Failed Journo

^(💢1979.146÷6.7=?{23>54?

donning.new.garments.today

put.the.lamp.away.the.

dawn.has.come

core.problem.emotionmal.root

signed ahead of time: Ă.Ď

ᾭᾶ¥ῖ___ᾭᾶ¥ῖ🌁ᾭᾶ¥ῖ

There were times I used to write (and dream) about Russian pole vaulters. Now I’m sat here at the desk picking my nose listening to the monotony of schizophrenic voices tumbling around in my cranium, which are dead boring by the way and dampen my creativity. You have no words anymore, they say. You couldn’t write anything as good as Pinocchio Unstrung, or The Batman, or develop a classic futuristic concept like The Terminator, they add, amid a barrage of foul language and negativity. Why do they keep pulling faces at me?

In the clinic, just after Christmas, I made a bunch of spider graphs laced with mostly visual ideas. They’ll keep me in business for some time. It’s solely a matter of executing them into prose, or, as I prefer these days, dialogue. I can’t seem to take the first step and make the plunge into crafting something that resembles a plot. It’s because I have experience of how lengthy the process a book of fiction can take. It can go on for years, and I’m getting impatient in my old age. I’d rather be a washed-up failed journalist online, waffling about the absence of Russian pole vaulters, than waste so much effort penning another masterpiece novel nobody wants to buy. This is how I like to scribble, chatty and breezy, rather than describe a faceless character in a make believe fantasy try and rescue the princess, or win the dragster race, or steal the jewels, or whatever it is that he or she strives for.

___________________🚾

WritER sTATS:

Most recent dynamic transformation: present day

SPEED: APPROX 80 WORDS A MINUTE

FUEL: mUESLI AND dirty>Rice

treAT: CARlinG (568ml) 🍺

💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤

I’m getting my arse into gear last couple of days. Plenty of ease, humour, easy-listening to slash metal(?), fine healthy food, and ample rest. I’m not worried or concerned about what normal folk usually stress over, I’m just enjoying my specified time of the day confabulating with internet connections like yourself. It’s not easy being a failed journo, when your best works are far behind you, and you’re fearful of your next offering. I read a blog the other day about a bag of pasta.[🍛] So I can relax a little bit, when I think I’m chatting bubbles. It doesn’t really matter what one writes, I’ve come to appreciate, as long as one cherishes the act of piecing words together. Write about pasta all you want to. Write about the dark side of the moon. Write about saving the whale. Write about national treasures. It’s all fair game. I’ve said it all in the past, that’s why I am so desperate now. But hey, send me props for trying!

Facing The Day (Again)

 I allowed a spirit of amphetamine back into my life the other evening, after 18 months of abstinence. I didn’t have as much as I once did, I was rather temperate with the dose, but amphetamine is amphetamine, and there are hardly any good glowing recommendations to be made about the thing. I followed it up with a small (yet expensive) dash of cocaine. When this ran out, I considered burgling my neighbour’s premises for property and goods amounting to the value of = MORE DRUGS. I tell the truth, I was after unstitching my consciousness, and all the memories in its history, into nothing but burning dust. I wanted oblivion. Come the reign of the conclusive night, when the dealers had hung up their phones, I resorted to settling for mild forgetfulness.

I sat up on my own, facing the psychotic comedown the same way I usually face it these days, with a sedate calmness and absence of fear. This is possible when you are with the Lord. Even if evil shape shifters are up your jacksie with flashlights.

I was mad for morishness, though. More more more. To delay the pain of waking up to reality.

In saying that, I’ve decided that I’m taking a break now. It’s not right advocating narcotics here. I advocate freedom of thought.

I blocked my mind out anyway, which I now don’t mind doing whatsoever, but which used to make me feel disabled. I know a woman who was heavily into the opiates, she lived on a diet of them to drown her thoughts away. She related to me the bliss of ‘not thinking’. I now understand where she was coming from. In a trauma-riddled brain, each piercing thought can be like the ricochet of a gunshot, aimed at the bull’s eye of your inner core. I know the feeling. Our experiences can be upsetting and frustrating, what better way than to skip ahead of them with a morphine-based sledge and slumber?

A guy on my old Facebook account had a pottery business named Face The Day studio. I see this term as a philosophy. If the mind is the scariest landscape in the known universe, ‘the day’ is a close second. It’s so vital to be able to face the day. It can be a long one. Some people are morning people, some aren’t. From the perspective of the morning, the day can seem to lie there unravelled ahead of time like a long and winding road. To reach the pillow at night (12 hours clean!_clap-clap) can be a tremendous accomplishment.

I hope his venture is paying off. It looked like novelty product.

I dipped my foot into the ceramic world for several years, before I came across how to test the true worth of a sculpture. It’s dead simple: You toss it down a hill. If it’s intact at the bottom it means it’s survived the test and it’s a good sculpture. I did this with all of my sculptures and only a handful survived. This is because I like a fragile build in clay, like a clot of leaves. Someone in class made a gorilla’s hand once, complete with fur. Making fur, out of clay, I know! Take a bow son. I wouldn’t dream of attempting that. Did he use a fine-tooth comb for effect?

