Ed Drew Narrowly Avoids The F**k It Button (FiB)

Seriously, thank God he avoids this

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Time and Weather Status: 13.15pm Wednesday

11˚ (neither hot nor cold to the bystander)

Cloudy with a fair chance of salt n pepper wingfat

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screaming heard nearby

 

Ed Drew lies on the floor, grass sticking to his elbows.

Ed Drew thinks long and deep about being a failure.

Cars drive by the railings, their metallic covers dazzling with reflected sun rays.

0~%01.” [no food intake] 0%01.”

0.%01.” [bundle credit on phone] 0%01_!1.”

Ed Drew’s perception of the park changed. Instead of being a sunny play area, full of warmth and fun, with picnickers sat around truffles and creamy cheeses laid out on towels, and dog owners flinging frisbees for their pets to catch in keen jaws, and hyperactive children buzzing as they jumped all over climbing frames, it became a kind of seedy rendezvous juncture for dope fiends and sex offenders. Before he knew it, darkness was settling over proceedings. Well, not quite darkness, but the shadowy gloom that preceded darkness. A chill accompanied it. Not a natural chill, that belonged upon the surface of the Earth, next to a lake for example, but a mildly howling one, that belongs under the draft of a corrugated door in some forgotten decrepit chamber.

As we know Ed has been madly in unrequited love with cocaine, which has ruined his finances and placed a hole in his nose beside other things. Now he thinks about pushing the boat out and going one further by introducing some amphetamine into the scene of play, which is cheap and nasty and readily available. This make-do drug will keep Ed’s solo partygoing adventures in the game for another 24 hours, although the effects upon the body are far more serious than snow, in his opinion.

Speed will make him melt away, and dissolve into the atmosphere in a sweaty blur of itchy mist, serving no good thing whatsoever. At the moment he has a chance of recovery – the prospect of a chippy meal garners in him a glimmer of positive mental activity. Just the nourishing idea of dragging himself to Cod Almighty (open till 11.30pm) for a large fish and mushy peas with ketchup draws a smile on his face. For days now it had been just him and the drug, in a darkened room, and now there was a real possibility that that filthy run could be extended with a ten or twenty bag of dirty whizz, plonking him right back there with no excuse for anything productive like tidying up or bathing or anything. If only he could zone out with a movie or something, or chill to some music, with a bottle of red, with his feet up, and a cheese cracker.

There was nothing on the agenda tomorrow, but an able mindset and fresh attitude could unwrap some purpose from somewhere if he didn’t kop out with the billy. Nobody knew what positivity awaited around every next corner. As long as you kept your chin up with an air of expectancy, that was the main thing. If one were in bed at war with the world, not coping very well and edging towards depression, then it was almost conceivable without reply that another bad day was due your way.

Ed Drew On Snow

Ed Drew has wasted the last of his money on narcotics. He got paid he spent up and that’s it. He is currently out of his home and sleeping in the park, just beyond the shadow of the maples and spruce. The odd dog walker disturbs him, asks him if he is alright. No, he replies honestly. They take no further interest. If he were stripped to his shorts they’d maybe understand him, sunbathing as if on a beach, but the dude is fully dressed, catching tan lines on his wrists.

He’s surprised he’s survived snorting that amount of Class A. It’s practically still falling out of his conk in brittle crumbs. There go his expenses for the next month. How he’ll survive now he does not know. A visit to the foodbank just won’t cut it. If only the substance wasn’t so rotten expensive. He could max out big time and attempt suicide with it. He wished he had a criminal scam to fund some more incoming flux. Another white water rapid of powdery surf would do just the trick.

And who gave one about croaking it?

Ed doesn’t know what is harder, living without money to buy a meal or living without just one more line. When he intakes a large one, his heart lurches, his bio rhythm pauses to rectify momentum, all the cliffs of the Earth retract to let the seas roll backward, the wind halts like solidified ice crystals, it feels like all this and more, until he realises its just him struggling with his own breath, tingling and rattling and quivering and shivering at home out of his head. It doesn’t last anywhere like long enough, he thinks.

And now it’s done, the pleasure is over, if only it could last longer, if only he had more brains to blow out and a wallet deep enough to keep them well blown.

Or, if only, he wasn’t addicted at all, and he could focus on being a decent citizen. A normal guy. Wouldn’t that be nice? Sitting at home with the television and family, instead of having no television and family to sit in barely no home with. Heating on, washer going, frosted glasses of drinks with refreshments, bit of company, where would be the harm? Except he’d trade it all for a bag of white, kids included. He’d walked over youngsters before to get his fix…begged for them back…then trodden over them again.

