. I don’t think I have swam since Corona Fear virus, so it was nice. I attended with my boy Jon, who declared ‘Praise the Lord!’ during his breaststroke.

Meal times always have the potential to be awkward. Where do I sit? Who do I sit with? But it went without any problem. I was happy sitting with children and parents alike. It was strange, because on the morning of departure, I was half-certain that I wouldn’t be going. I couldn’t get in touch with anyone. It turned out that one church member in particular was looking for me around the town, playing detective. I bumped into her outside pathways of all places and got her number, so all was sorted. It seemed like it was meant to be.

It was in the middle of nowhere, at the end of miles and miles of spooky narrow country lanes. I felt a sense of foreboding returning home to my dingy little council Golgotha drug den; it’s where all my trauma is buried, and all my bad memories, and all my psychotic exposures. I’m working on feeling gratitude for what I’ve got. Happiness is an inside job. My flat, to a homeless person, would feel like that stately palace felt to me. That’s what I’ve got to remember, instead of being envious of what others have.

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.