Rag N Bone

Because of my newly-acquired stance on ‘controlled using’ I was just quizzed by a member of apology class upon whether I was a real drug addict.

It’s a good question, as all drugs are to me is an aphrodisiac. I don’t take them to unwind, or to relax, or to socialise…the sole reason I take them is for sexual performance. Although in saying that, sex sober is like anything else sober…boring.

That’s what my boy Ste Farnham said, before he passed…that life is just boring without drugs.

I’m a sex addict, not a drug addict. They just go together, that’s all.

My stance on controlled usage sickens me, as a note to add. By this time I wanted total abstinence. The fish hooks are out and embedded in my flesh. My ‘pleasured’ flesh.

Just heard my boy Rick (not sure if he’s a stalker), rabbiting on about auras. Have you ever seen an aura? Are you familiar with auras? Why not ask your shaman to educate you about the ins and outs of auras?

Yes, I have seen an aura. Do you wanna know how I seen it? I stared at a child through a raindrop on refracted glass using magnification. Nothing to it.

It was almost as impressive as the translucent fumes I spotted emanating from my bin bag of trash one time after a handful of Supermen*. This was with the naked eye. No parlour tricks.

Basically, Rick, don’t be acting like you’re the only spiritual guru in apology. I been around the block more times than Jennifer Lopez. But I do respect your mad frog spawn sessions. And this is a guy, don’t you little munchkins forget, who, in his deep psychosis, sees a hobo hawking bats out of a cage.

I remember a ‘rag ‘n’ bone’ man from youth. Every Sunday morning, without fail, a bare-chested gypsy with a wheel barrow would tour the back allotments shouting at the top of his voice, “Any old iron!? Any old iron? Any any any old iron!?” Or he might have just been asking for rag and bone, it’s hard to remember.

Ewt for nowt, in his world. I wonder what he collected. Would he accept a used dishcloth, or a pair of second-hand underpants? Or a nest of chicken bones? Surely he had limits.

What did he expect? Jewelry, vases, masks and diamonds?

I acted like him several years ago, when I picked up a long sleeve of red clothing from a wasteland and told myself it belonged to a murdered girl called Red Jacket, who, because I remembered her from the grave, would protect me in the spirit realm for ever and ever. When she materialised finally after I eventually burned the damn thing out of drunken fear (which summoned the Devil, incidentally), she told me to go and f**k myself. Now something haunts me to the present day, but I’m not sure if it has anything to do with that ruinous rag. Maybe it did belong to an unfortunate. Where would I get the idea?

Horror movies, perhaps. I watched enough of them when I was younger.

All my spirits have gone wrong, the ones I wrote so lovingly about for years over the expanse of this website. I wish they’d disappeared, but they haven’t, they are still with me, only now they declare an obnoxious enmeshment of vengence, vehemence, and vitriol. My fears were once that they might turn from loyalty to nemesis and they have done. Word to the wise: Never trust a spirit.

Believe me, my home is like an invisible party every morning I wake up and the lot of them are nob heads. You would think that being a spirit gives you an edge, maybe of invincibility and intellectuality, a professionally grand example of the higher echelons of life-form, but, alas, no, they are mostly clingy, jealous, insecure, and dickweed. I’d much rather be a human. I don’t know why God made them.

*Supermen are a brand of old ecstasy tablets.

Spilling His Guts

I read a blogger yesterday who made a point of other bloggers spilling their guts in public when they had nothing left to say. I reckon he was dothing his cap to myself. My inner world is always turmoil, but I hesitate to go into that. Mental realms are hard to describe, and I don’t wanna give kudos to the toxic people who are lying in it with their legs up, rent free, leaving cigarette burns on my carpet and shit stains on my sofa. Let’s just say that they thought they would be major characters in my destroyed life, but instead they are forgotten artifacts flattened and stricken along the course of my success story. That’ll do me. Stay there stalker type.

I’m just keeping myself to myself, growing and maturing every day on the battlefield, my enemies lost in mimicry, copying anything and everything I do. The outside eye would think I was an adored trendsetter. They do this to strip my individuality. I don’t need letting know or not letting know anything about myself, I am in decent self-awareness and knowledge, no one can tell me anything I’m not already conscious of. I’m not a big head who knows all things, but, especially this year, I’ve done a lot of personal self-discovery and redoubled my learning.

This is all measured by the relationship I have with my schizophrenic ‘voices’. It’s awkward when noxious audio won’t ever stop talking to you, winding you up, pressing your buttons. It’s a shotgun conversation based on sheer hatred, and I have to minimise mine or I will end up just like them, bitter and twisted and…toxic. I wish to remain kind, gentle, empathic, and in control. I never lose my rag and scream or shout, although that is their goal. My best remedy is to stay calm and don’t react at all. I am coming into the truth of how golden silence can be.

So, what else is happening? Well, Paul Merton’s favourite politician got murdered. England went through. A welsh mountain I climbed last year caught fire. And a robotic surgeon performed on a live pig. That’s all I know, topically. I do wish the blog was more topical. I’ll request The Anonymous Journalist. But you can skip over to the news for a light-hearted piss take, can’t you, and form your own humble and humoured opinion. You don’t need my take on the zeitgeist, surely. I recommend Charlie Brooker for stuff like that. His screenwipe was the biz. 