This time it was desperate. In his head, around his warped thoughts, he could get a grasp at it, but in reality, with no credit on his electric meter, it was a different ball park. Too early to go home and get in bed, too late to turn back and be a good man. Ed was caught in the middle but at least he was sober and at least he wasn’t smoking himself to death.

In fact, he was thinking about going to the internet café to write in his online diary. There he told the world of the chaos surrounding him, of the flames curdling within his undealt-with system, of his dreams and desires, his successes and his failures, his worries and his fears, anything he was able to not shy away from.

He would have to go unwashed, unshaven, and hungry. Usually, when he was sat there typing, he was nothing like that. In fact, last time he’d shared his life with the world, he’d been wearing his yellow Helly Hansen skiing jacket. Thinking on, he would now have to try and sell it on Ebay. Only thing was, he didn’t know how to use Ebay. And he liked the damn jacket.

Maybe he could write a letter to his little blood sister, who had all but likely forgotten about him by now. Perhaps he could take a long walk to see her on the doorstep where she lived in almost perfect ignorance of him, and claw back a morsel of her, if she was willing to butter him up with a hug or a smile. But deep within the dried-out wizened husk of him, he thought it a selfish idea. Couldn’t he rely on himself to clamber back to his feet? Only he and he alone had let himself arrive at such a cataclysmic low level, perhaps only he and he alone could muster the audacity to pray for a divine intervention.

Little did Ed know, that people were already praying for him.

 

Cam Lee Update

THIS IS AN AUTOFICTION BLOG

WITH AN ACUTE ANGLE

 

LEADERSHIP @ TEAMS.9’O’CLOCK

STRATEGY @ ISIAH WITH CHARLIE CONSERVATIVE CLUB

CULTURE @ THE OLD POST OFFICE COMEDY DUET

PEOPLE @ SARAH THE SEX ADDICT & PAUL BUZZER

PROCESS @ TYPING EVERY DAY 1000 WORDS

TECHNOLOGY @  ART TILL DEATH HALLOWEEN EZINE

 

Surveyed/examined/heeded

On the hour every hour

Detained at Clock View

‘A garden with windows’

Cam.Lee CAMERON.LEIGH

Manic depressive high or low

13.01pm 27 Apr 2026 sidereal time

23.5hrs Since last post

Weather’s decent again

 

Notes on Cameron Leigh aka Cam Lee

^{#ONLY TO BE OBTAINED}

^{VIA WRITTEN REQUEST#}

**^{PROCEED WITHOUT NOTICE}

^{TO NEXT OF KIN}***

Cam Lee was last seen throwing what he describes as ‘energetic throwing stars’ at the top of his street several years ago. He said he obtained them from a glowing hub of fire inside his belly. This is not the first time he has ever extracted metaphysical objects from his own bodily regions. He claims he was passing them onto a friend from a different timeline(plus and or)/dimension to help him out fighting off specialized enemies.

Police were called as Cam was shouting at the top of his voice “Show-Ryu-Ken, Show-Ryu-Ken,” or words to that effect, off a computer game from the nineties. He was bellowing this sound effect, waking neighbours and making dogs bark. He went on for twenty minutes. No eye witnesses saw any shiny throwing stars, but one said he seemed to be possession of branches snapped from a nearby tree which he was littering the street with and kicking up into the air with his white boots.

For weeks there has been concern about Cameron Leigh, as he has been seen out regularly at night alone and unsupervised roaming the close he lives in picking up random objects from the floor and dumping bags filled with empty jerry cans around the backs of sheds.

He also has a chronic ketamine problem. He calls it the ‘Eucalyptus Step.’ Authorities believe Mr Leigh uses a large amount of ketamine to channel his way across ‘the galaxies’ and bring back illegal specimens which he cannot describe. There is no sustainable evidence to determine whether he is making a physical gravity drive adequate for teleportation, or whether he professes to report that it is all in his mind.

There is no proof that Mr Leigh entertains the logistics of ‘building anything’ using YouTube tutorial videos, after a thorough searching of his downloading histories. Excessive pornography consumption was found evidently however although by all accounts every bit of it was hetrosexual and perfectly legalistic on the grounds that it was couple friendly. The only worrying video unearthed was a cat been dumped into a wheelie bin.

The patient was admitted into Clock View on a trial voluntarily basis and is to be treated with bouffee delirante (a puff of madness). He was exhibiting no signs of fear. Subject seems rational and approachable about traumatic experiences.

