Failed Trip/Returned Seed

I didn’t go camping last night, I chickened out when my arse fell off at the slightest touch of rain. Main reason was lethargy, and lack of equipment. The idea is now firmly lodged in my mind however and I plan to purchase a tent soon. I can’t go camping out in my big oversized jacket, no matter how snug it is.

I didn’t regret it when waking up bright-eyed at two in the morning. It’s bad enough in a comfy flat. Sat under a tree, exposed to the rain, in pitch darkness, with a headful of horror books and movies, ain’t no good surely. In a tent it’s bearable because you can snuggle up and feel safe/protected from the night.

It was the drink talking. I was on whiskey chasers yesterday, an idea which doesn’t usually even occur to me. And I was inspired by Natasha. She’s a service user in Pathways who lost her only child to social services. She was doing really well, over a 100 days, then relapsed for six weeks. I could see she had recently self-harmed. But she is bouncing back by a five day excursion to the Lake District. She turned up to apology in her camping gear and that’s what got my brain churning over. She looked like such a free wayfaring spirit. So cute.

I don’t know much about portable cookers, but I know enough about camping to deduce that chilli beans and sausages are essential under the moonlight. I’ll try again when I’m not half-cut. A torch, firelighters, a good book, water or pop…I’m definitely gunna look into it. I’ll stay local at first, and then maybe venture further afield. But you know what I’m like, don’t you really? Always talking bollocks. I never get around to anything. That’s why I intended to make a burst for it yesterday, before I talked myself out of it. Which I eventually did do.

The seed of re-using is back again. It came from erotic dreams last night. I’m always gung ho about it after such lewd affairs on the astral. I could get a 40 whizz bag in the morning and sit there all day. I’ve had to adopt my higher self to overcome carnal compulsions so far. The battle is only ever half-won, as you are already aware of. Yesterday I wanted to go and spend the night outdoors; today I’m thinking about sex. See the difference? One is a fulfilling hobby, the other is a destructive behaviour.

For me anyway. Please don’t let my own personal afflictions somehow reflect upon you. You might be in your twenties with an active interest in porn, wondering what it is I worry about. Full respect. I would just plead with you to be careful that you don’t end up middle aged with nothing left to live for except it. Still, so what if that does happen, then where’s the harm? All I need is porn, I got my porn, I’m half-decent at being satisfied with my porn. Raging success bro. But on a deeper level you probably won’t be. There’s so much more to life than naked performers on camera.

Porn always made me depressed afterwards, from the beginning. But it was so titillating, I always returned for more. Now a part of me sees it as just people being stupid, playing around with oil and toys. It all feels amateurish to me. And because I live in a <permanent state of psychosis>, it’s not long before the videos become part of my condition. The women will start giving me instructions, or making more eye contact with the camera than they did at the real actual time of recording…the portals will open and I’ll be made very unwell, all in the course of a single afternoon’s entertainment. When I was younger the porn houses used to be called Evil Angel and Diabolic and other heathen names, and with me, and the flowery tendrils of my contagious ‘illness’, it was easy to see why.

  

Not Glamping

🌋⛈65.74^??!!_{8₽₾₿⃝9.32XX}0./tHeonLywayisDiscourse

.0_XX^03X.9⅙⅍₻₵!!^??48.75 spoKenLiKeaTrueHooker

^{great-news.revisiting-my-childhood.} _{tonight-hopefully}^.

_{camping-out-in-my-oversized-wasteman-jacket.}^{no-sleeping-bag.}

^{pex-hill.widnes.devil’s-chair}_wear-gr_{een-and-red-for-camouflage.}

Pex Hill is a quarry in my home town. It’s a bit of a wilderness considering the rest of the state of affairs; chemical factories, canals with three-eyed fish, scrapheaps, and last but by no means least the Granox, a place where they burned dead animals for Holy Smoke’s sake. The smoke was black and miles across. Whenever we went to Wales, or anywhere out of town, we could smell the Granox whenever we approached Widnes/Runcorn bridge, perched at the entrance to the town.