I feel like a drink.

I might go for a couple of pints. Little money until tomorrow, pay day. Yes, I’m thinking about rolling with another 8 ball. Might be a mistake. Probably won’t like. Can’t get the stuff off my mind though. Writing about my cravings, temptations and aptitudes here at the spot seems like a more sensible idea. I can trust your honest opinion when you read over. For once in your life, don’t be such a spangler at every single occasion…I’m vulnerable presently though, after my 53 day stint. I can’t see me going another 53, or 90, or whatever it is I have been accustomed to doing in recent times. Sometimes I’m at the races and sometimes I’m not. This spree may not be all that. I plan to use, if not tomorrow, in another couple of weeks. The notion of ‘never again’, so usually embedded in my minerals, seems impossible at the minute. You never know, something might change.

It depends on the quality of the swag and the experience I have on it. It I get ripped off and its crap, then that puts me off for months and months. If, on the other hand, its premium quality grade, and I enjoy it, I want to go back for more asap. That’s the difference.

If you are an adult with kids who frown on drugs then please forgive me. I haven’t always sounded like a down and out crackbeat. I use to write about music and ceramics and art. Once I even wrote a bit of fiction. Back wayward when, I even used to be decent at it.

I used to watch porn a lot. One mistake one of these summer nights and that will be I still watch a porn a lot. Please Heaven, help me, I don’t wanna still watch porn a lot. It’s become embarrassing. Although I do still genuinely miss the women’s hairstyles. 

Back Intact

 1029.38+56(4)73^8⅞15=[[0]]8>54

relapse.acknowledged.heart.

soul.intact.conscience

forgiven.rebirth.announced

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Damn! I said. I knew. A storm was brewing. Lord, I have failed you! Only kidding. I just had a single day off, that’s all. Now I am back in the saddle and feeling clear-minded. I think I may have just gotten away with it. There was joy and peace at stake, as these are the commodities which I feel illegal drugs and stroppy comedowns strip away. Fortunately, I have maintained my inner emotions after frying my brain with overpriced dodgy white poison. The sad thing is, I want to do it again. I know this is wrong. I should be declaring never ever more, but a single day, after 53 off, is no great shakes, is it?

I’m proud of my latest spree, there was an exorbitant amount of growth. All that development doesn’t disappear down the swanny after one wrong decision. I keep what I can remember and apply it to my future self. We learn from our mistakes. We’re proud of our accomplishments.

I’ve just been opposed in apology class for this attitude. The challenger said I was justifying myself. You may well have expected tears from a fresh wounding, but I am well over any of that shame/guilt/remorse nonsense. Not saying that I don’t have a conscience like! But I refuse to stand weeping in the corner for a month until my biochemistry returns to calibration. I feel okay about myself, relieved even, the only thing that went wrong was my neighbours faking a kidnapping skit, trying to get me to react. I think. I can’t be sure. Sounded like a kidnapping (and worse) right next door. I didn’t pick up a knife weapon and charge to the rescue. Keep pushing me though…

Oh, and something crawled into my mouth too, when I was sat there monged out in high sexual tension, it looked like a parasitical mouse, I’m accustomed to being crawled over by creatures a lot, but squeamish things like that don’t bother me anymore. I just swallowed a glug of chilli mayonnaise to wash it down.

I wish I wasn’t weird like that.

Strange stuff happens to me, I don’t engineer it.

I run a clean, proud home. If my government base neighbours decide to inundate it with genetically-enhanced animals, do you expect me to pack my clobber and flee for the hills? That would render me with no abode, and destitute, whereby the targeting would ramp up. No. I sit there with the little bas*ards until I come down off the drug, then deal with them later.

Admittedly, it does get a little embarrassing when you’ve got electromagnetic moggies pissing all over your head, and you’re sat there playing with the canary in the coalmine. But it’s privacy (I wish). Nobody is watching (as if). Apart from the neighbours. And everyone under the floorboards. How can they see me? My schizophrenic voices (who needs them) apportion blame to an invisible camera crew (can’t invisible people have cameras?).

I don’t know.

But. Most importantly.

I don’t care.

Nothing is coming between me and my self-abuse pleasure thing. I’m aware that all this sounds like I’ve swapped true love for the wide path (shouldn’t he have stopped behaving this way by now!?) but it is what it is, I’m making no excuses. Giving into my needs, when I’ve spent years rebuking them, isn’t gunna knock me off kilter.

I’m barely out of psychosis, I’ve relapsed, I’m this and all that, but I’m not letting my eye stray away from the Lord. I believe that I am chosen for God and nothing can come between that. In years gone by I would be drenched in fear, wondering if I would ever stop sinning, but Christ, it gets so hard all the time, I think I deserve a day off now and again under the pressure of natural manly desires.

Sorry, anyway, for what it’s worth.

But I can still write (thinking is impossible sometimes), and I ain’t done that dirty billy or porn yet either. I been giving it careful attention though, to no avail. With the coke, although I hit it quite hard, I get a second chance at life. My mind returns after a couple of days in the sack. On billy, it’s complete wipe-out with no saving grace.