Signed: Dr Venison

Doctor & Declare

___Envisioned/glimpsed/noted

___Dougie Howsar DOO+HOW=?Cam Lee?

___Solemn/expectant

___13.32pm Meridian time 18^◦

___Precipitation-12%/humidity-54%/wind-13mph _comments

_{weather’s been fine for several days now what a relief no storms called Mr Marmalade or anything just pleasantly strolling in the sunshine not too sweaty underneath my arms making embarrassing visible patches like neither no chafing down my crotch or itching around my elasticated waist so yeah all good especially the best part eyeing up all the young chicks who are bare exposed and I mean like bare ass exposed showing cellulite an everything} ^{comment done}

THIS IS A REPORT FROM THE DOCTOR

REPORT FROM THE DOCTOR

Signed: Doctor Venison, chief quack in care and top statistician. Rio numbers check unscheduled non-available appointments check failure to leave secretive house arrest check clandestine top-up of novel agents (unprescribed) check pet murder check devastated reaction check

Sophisticated documentation to follow shortly, subject is due a formal interview with junior CPN (community psychiatric nurse aka KONA lookalike from the brain-twisting synthetic reality program circa ²⁰²⁴ HEADSWAP™). KoNA will enable resurfacing guilt/shame/all the assorted good stuff for subject to chew on—kop for—over forthcoming weeks – foreseeable – also newly enhanced assets since vacation, including enlarged breasts attached blue vein inserts glute implants mexicano style shake dat booty cosmetic facials vitamins masks tummy tuck etc. debut interracial online PAX-EM-IN.COM address will be sent in spam on occasion to begin with

Can we check what subject is raving on about by his term ‘garish doll’. What or who precisely is a garish doll and can it be associated with a drexl? Drexl unwanted tool not true. Drexl a dinosaur weapon not true. Drexl spelled drexyl/drexell.drexal together untrue

Attached cut in livefeed join accomplice immediately Pat lem who understands more about transforming KoNA into MISSION: GARISh DOLL is KoNA accepting or needing a visit cannot black bag n replace no stem cell cocoons or wizard sticks avail. See other alternative she will have his heart and soul on strings new MISSION:MISSION:GARISh DOLL:PUPPERMASTER/MISTRESS Bradley ask Frankenchicken to select a name for the project

d e * c l a r e

[1] I am sorry for my sins, sorry for my evil lions, sorry for my sins made through my sinful evil loins. ^{(shouted at full voice in public)} [2] I am tortured constantly by invisible energies. ^{(written in colours)} [3] I keep surviving these constant tortures by invisible energies and am made stronger in Christ ^{(shared with another person)} [4] I live in truth and fearlessness with indescribable joy and a peace beyond human understanding. ^{(Learned via christianity and buddhism)} [5] I am sick of the enemy squirting its smallness all over me. ^{(Including family & friends)} [6] I am a soldier fighting a war for the glory of God. ^{(independent army, chosen ones, enlightened ones, targeted ones, bright ones)}

A General Message From The Mainframe

eyeballed/observed/dutifully~logged:

Andrew Donegan ADD+ON=Dougie Howsar

Silent/Responsive

 12.28pm English time, 20˚4 blustery

(with a chance of peanut butter and Nutella pancakes)

Hal the SpaceCadet wishes to comment………pending

Permission granted

………pending………viewed………

"r they spredd edge2edge"

😜Humour detected. Thanks Hal. Obelisk has spoken. Obelisk is the new Alexa. Alexa is AI. Does anything more about this matter need clearing up. Nope'kay. Then I'll pack up my brushes.

Terms of service: To comment with complete respect and not dishonour the already laid-down commandments published herein upon the digital board. Privacy: To try and remain silent when insults and jibes enter the consciousness because if you can’t say a nice thing you shouldn’t say anything. Content Policy: No misery memoirs or suicide notes or mental health section papers of case files from social services.

the title of today's blog is Mind Kontrol

by ADD+ON=Dougie Howsar

no birth date offered/given/coerced out of

Mind-Kontrol ^{( u l} /  _{t r a)}

Directives: Activating Question: Could the Quartermaster General

Translate the Pile Driver’s poetic science fiction ASAP.

 *^repeat*_REPEAT*^repeat*

_{binary 8 string 00100111}

Wud hair gather after ethereal clan gate etc.

Did the subject heil?