People used to say, “Do you know the way to Widnes?”

We’d reply, “Follow your nose.”

People identified the town with the odor they sensed miles before arriving there. One historian called it a ‘poisonous hellhole’. It was also described as the dirtiest, ugliest, most depressing town in England. We are known as wooly-backs. But it still beats being a scouser. Or a manc.

Anyway, yeah, I’m camping tonight. I think? Out in nature. Let you know how it goes. That is if I don’t bottle out and change my mind before tonight.

Lousy

I’m drunk. I hate to admit it. I’ve only (only) had six drinks though. That’s not a lot, is it? Or is it? I don’t feel drunk, I feel sluggish and low energy. These meds, I swear, they’re dispatching me. And what am I supposed to eat, a low-cal salad? Sushi and humous? Me is thinking chips, and they better have a bed in the restaurant, so as I can collapse onto it once my belly is abounding outward, and not have to walk home, and make some quick zzzs before another phatty evening meal. So it’s here (glad to meet you), chippy, pub again for topping up, then home once more for snuggles in bed with no one. How lucky am I? It’s a hard life isn’t it?

I’m so tired recently, I debate leaving the flat. What’s the point, if I’m treading the pavements in tired peril, sauntering from one location to the next? Shouldn’t I be running, full of the fitness of tiptop health, all adrenalined up and ready for anything? Bobbing up and down, bouncing, up on the balls of my feet, willing to engage? Instead I’m flat out brother, it took tremendous effort to make it here for you, and you already have an inclination of how important you are. Tremendously important, that is. Tremendously.

Still clean (handclap of applause there please). Still fighting. Still got the peace and the joy. I might nip in the cinema and watch Spiderman. That franchise is pretty impressive to me and I appreciate its light-heartedness. It’s a latent romance, at heart, I like that. It’s funny the way he never shuts up talking. It doesn’t matter what dire straights he’s in, his motormouth always gets him through. He’s a personal commentator upon his own experience. He does it in real time, even when the bad guys are still on his tail. It’s fascinating to watch. And, uh, listen to.

If I frequent the chip shop before the movie, then it doesn’t take Sherlock to deduce the conclusion: Asleep in the seat before thirty minutes have passed. They’re so comfortable the recliners aren’t they? Nah, it just doesn’t make any sense, does it? The chippy and spiderman? As a plan, like? Where will that take me? And this is on a good day, when I’m out and about in public. You should see me when I can’t put the bins out.

Nothing Doing/Retired

(🌉)(🌁)26?:(#₃₇).84“⁵₀₀₂;”05,^0-9!~X382XX016?:

(X#X₃₇₀).80014“X⁵_0XX0201;”01105,^000-19

!~XX3838!~X_xxX38_xx38_xx!~X_xX_x383_x8

gamble.gambit.gizza’cuddle.

graffiti’s.all.over.the.lavatory.wall

the.phoenix.must.burn.to.emerge

ﻶﻹ𝼀ﻯ𝼂𝼃𝼃𝼂ﻯ𝼀ﻹﻶ€ = _princely 22.2   

Eyeing But Not Buying

I just bought a DVD player. Then I marched to the loop shop for DVDs. But I changed my mind. The filth wasn’t filthy enough.

I could try the city store, for stronger content, but I think I might be happy watching regular movies, if I can locate them, as the supermarket has stopped selling them. It’s all streaming now.

Just waiting for a second hand television. I’ll get a set-up going in the bedroom and maybe tune into an old box set to kill an hour or too. Sounds like fun. I haven’t watched television, apart from soccer games in the pub, for several years now. 18 months of that has included XXX material.

I’m currently free from it. But that then was a close call. If her boobs had been a  little bigger…

My initials are A.D. Appropriate Daddy. I can’t be seen talking to young girls in Maccies, helping them with their self-harm shenanigans, if I’ve been sat up all might frothing at the seams of the mouth over their likenesses on camera. It seems like every young chick has a decent rack and an exposed naval jewel and a juicy behind, but it’s no excuse to go raiding the eye-level buy-level shelves in the sex shop, and filling up one’s psyche full of indecency for the foreseeable.