In saying that, I don’t mind having no mind anymore. When a conflux of mind readers are harvesting your third eye imagery into a computer, you tend to wanna close up a little. Give ‘em nothing, Malone.

Hope all well in your world.

Damn!!!

It’s still all over me this morning, I almost reached for my phone before leaving home. I’m justifying self-destructing in my head. It’s a decision I’ll regret, but I’ve always sought pleasure for most of my life, it’s really difficult going without it now. I know I must sound stupid, because I’m safe, I’m standing up to my enemies, I’m holding my own, and after the deed I’ll likely be a timid wreck who is unable to think, because his mind is blown open by expensive white powder.

I’ll miss you guys when totalled. It’s never the same when I return. I lose another little chunk of myself, it feels like. The writing will be harder, all the creative connections slightly severed, the keys clunky, all because I wanted an overdue knuckle shuffle with myself. My mojo doesn’t even work after priapism, that condition makes you impotent, not infertile, but impotent, yet it doesn’t stop me trying to achieve enjoyment.

It’s like lying in a bath of Fanta. The Holy Spirit is Fanta. I have all the Fanta in the world. Enough Fanta to be happy. I’m in that bathtub right now. But guess what? I’ve had enough fizzy pop for one day, I want a bathtub full of crisps. The crisps are an evil hooker. So I jump in the crisps. They’re lovely at first, really crunchy and cheesy, but after so many my mouth is dry and I want Fanta again, except I’ll left the Fanta, and it’s too late to go back…

Poor analogy I know, but it’s all I can say. I’m a sex addict. And that poison/toxin/drug is appealing jolly nice up the conk at the moment. I feel sorry for everyone having to watch me go through this, especially The Most High, who I suspect is grieved by my appalling behaviour.

Maybe I’ll resist. One never knows. But it will be tough, because I’m armed and dangerous, ready for the chaos. The wolves are calling…

Single As A Pringle Ready To Mingle

‘13aa1’7!2,^№+2.3304 > 2^[54._⅕^0]

^{blogger active/}

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^{thought pattern green lighted/}

^{justice in the human race/}

^{emotive competition/}

^{rare and plentiful resources/}

I can afford two 8 balls. Believe you me I’ve been weighing them up big time. That’s a quarter of an ounce of cocaine. Enough money, at the prices I pay, to keep me in the bare essentials (cigs, bills, beer and food) for weeks and weeks.

I could even buy a bit of clobber with any surplus, such as combat shorts, Kappa socks, or 4XXXL Slazenger T-Shirts.

Slazenger is the cheapest of the cheap, but it’s a nice fit, and if it gets stained on day one with Ribena, or pulped raspberries, or truth untold a girl’s lipstick, then it’s no great shakes is it. Ruining a £50 Weekend Offender jumper is different.

I could buy a hoover (really need one), a laptop (for graphic design) or a music station (to play jazz on). Loads of options there. But the finances, as depressing as it is going window shopping the day after beak, is not the half of it. It’s not a fraction of it.

It’s the pleasure. And the subsequent suffering. Cause and Effect.

If I engage with my devil in arms, a woman who leads me astray from next door, it’s a sordid activity steeped in sheer perverse pleasure all day long. When I finish, there are consequences to that pleasure. On the estate, primarily, but also in the wider world. I hear suffering all around me.

I think its because my perps get busy with torture and kidnap or whatever it is that they do within earshot to hurt me. I am helpless to intervene because the empty hollowness with follows drug-induced sexual pleasure reeks of powerlessness.

So I have to lump it. But it makes me wonder. Is the suffering I perceive, in my two days of psychosis which arises, a direct response to all the pleasure I have experienced. Can so much joy, well it’s not quite joy, but you know what I mean, go unpunished?

After all, it’s not fair, is it? Why should I be able to do that while other people work for a living, in sweatshops and factories and plantations and all that?

Think of sexually-repressed librarians, for example. They cannot give up their family or work lives and lug their junk around all day, can they, or flick their bean? So why should I get all the good times?

I’m in a very privileged and lucky position (jobless, yet sustained, with plenty of free time) to be able to indulge in the most simplistic of enjoyable endeavours for multiple hours upon multiple hours at a time.

When I go without, and resist, other people get to have the pleasure. They might masturbate for a harmless five minute session before work, or play tick in the park, or treat themselves to comfort food shopping. Do you see what I’m getting at, a cosmic scale of karmic levelling up?

Of course the whole world is not about me, but the small synthetic reality befitting my tiny bubble is. It’s about me and nothing damn else apart from hurting me.

Just thinking, that’s all. Does someone pay for pleasure, with pain? Maybe not even the same person, but others. Perhaps these energetic fields of human emotions are like a weather chart. Heatwave followed by storm. Sunshine followed by rain. Rainbows followed by hailstone.

Who knows? I been working this out myself. It would explain a lot.

Miraculous Escape

‘120’31≠_[9]79.0∫0011⁽¹⁾1<00.

I’ve had one or two miraculous escapes in my time. 

> Oh Lordy. 