Stationed @ Number 1 EmptyNimbus HQ (bunker)

Return²to²Sender: 

The^<3Only^<3Symbolik^<3Alternative

Investigative Operations

knowledge~ 4 _ / _ 5 ~dimensionstime_&space 

v o i c e . o v e r

[1] I am nothing but nothing except the whole light of the whole world. ^{(Sworn by, declared)} [2] This is the overseeing sentiment entrusted to me. ^{(Stated eloquently)} [3] When I emerge from the program in accordance with my gatekeepers, ^{(recorded for transcript)} [3.5] I will then be all but manifesting the whole light of the whole world. ^{(processed and documented)} [4] I inscribe this promise upon my heart. ^{(finalized UK) (date of report 25 bloomin’ april 2025)}

^{👄 APOCTO 📞 missed call}

Plausible Deniability

I discovered, during the previous post, that a make-believe character bearing no resemblance to anyone living or dead has been making threats to kill, right here in the presence of my online home. Where anything happens…

_including P . A . I . N

Some nutter has used my password. When your brain has no firewall or privacy, and the whole town is reading your mind, dang it not again! the passwords are the first to go. It looks like it isn’t just me who has fell victim to some nutter from school with a homosexual crush. I thought I’d drop by and leave my 2 cents here. Everyone else seems to be using it for a chat.

I’ve notified the scriptural consultant who said clear it up yourself. He reads the blog and tries to clear up the typos which trolls who have access to my watchwords routinely insert in order to damage my reputation.

So here goes.

Nobody on here condones or promotes physical violence.

Not everyone who writes under my name on here is actually me.

I’m a pessimist who hasn’t slapped a bitch up in over two weeks.

P A I N does not exist in this dojo.

I know several people who are equipped to write on this blog. We write any old turd, because we are a subsection of [clones ^& siblings] who are going through the same experience. There are more of us than we would have yourself believe. That’s why I talked to my sister the other week. We all meet online, where else do you think we get along, in a big white mansion?

Our anger raises with the crème sometimes. It’s difficult being us. We are heavily oppressed. But we have beauty in TEAMS. We belong, if not to each other, to the grand scheme of a collective consciousness, but only a beautiful one, to which some hardcore nutcases are omitted, because they refuse to tolerate beauty.

Zip Code

I discovered, in the previous post, during a little digging online, that there exists a small business in my home borough that bears a striking resemblance to something I do in private. Hang on a minute, I thought, how many psychic people can there be in one small town, doing the same thing as myself? Me, obviously, there’s one. But this other agency, operating as a connection to my main stalker’s father?

It’s taken me twelve years to ‘GOOGLE SEARCH’ my perpetrators. I don’t know why. I never saw the point. At first they told me they were demon’s blood, which I’m starting to slowly believe, so I got done wondering why would any demons give their addresses out live on the interweb? Nah, they wouldn’t, so there would be no point searching. But lately all my giftings and talents are coming back online so I’ve finally found a ‘voice’ with which to ask questions. BIG QUESTIONS. Like “Where the hell do you live, mother**ker!?”  This may sound absurd, but my main gang-stalking perp, a man who follows me around to the sounds of torture, a man who prescribes me all manner of satanic hallucination, a man who I can hear underneath my floorboards with his fellow agents, happens to live at home with his mummy and daddy, just like where he’s always lived, when he’s not hanging around my patio being complete and utter wicked arsehole. In fact, as me and you communicate right this moment, he’s probably taken a break to refrain from chopping up the hands and feet of an innocent helpless ritualised teenager to help dice the parsley for tonight’s supper; or he’s probably fluffing up the pillows on the sofa, or readjusting the drapes, or wiping his bummy after a pooey on the looey, or doing something else remarkably not extraordinary, like watching his computer screen and reading this.

I sincerely detest the idea of evildoers reading this blog. I wish they’d stop standing behind me and get a life!

And please, if you’re gunna rip off everything I do, at least give the projects imaginative titles. Why is everything about them related to me?

The plan was to expose my perp’s father now that I possess his online info but I’m not rushing into anything. The main thing, and I stress this, is having his address, so that if I fail at anything I do from now on, or I simply lose hope, I can exact revenge by turning up at his house to demand ‘red stuff’. I WANT TO FIGHT HIM, with weapons or without, on his own or with backup, in this life or the next, whether he has a cooking apron on or not. And now I can turn up. At any time I wanna.

So, that’s the relief. I’m thinking of getting a taxi there and just having a word. He never shuts up in the psychotronic realm, let’s see how chatty and brave he is when I’m up in his face with the loss of my sanity breathing down his throat.