> Just when I thought I was all washed through, that the game was up, I think it was The Most High who swept home and chaperoned me to a fresh beginning.

> They were serious situations, what I was snared in, life or death.

> On one occasion I was paralysed to my bed reading the bible, it kept swaying me from one state of aftermath to this or another remaining end result, success or failure, win or lose, live or die, whatever, destiny hanging on every word. 

> When the scripture was harsh with me, as it so often can be, I ploughed on and waited for a passage of mercy; which, thankfully, came.

> Other times I’ve been lost in woods, sodden from swimming across canals, nearly hit by trains, you name it I been there, from one perilous position to the next.

> One time someone had a blade pressed against the back of my head.

> A Mossad soldier.

> I can’t thoroughly recall, but reports are that I disappeared into thin air.

> When I was dying of an asthma attack I magically found a Ventolin inhaler which saved my life.

> It seemed to appear out of thin air.

“I love it when mental patients escape” 

> Classic opening line.

But not as much as a miraculous escape.

  

Serenity

After a fellowship group last weekend I felt serene for one whole hour. The shares and stories were positive, but I can’t attribute the reason towards this alone. It was just a thing. I walked home, sat there in my chair, and, despite the electromagnetic heathens breathing down my neck as usual, obsessed with every word and heartbeat from me, I felt not just a peace above all human understanding…but a serenity I’ve never experienced before. Someone had a reunion with his kids the next morning; I felt genuinely pleased about that eventuality. God was mentioned a lot. I don’t know why I felt so good about me, myself, and life with everything in general.

Maybe it’s because my neighbourhood has been terrorized by Mason blood for so long. That pesky Mason blood, and all its fearful secrecy…they think that a scream scares everyone away and clears the path for them to cause chaos. I had a spell of locating their pubs and going in to shout my head off at them.

I DECLARE ANY WOUNDED VICTIMS IN THIS BASEMENT ALIVE AND WELL!!! 

(or something like that).

 They responded by knocking on my door at half two in the morning. I shat myself a bit, once the booze had worn off, but as in most of normal play I held my own. It’s okay to be scared, but don’t rattle.

I’ve found joy in humour, that much is a given, I’m laughing at the strangest concepts lately. Calling it weirdly bizarre ain’t the half of it. I believe absurd is the correct definition. I love giggling to myself, it makes people around me panic. They try and interrupt my pleasure by approaching me and muttering any old shit. I was chortling in front of four ladies the other day. Surprisingly they left me to it. I couldn’t help myself. They habitually treat me like a maniac when I am lolling on my own. It’s almost as attention-grabbing as lighting uncontrolled fires.

The heathens clinging/clasping/grasping onto my brain energy for dear life reckon that my joy is their joy, and that they laugh along with me. Funny, but I ain’t heard anything. They just lie, unable to accept that I can laugh at something that doesn’t concern themselves. They try and make me laugh for hours and then turn nasty when I give them a lippy half-smirk, then changing their attitude and saying I shouldn’t be sharing joy with evil spawn. They want to take credit for everything.

I won’t try and describe them because I would have to use the words childish, fickle, stubborn and deceitful. Basically impossible. They pretend their own feelings and emotions, in order to influence mine. I’d call them kids, but that would be an offence to kids. But hey, that’s enough about them. Just so long as they are dealing with me, who can handle them, and not some sweet young teen from the estate, who wouldn’t stand a chance, because she’d be slitting her wrists as soon as they brandished their knives, which they customarily do.

They’re stopped giving me instructions anymore because they know I am growing into authority each and every day. I learned more about myself this year than at any other period in my life. 

Just. Go. Away.

Nothing Going On

 My cash flow problem is finito, so amen and hallelujah to that. The other day I had 15p to my name and no food in. I relied on a donated chicken. Now my funds are settled and I can relax, but with the sudden shift in the monetary climate comes the typical taper towards Class As. I can afford coke! Normally, as a creature of habit, the deal would have already been done, and I wouldn’t be sat here with you. But lately I hold my guns and say no. It’s sad as hell and a complete waste of money. Being poor has helped me be grateful for every little bit of finance that I possess.

I’d rather eat like a king and be merry on lots of fluids. I might purchase something sensible like a TV or a PC or a music keyboard, I don’t know. It’s only ever been pleasure tokens for coke for me, that’s all it’s ever meant; I’m not into clothes, I don’t drive, and home improvements aren’t my thing either. Maybe I could start saving up for a motor. I’m not really that bothered. As long as there’s something in my pocket, because asking people to help out, although I’ve been surprised by their kindness, isn’t easy.

> I wrote a blog about England striker Harry Kane being only bang average sometime ago. He proved me wrong on Wednesday night.

> I’ve made contact with my old NA sponsor again. He won’t like me drinking and I think he knows I hate the Steps.

> I had to lie down in the local park before. It was after a burger named after The Empire State. I was in a food coma. Numerous homies came over to check if I was all right.

> My girl from Peer Support has been admitted. No one believes her story. It involves evil scientists performing a social experiment. She calls all of her characters Head People.

> I call mine absolute tw*ts.