I am shuffled irate lid-off madness bonkers incarnate to him. I am uncontrollable raw righteous rage against him. I am The Right fist Of God upto him. I am a bloodied little girl with slain parents, I am a monster who wants to decapitate him on his doorstep in front of the police, I want to bash his severed head against the concrete floor, I want to jump up and down on his bashed severed head, I want to keep hold of it for one hour and continue to stab it to make sure the plonker is good bye, then I want to pray quietly that this thing is finally over, I have become Devil against my Devil because his silly immature narcissistic personality involving heaps of egotistic sociopathic crazy f**ked up never-ending obsession with me and even more heaps of daft cowardly playground bullying antics would have ruined my life if I hadn’t of being strongest in my darkest hours and reserved this attitude towards him, instead of being his little bitch, like every one else who he sends fear to.

So f**k you. I’m coming sometime.

Research

  https://www.callupcontact.com/b/businessprofile2/A_B_BET_LTD/1403760

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MR JOSEPH FRANCIS CAVANAGH

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Ignoramus

I’m having a refreshing opinion change of my circumstances. It concerns my current gang-stalking trap, and it concerns the mind-bending acceptance of being tortured alive until death. Because of my indescribable joy, and my peace beyond all human understanding, I’m losing interest in such matters, sickle cell condition or not. When you read up on your situation online, and discover the extent of your enemies efforts to mastermind your downfall, you want to throw yourself off a motorway bridge.

They cannot be seen. They can walk thru walls. They are into evil torture and pain. In my case, they have built a seedy lab underneath my flat. That spells the end for anyone, surely.

Whether we are talking about military grade invisible/porous suits, or mind projections on the astral plain, they can both hurt you. I rang a terrorism hotline and they told me to gobble my meds up, plus the doctors in hospital were helping my projections, so the authorities are useless. In saying that, I am thinking about writing some anti-stalking letters to the police because my workplace is overrun with perps. One of them, who describes herself as a ‘power-hungry cow’ can maybe get a letter written about her first, as I know her full name.

I’m resigned to ignoring them. Give ‘em nowt. It’s the only way. For years I’ve thought they’ve craved peeling my skin off, because they are always saying that, but recently I see that they are mostly interested in me not been happy. A full-time recruitment of sleazebags, stalking someone for the full 24 hours a day, over and over, just to lower their mood. C'mon. I’ve given up fighting this so-called war, and am from now on attempting to fob them off.

The Shaolin monks advised becoming like a ‘gray stone’ when paying their pitiful and ridiculous attempts at provocation no attention.

Never stay down!

Front Matter

~*SOME FRONT MATTER*/

By Andrew Donegan

-- Hosted By ;}

Targeted Individual

Not In My Back Yard

Dissident Weekly

The Anonymous Journalist

^^ First Published by _$

Zombie Publications

Part of Anvil Samsara

A Wheel Of Life Group

23^rd April 2026 (the sixth circle) 

8.6 Therapy Speak .78

Mood is atypically upbeat 

?> Infringement Notice !@

If you copy and paste and/or screengrab any information on this blog you will be liable to nothing more than a slap on the wrist, as sharing of our content is encouraged. When Tom Cruise was actively reading our blogger’s minds, we were routinely offering him daily ideologies for the Hollywood industry, who had a hivemind uplink from our visual cortexes to run off. We believe that our ideas are immortal, and we believe in everlasting virtual shelf space. So knock yourself out. The work is bigger than anyone who handles it. Steal and collate. Hire an artist. Distrubute as an ebook or an ezine. We are a small cottage industry who enthuses healthy plagiarism. It’s how we got started ourselves.

0.0 Dedication 000

I would like to dedicate the next blog post to my old girl Sylvia at James Lee House. As far as I know, she has never said a single word about me.

+ Quotes #

“Terrorism is the tactic of demanding the impossible, and demanding it at gunpoint.” Christopher Hitchens

“I adore simple pleasures. They are the last refuges of the complex.” Oscar Wilde

“Is it better to live as a monster, or to die as a good man?” Teddy Daniels 

“Can my violence conquer yours?” Bollocko Bill

Not In The Mood

(_t_)*_**(_o_)*_**(_o_) error 77.7.7

{_t_}%{_i_}%{_r_}%{_e_}%{_d_}

[_t_]$[_o_]$[_d_]$[_a_]$[_y_]

I've been staring at the screen for twenty minutes. I usually call this 'White Voiding', but my screen has a different colour glow every day, other than white. I like it this way, I change the colour of the text too, I even add a watermark and effects, we've come a long way since Etch A Sketch.