There’s not a lot going at the moment with me. I’m getting fatter, sleeping, and talking and writing. I do need some new trainers from somewhere, I’ve eyed up some Solomon for £87.99, and some Sketchers for £59.99, the most I ever paid for kicks was £165, but they were the biz. Most of my clothes don’t fit me anymore. I was never a designer logo fashion icon, but Christ I’ve looked better than this.

Toxic Puppets

 I’m in some kind of software program. I’m seeing lots of people in my mind who are reacting to my innermost thoughts with seething criticism. They exude negativity and hatred. Their angry faces appear on large television screens perched on the horizon, I also have figures running rings about my physical person. To simply label this phenomena as visual disturbance is a blatant understatement. The faces and figures seem sentient. They are slowly plodding on in their bid to drive me towards suicide. People have threw themselves under the hypothetical bus over far less. This has been on and off for over a decade, but constant every day for the last year. Off and on anything I can manage, but constant is different.

They are with me every single moment, chipping in and cutting away at the core of my natural brain processes. They are extremely hurtful and upsetting, like dripping poison to a normally vibrant psyche. I think I’ve done well to hang in this long, as their immaturity and silliness is quite unbearable. Their base psychology is foul. Their lies and their falsehood are annoying. Their mimicry is vexing. Everything about their head games is infuriating. They are everything I don’t stand for and more. It’s just sad that I don’t like them and they will not leave me alone for a spare minute. That is enough to do one’s head in – bad company, 24/7. It’s tragic.

It makes me want to reach for the white powder and introvert myself into sex addiction, for pleasure away from them. Only this makes everything 20 times worse afterwards. I’ve learned to cope with them much better by watching helpful videos online. They feed off my reactions, so I’ve learned to be still and not respond. I’ve always been this way, apart from on one or two occasions when I’ve been shouting into oxygen at the top of my voice, trying to scream some sense into them. All they do is fake smile and smirk and try to upset me by pushing more of my buttons. They eat at my table and sleep in my room, my mind sustains them, they cannot be without me, yet they torture me. If they didn’t represent pain it would be a laugh and a joke, I’d learn to get along with them, but they are foul wretched failures who use compassion as a weapon, nothing humane resonates with them.

I’m just getting them off my chest a little, because I’m carrying a lot around with me. If this was used on a child then they would grow up with severe developmental problems. I wonder what the bigger picture is about, as they won’t let me think. Despair, sure, but they act like they are afraid of something. They try and make out like they are the most powerful cabal in the world, the leader calls himself Lucifer, for crying out loud, but I have renamed them the Toxic Puppets.

And mere Toxic Puppets is what they shall forever remain.

Holier Than You

Just been to an AA meeting. As is quite usual of late, I didn’t get a chance to share. At times I suspect I am getting frozen out on purpose. I’m noticing surreptitious hand signals and thinly-veiled whispered messages. I think this may have to do with the gravity of my message. Peeps are unawares that I always tone down my testimony for fear of scaring people. I never lay it on thick. Plus, oddly, when I leave the room, people are referring to me as God, behind my back. I believe they are taking the Michael because I didn’t finish my A-Levels!

There are some very powerful people in my social circle at the moment, in apology. The hub was thriving today. Certain individuals have a very potent message and are very eloquent in putting it across. Nothing bothers us addicts, we are our own worst critics, we have tendencies for self-destruction, what is someone else gunna do to us?

I don’t mind taking a backseat and listening to everybody else, block me out. Suits me fine.

When the time is right I strike like an Indian cobra. Don’t worry, I don’t mention assassins, or black-ops, or who dares wins soldiers, or ninjas, but I would if I felt like I was being made insignificant by an overture of one or more persons squirting his/her/their smallness[es] all over me. How is it smallness, if they are powerful, you may ask? Because for every powerhouse here, there is a bullshitty faker too. Cause and effect.

I gently talk about me, higher powers, rock bottoms, euphoric recall, character ideation, anything that comes to mind…sometimes my mind goes blank and I forget what I was about to say. Some of them here are more passionate about recovery than I am, and fair play to them, they have all the buzzwords and trendy lingo. There’s a lot of ornate terminology in recovery. It was Harlan Coben who taught me how to snatch buzzwords from books and other sources and use them for yourself. The only embarrassing thing is if you repeat someone’s buzzword back to them when they invented it themselves. That way they know you stole it.

My saving grace in meetings, if I become unstuck, is talking to other people’s higher powers in the room. This is my last gasp desperate ploy if I feel like I am getting squirted over. I stole this tactic from Rufus May. Thank’s Rufus. He’s a hearing voices coach somewhere and he doesn’t know me so he won’t mind. If I did it in front of him, which I wouldn’t, I’m sure he’d notice I was ripping him off.

I’ve saved a lot of research papers from my years in recovery. I might write out all the lingo one day, and up my game in buzz words. They can completely shut someone down. Useful as a defence in case someone uses them on you. And they probably will, given time.

Because, despite helping the struggling addict or alcoholic, a lot of recovery is nothing but a load of I’m much cleaner (and better) than you.

41 42 43 44 45

Drawing The Line

So, I already know what you’re thinking. Did he buy the whizz or not? I’ll leave it for you to decide by the quality and content of my words. I shouldn’t give it acknowledgement by penning all about it really. What a loser I sound like. The idea would never even occur to a successful person. Whose first thought is I know, I’ll bomb a wrap of poison and watch adult performers employ hardcore sexual activity all day long? That’s easy – me! It’s a kop out from life, it passes the time, it’s deeply satisfying on a fleshly plane, you can indulge in all kinds of fantasies which don’t usually get a look in during the run-of-the-mill prosaic and almost suicidal 9 – 5 routine (the young energiser bunny boy with two older women, the elder gent with a teen, the threesome of mother and daughter, or two sisters, banging your average looking neighbour, or the boss…Christ, where does it end?). I find that the more awkward the fictional role play, the better the engrossing visualisation of it in illusion land. I’ve just seen a severely deformed woman in public, on my way here, no amount of makeover could make her sexy. Shame. No doubt, with some more extreme deviants, she’d get a look in somewhere.

I’ve been thinking about it. It’s dead simple. We crave harder and harder content. When I was a little boy though, I didn’t. Real contact with real girls was enough. ‘Titting up’ Kelly Swindley behind the church had me in a bouncy mood for days on end. ‘Snogging’ Emma Barr when she left lipstick all over my face was the same. Porn ruins all of this, until real contact becomes a poor copy of those studs and harlots going at it like athletes on the silver screen. It takes away all the butterfingers. There’s no dodgy chat-up lines needed, or expensive dinners, or appreciable social etiquette, like there is with veridical touch. Porn stars don’t have smelly breath, or sticky patches, or hard to undo bra straps, or problems keeping their booze down, and they don’t talk back about what can or can’t be done. Plus they always say yes. To everything. Including exploding juices all over the face.

For a short window though, with corporeal contact, the hormone exchange was magic. Just been close to a girl, never mind kissing her and fondling her, made the body respond. Sweethearts tenderly and shyly exploring each other on Wendy Jarman’s sofa became a brutal whipping video behind closed doors in a darkened room on your own.

I once downloaded a whipping video. I don’t know what the holy crap on a cracker I was thinking at the time. That was just cruel that one. You guessed correctly, she had make up on. I remember falling in love instantly with the submissive. That’s my weakness and relationship with suffering. Bit too empathic, if you know what I mean. I hated the dominatrix, armed with the bullwhip. And that was what it did to me, without me knowing it at the time…it offered me two intense contrasting emotions which I wouldn’t normally feel from Monday to Friday’s horseshit rat race conventionalities. Plus it gave me a stonker to play with. Sorry for being crass. I might have discussed this before. I was well ashamed of my behaviour later on, but at the time I had to have it, there was no conscience or guilt or anything. When it came to sex, I was a proper addict, but the only sexual connotation on that diabolical whipping fiasco was the nakedness. And that’s where I was tricked. If one woman is performing a transorbital labotomy on another, but they are both stripped bare, is it okay to jack off to? Where is the line drawn, and who draws it. What if you are incapable of delineating any such boundary, because its just simply the best pair of breasts you have ever seen, and you need to ogle more of them before you’re done. 

xxx_____👄👅_____xxx

I had a real issue of the content in my library descending into pain stuff. I hated that. We’re not talking about novel material here, but about the flicks I knew were perfectly legal, trustworthy, and consensual. My psychosis had a hefty part to play in my perception though. When torture from gang-stalkers entered my life, from adjacent residences to scare me, it entered my viewing habits too. The content was never the same. He was always stabbing her off camera or something, in my mind, and I couldn’t believe what I was getting swallowed into.

Let’s be clear. I’ve never knowingly watched a torture video in my life, and I never would. But SOMETHING TOLD ME that I was watching them, via deception. It was done very discreetly, however, so, to the unobservant eye, it would not come across that way. The audio was insidious, when I dared listen. I don’t know who hacked it, but I could definitely hear torment. Or was it in my head? Then again, when the f**k don’t I hear torment? 

I’d focus on the boobs and block all the other uncomfortable notions I was experiencing out.

Even Songs Of Praise can seem like a pain video when deep in psychotica. It just can.

I’ve come across some very unnerving footage online, when mentally unwell. People who I knew from real life would pop up in it, and worse. That’s why, after one and a half years away from this medium, we can both rejoice at my spiritual gains which have arisen from protecting my psyche against such devilish nonsense. Babylon Zoo said it themselves: Electronic information tampers with your soul.

>>> I would HATE to go back.

>>> I would LOVE to go back.

It’s one of them, isn’t it. Six of the first and half a dozen of the other. I probably will do one day, sooner than I would like to think. Not online, but boutique shop bought. The Restricted 18 stuff. You’ve heard me chat about the loop shop in the past. When you hear about guys who are 18 years clean topping themselves, you understand that this never goes away. It's lovely to say never again, but how many times have we spouted that untruth. That's why I was torn just on my very last blog spot, because it creeps up out of the blue and declares war on The Holy Spirit.

Torn

I’m tempted, after a break from poverty, to turn to the amphetamine, for just a nifty staycation at home with sexual thoughts a-going on. I haven’t used it for one and a half years. So, with the lowered tolerance, it shud be good, shudn’t it? Bombed down nicely with a swig of fizzy pop.