I guess you've sick and tired of hearing about my problems. I've never told them to you. I always waffle on about the surface detail. Only whistle-blowers tell the internet their personal issues. So what I rant on about addiction. That's not me. There's a lot more to me than this blog suggests. About the only time I ever got serious is when I mentioned going to Heaven, doing the Lord's work, and the dungeon underneath the floorboards of my property. All the rest is killing time.

Sorry for being a prick sometimes. Give a writer a platform and he'll make a bell end of himself. That's the usual impression I get when I'm reading other writers, God this guy's a prick, nothing to do with his typos or his moose (missus), he's just a simple rounded bell end.

I usually pride myself on being not so judgmental. I'm a Christian, right? I was sent here to see the best in people, to lift them along, to idolize compassionate thoughts. So when all the dawgs in the drug clinic skit me behind my back I turn the other cheek. Now and again it gets to you. Their personal attacks are persistent. If Adam ain't pursuing the hurt in you it's Sheila; if it's not Sheila it's Amy; if it's not someone you know it's someone new. But I always let it slide. If I reacted, someone would snitch.

I've got every one harassing me very seriously now, going for the kill. we're talking old flames, teachers, neighbours and fellow addicts. Basically every one i am aware of in the community. my torment has to be the worst in the world. I've lived an especially afflicted life. i don't like to mention it because I like standing up straight like a warrior without complaint. i don't even need a heart of ice any more. in the past, before i could deal with all my negative emotions, i mistakenly believed i needed a heart of ice (or stone) in order to stand again.

The last time I wasn't up to my mission i felt morose, why do I have to live in a time of fighting? Hasn't all the fighting throughout the globe already taken place? They have always been fighting, I saw a long list of battles and dates on a Zeitgeist video, why haven't they sorted their disputes out yet? Will there ever be an end to the fighting?

Now I feel privileged to be a part of the fray. That's a part of the fray, not a prat of the fray. Not every one has the minerals to make it this far. What else is there to do, watch Netflix all day? Would you like someone else who hasn't got a jar of glue to fight for you? Someone who would rather watch porn than put his credit at risk for the Big Man? Go and find him.

See how he faces multi-faceted hallucinations around the clock. Sorry to come across as slightly bitter. I'm not. But he might not be able to cope. And if he can't cope out here then he likely can't cope in a nuthouse. Defo not a warzone.

< i CAn COpe anYwHere BRinG It ON >

Oh No, Not Again...

I shared something deep and meaningful in apology the other day. The topic was raised by something someone said before me, something about not wanting to be here. JOB 10:19 If only I had never come into being.

I’ve known about this bible verse since school. It has always resonated. I ask myself the question, baring this in mind: Would I like to live my same life again? Exactly the same life.

Totting up the pros and the cons, the answer would have to be no. There’s been loads of magic, don’t get me wrong, but the bad times outweigh the good ones, I feel. I couldn’t bear to go thru all this agony again. Granted, it’s made me the person who I am today, and today I feel fine, great even, a warrior like, but the process to becoming one involves some rare stunts dude! Involving sharing a bed with rats and tarantulas sometimes! Could it get any more painful? And that was the easy part of the trials and tribulations which have made me…

I’m torn if I’m honest, because saying that I wouldn’t live this life again makes me feel like a pessimist who’s had a boring experience. The psychosis in later years takes the boring part away. I was too busy thinking on my wits to be bored, or depressed. I’ve probably been more mad than I have been sad. These days I tend to be more morose than lively, as I’ve calmed down all my anger and don’t do hatred. What I’m left with is indescribable joy and a peace beyond all human understanding, which are both under constant threat from the modern world, the flesh and the devil. It’s super difficult keeping hold of certain commodities once you understand how priceless they are.

Love. Hope. Joy. Peace.

They don’t teach you about these at school. Or university for that matter. I had to virtually lose and recover them myself to discover their true worth. It was harder than a death in the family when I embarked on my pilgrimage to reclaim my love and hope towards the end of last summer. The experience left me emotionally drained, depleted almost, I dropped everything including alcohol and nicotine and was left physically hobbled in a state of sober, irrational humour, laughing breathlessly at things I had never previously found funny. Most of this was nerves.

The situation of me laughing at nothing was starting to grab people’s attention and they began ringing the police, saying I was responding to unseen stimuli, in a vain attempt to get me hospitalised. My laughter is a dangerous game in pubic, it is commonly hated by the bitter snitches who can’t handle it.