I can’t believe it. Why is this crap all over me now? I know it spells the end of my current spree, and the end of my latter-day life. My present flow of consciousness will wind up abruptly, I’ll be back in the dirt with no heating for a shower to wash the grime away.

I saw a sexy rock chick going mental with a fender the other day; her face was splashed with combat colouring, she looked like a fire breather, singing about lust over love on her video…I don’t wanna end up like her. I’m clinging to a woolly teddy bear when all around wolves and dragons try and get me to enter the realm of the painted doll. No, I like cartoon characters and sweets and games of pool and reading maps and other decent imperial highborn noble affairs, not sweaty private parts banging against each other whilst soaring off somewhere on illicit chemicals, getting fat in its carnal pleasure over and over again all night long. Then lying on the mattress the next day, suffering, thinking, ‘What just happened there?’

The idea of polluting my brain with psychoactive poison both pads me out with foreboding and galvanises me with short-fused excitable fever. How can this be? How can I want something and not want something at the same time? Can’t I make a choice and get it over with? Because I get sick of wrestling with the dilemma, I usually opt for the quickest and most pleasurable outcome, without once pausing to contemplate the consequences. That’ll be taking the whizz again.

Presently I don’t know, it seems so attractive to be encased in pleasure, I regret not making more mistakes in life, that kind of thing. But I know it’s wrong. It’s unsustainable. It’s a cheap counterfeit copy of dedicated love. It lasts only hours then its over with no road back. Without it, on the narrow path, the way is pleasant and fair-weathered, there are no ugly bumps or stop checks, or comandeerings or hijacks or flats or blowouts, the coast is clear.

There’s loads more I want to say but I’m feeding the addiction by drooling over it. I’m gunna have to try and block it out of my head. I’m not really appreciating the success of this day, by thinking of dirty speed. I’m up, I’m dressed, I’m in public, I’m sharing my thoughts…these simple things are impossible on a comedown from that shish, when getting scuppered by negative energies, unable to think a single concise thought. I shud think myself lucky and do everything in my power to continue this streak of luckiness, rather than toss it away like a ripped garment. Any old hoo, wish me the best in my decision making, and don’t make me look like a liar on my own blog…

Cipher

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Poor Buchanan

My phone ran out of credit so I’m using my tablet, which was a free gift from the council, to make my calls. I’m in a real crunch at the moment so I’m busy scrabbling for a life raft. I’ve already got my inflatable armbands on. Food, electric and cigs are the essentials in this strapped for cash crisis. I don’t think, apart from a dubious hardship loan, that I will be getting paid for another month. I might be taking a decrease too. I’m not too worried, things will work out. I might have to ask a Christian family for some spare food (I’m not fussy), and they are really so kind I can see them helping me out; plead to my brother, who has already handed me one generous bank transfer, for some cigs; and finally rely on the council for an energy voucher.

Put it this way, I’ve been thru worse, but it still sucks, I know. What am I missing out on though, apart from Empire State Burgers and onion rings at Wetherspoons? This way of living at least keeps me safe for the mean time (away from Class As), and humble. I’m very grateful for everything I receive these days. And I’m making plans about my flat. I need a new bed primarily. I’ve just had an hour-long conversation with my girl Ellen from the local mental health drop-in, which I haven’t frequented for a while. She wrote me a letter applying for donations from charities. Beggars can’t be choosers. Can’t wait for the new second-hand clobber to come thru.

On the psychic front, I’ve got several leads resulting from researching Italian clothing labels. I think there’s something going on with Canada and Italy at the moment, maybe a global conspiracy or something. When I started looking into Canada several months ago they suffered an airline crash. Keep an eye on Italy now. Here in the UK we had a train crash the other day. A now-deceased 60 year old driver hurtled into a stationary cabin after flaunting a red light. Accidents are morbid aren’t they? Could happen to anyone of us.

I generally use maps and atlas to find links in my psychic game. I have a big book on Canada which I bought from WH Smith. I don’t know where to begin with it, so I discern pointers within the text from a deck of cards. The answers are all there in front of us, it’s just knowing where to look. I’m rolling with the name BUCHANAN presently, because he was a character in one of my novels related to Canada and he is also a current member of their World Cup team. All I need is one word and I can find some connected places on the geographical charts. There’s probably a place named Buchanan’s Lodge, for example, so if I find anything I’ll go from there. If I was mobile, and if Canada was closer, I’d take a detour up there and investigate. I’m like that. I see myself as a PI in an independent movie, driving solemnly in the gatherings of a storm to a spooky island haunted by an intelligent spirit or something. You can picture the scene can’t you?

The tyres crunching as I pull up to a derelict motel…the weathered sign with a population count…the hostile, unhelpful, unfriendly locals…and a self-fulfilling prophecy that there is an investigative mission or quest burning in my curious heart 💗 somewhere…to find someone, to discover something, to unlock a secret…

I fit the role, I think, with my mac blowing open in the wind.

____________

And my beard.

And my whisky.

And my fags.

____________

And my fearlessness luxury branded lighter.