In my more paranoid days, I believed that the sound of laughter released secret spy creatures from weaponised cameras to investigate the origin of the sound. Just as laughter occurred, I would see little beings appearing in my peripheral vision on cue. Seriously, just as screams of anguish affect us enlightened ones, our ripples of jovial happiness affect the dark side.

But don’t let that stop you giggling! x

Someone Else's Lie

I been perving around the blogosphere and seeing nice happy pictures of every one. What they are doing, what they are eating, posing in front of the camera…all well and good. That’s what I need to do, methinks. I need pictures of my life online. But isn’t that what FaceBook is all about? Hmm.

I lost my dongle full of piks. Gone is the notorious ‘fishing’ picture, when a young fisherman catches his first tiddler. They’re classic. Gone (okay, they never existed) are the BBQ snaps, the glamorous wedding snaps, the New Year’s Eve snaps. You know what I mean? So many pictures feature a lonesome writer. He might be hard at work making a performance out of a new profile pik for his new book, or he may be at the top of Kilimanjaro, but usually he is alone.

I want to be involved in polaroids where I am not alone.

Why? Because I’m a family man, a people pleaser, and I love human company.

How much fun can one have on his orher own? I would say it is strictly limited. I’m craving Christmas, and dinner time, so we can take loads of snaps with me at the head of the table, craving the turkey in a paper hat and pulling crackers. Except no one will be there. Only me. Unless I get a lucky invite somewhere. Sometimes I go to a homeless shelter for Chrimbo dinner, but it’s not the same,

I know you’d love it if my blog was changed up, and I started posting holiday snaps of me and the moose (missus) and the kids. Wouldn’t that be sweet? Frolicking on the beach, playing around next to the log flume, dining out at world famous restaurants. Even doing nothing, just standing there being with each other.

But they don’t exist.

It’s just me. As a lonely soldier in this lonely war.

I had a bit of company last year in the form of dark spirits, I still do, but I burned some effigies related to them and released myself of their starkly negative influence. Now, because of my last remaining residues of sacred light, I am opposed by certain forces wishing to slam shut the gateway to Heaven. I always have been picked on, all my life, only now they are more insistent about their persecution of me, maybe because I am so close to stepping into the fullness of my destiny. They rant on about decimating my angels and leaving me hopeless, but alongside me too, simultaneously, is a vivid awareness of indescribable joy, and so too a peace beyond all understanding.

During this most recent season I’ve found myself over the harrowing grief of middle-aged serial relapse and planted squarely in a glen of fun and quiet. I’ve been giggling to myself a lot, at ridiculously silly concepts only I in the world can conjure up, and I’ve been feeling warmth and safety and security and inspiration from normal things in normal circumstances.

As soon as I achieve a state of momentary nirvana, I get “messages of desolation broadcast into my head from my handlers.” Yep, I receive all manner of urgent voices and hallucinations from evil beings who are determined to stop me from experiencing a moment’s happiness. This is what lets me know that I am firmly chosen for God’s Kingdom. It seems that I cannot even share a giggle with myself anymore, when I make myself laugh. This is not kosher with the thought police.

So yeah, I’m hangin’ in there, but I would say that I’m having a few niggling thoughts about returning to my spiritual vomit, pornography. I think its unwholesome spirit enters my heart during the course of a season randomly and I start entertaining ideas of unruly practices which endanger my holy advance towards salvation.

I tell myself that nothing is worth anything, and that this is boring, but in reality it is an idyllic and a perfect and a sweet and a tender experience compared to the catastrophic ravages of relapse. Each night can be hard, in the face of mind control technologies, when my operative neighbours effectively place me in the epicentre of a governmental base, or spy camp, where I have no privacy and all the rest of it. Pour me another one…

I give up on my mission [THIS TIME NOooo Surely!!!], and partake in the devil’s delights because I allow him to persuade me that I have no other option. Oh I don’t know, I’m writing about bulldust, I can’t afford to take my eye off the ball here, it just feels nice if I can at least TALK aboud it, if I can’t put my hands all over it and molest it to death. But the thing is, I’ll talk myself INTO it if I’m not careful. And then it’ll be too late.

So just to conclude, I WON’T BE relapsing and returning back here with bad news tomorrow, I’m still being a good boy, drugs and self-induced sexual pleasure mean becoming spiritually bankrupt, whereby I can’t even keep a blog ticking over, or the vultures at bay.

Just moving on quickly, and forgive me for changing subject, but I am interested in the name

A l e s s a n d r o 

at the moment. This is a name relating to the country of Canada, who I am currently investigating as a side project whenever my psychic giftings see fit. There was an air crash there last month which I believe was a result of my investigations. I am tempted to type in the name now on Google or Bing but think I will wait until I am in the right frame of mind at home and enter it into my mystic impedimenta which I possess and am proud of. My clairvoyancy kit, if you like. It’s quite simple really, but more interesting than a quickfire internet search.

After working on the Madelaine McCann case, at home, in my spare time, as a matter of personal interest, I have now moved on to something seedy happening on this strange continent. I know nothing about the Elite’s goings-on with children, it that’s what you’re thinking, I don’t care who runs the world and what they get up to just so long as I can get on with my mission, which is nothing to do with anybody, especially not them, fraudsters and paedos they most probably are.

If I have a problem with the elite, represented by my local council, I turn up at the mayor’s house with a baseball bat, not write a letter.

And if you have a problem with this blog, I’ll turn up aty your home too.

More about my not so little investigation later.

Until then, try and enjoy life. You might be one of the lucky ones.

Apology Green Room

This is what I call the canteen in the drug clinic. One minute there’s a drunk kicking off over a brew from ‘keccle’, pass me that f**king keccle to make a f**king brew, (or batter), next we’re getting schooled in a master class about sociology and psychology by a tutor who has just finished for the day and is casually enjoying an off-the-record debate with some of us riff raff while on the way to her car. I’m sorry for referring to myself and my acquaintances as riff raff – scum – but the other week one or two of us were performing armed robberies on the corner shop, and stepping over our own kids in the Gutter Of Neglect for a bag of powdery white crap. _{Anything white for my conk.} Now we think we’re intellects because we’re rubbing elbows with someone who has two degrees. And, as an unusual by-product, some common sense to boot as well.  

I realised, while engaged in informal apology behind the scenes, that the dynamics of a social gathering play an important part in how people act. Never have I being so surrounded by superegos. They are everywhere. The smaller the person, it would seem to me lately, the more power hungry they are. It’s power this and power that every which way I turn. For me personally, something so temporary and fickle as the concept of power doesn’t occur to me, or, if it does occur, it’s jokingly.

For instance, that irate drunk who only wanted a calming brew ended up getting arrested by police who were called by staff. He wouldn’t leave the premises and got shirty. Who knows, an AMPH (Accredited Mental Health Professional) (repeats the word professional sounding _exasperated) might section him from the holding cell and deprive him of his liberty for six months or so. Every time I get arrested the AMPHs come out to see me, papers ready. It might be the same for him. Sectioned over a brew. I know the feeling. I get sectioned over things that don’t happen as well.

It was a debacle. Think my younger brother, who dies. Think George Floyd, who dies. Think rubbernecking shutterbugger who loves watching people becoming physically overcome. I’m not interested in a takedown, I'm an apologetic gentleman why would I be? but the staff threatened to lock me in the canteen green room so I couldn’t interfere with the procedure, just in case I turned violent. My main nurse locked me in a car one time, while she picked up my medication. I suitably got done with a case of claustrophobic paranoia and vowed never to let anyone ‘lock me in’ anywhere ever again. 

I'm locked-in quite enough with sleep paralysis every night. Damn my neighbour and his thru-wall maser gun. I might knock for the grunt and slay him.

I think they thought I was going to stand up for the drunk.

The police just kill you pal, what can I do? Not get involved is what. Or call more police for the police, I don't know.

Back to the power struggle. To the untrained eye, it might look like a normal conversation, with people taking turns to chip in with nuggets of wisdom, all friendly and courteous and polite: To me, however, it is anything but, rather a dog-eat-dog verbal fight to the death full of underhanded insults and bribes, until someone feels so mentally wounded under the surface that they clam up or walk away. Last one left standing wins. It’s people showing off knowledge rather than sharing it, telling long-winded jokes just to keep the limelight on them for a further three minutes, laughing at other’s mistakes instead of compassionately correcting them, and a whole other plethora of insider secrets far out of my own gullible and easily-led understanding.

Since when did simply ‘talking’ become a means contest?

Call me a lamb to slaughter. I’m only just now picking up on the ins and outs of the trade. I think I’ll continue to blank the power hungry vultures and stick to being open, reasonable, honest, and creative. Instead of simply being fast on my feet and snide.

It’s beautiful, the way they can’t make you like them, and the way they can’t be like you.

Thank God for that, at least.

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