Hang back. Don’t jump in. Most of it is crap. Proper bullsh*t.

I agree. Hardly any of it is executed exactly how I would like it to be. It’s mostly silly vulnerable girls rather than hot experienced women; I’ve had enough – and then I’m stuck with that immature imagery in my mind forever, making a mockery out of my recovery. I think I’ll stick to functioning well on a daily basis, instead of with a head full of shame and guilt. Yep, that sounds better.

Value your life, I hear a positive voice say. God has fashioned me into a warrior, so that, despite the ever-present hum of toxicity from the enemy, I can rely on a profound sense of inner strength to ply me through ceaseless adversity. Moreover, I find a break in the proceedings and laugh to myself at the inaptitude of their dark plans; I realise that when left alone I operate on frequencies of peace and joy. Solitude for me is character-building, but I have multiple opportunities in the week to share meaningful fellowship with likeminded associates. These are small but valuable pockets to talk openly about what I dare – there is no shortage of listening ears.

I have some more cooking to do, so I have to dash. And I have a great book to sink my teeth into. If you spare me a thought later, like maybe when you pop back in for another visit, at least it will be noble. I won’t be sat on my arse bashing the bishop to porn: I’ll be riding those pearly waves which arise from a righteous mind (at least for the moment), and pursuing the resulting freedoms which emanate from such merrily-stuffed bounties.

I don’t think I’ll be wiping out just yet. 

Collage Doodles

Roar Machinery

 

Body Bundle

Not porn Again

I just nearly popped into the ‘loop shop’ to peruse some not-so quality adult content DVDs. I haven’t even got a television. I’m drawn there like a dog to vomit/fly to turd/moth to light.

The loop shop is the sex boutique shop. I call it the loop shop because no matter how many years go by I constantly find myself in there eventually now and again. My deceased granddad frowns every time I enter. It’s not enough to put me off.

It was curiosity that killed the cat.

I thought I’d drop by here before I make my decision. But what choice do we actually have? We already know what we are going to do. There goes the illusion of free will.

I might be asking for a particular actress, if the ‘wall of filth’ isn’t up to scratch. I know she’ll satisfy me with her ample bosom. The only thing is, she might take three working days to arrive. And she’ll be with Pee-wee Herman, instead of Mr Big Buck. Can’t have it all can we? I’ll have to cope. What substances are assisting us?

Have you heard the state of me? I’m in for a penny/in for a pound already. This is before I’ve stepped near the place. Let me assure you, once I vacate the premises, there’ll be multiple females and possibly a male stuck in my head. They’ll want purchasing. But like I said, I haven’t even got a TV. But people have promised me one, in exchange for small donations. Flatscreens.

Hurry up and deliver, I need it for porn. Not to mention a DVD player. Do they still sell those? Probably not. So I’m stuck then, aren’t I? I can’t believe I’m spouting off about porn again, do I ever not, it’s been over one and a half years, I should opt to choose building on that.

But I’m horny. I’m lonely. I’m bored.

Please accept my apologies for not being interesting. I’m having a bad day like most days.

Hanging On

I’m thinking of Jack Reacher hanging off a fire escape as a stolen car whizzes barely inches underneath him, then jumping off and beating the driver up. Usually a headbutt to the face if we are lucky, before he walks away.

Random Excerpt: Reacher headbutted him in the face, and then walked away.

The fire escape is one of those metal staircases that rise up to the 1^st floor, you can reach up and pull them down, yet they support your weight if you hold on when they are ascending. This scene reminds me of Gorgeous George ‘The Beorgeois’ Clooney holding on for dear life to the slippy mast of a sinking ship in Perfect Storm (2000). The last thing he’d be doing is still holding on.

Michael Myers also holds onto something in one of his many gruesome flicks: He lowers himself down one-handed in a reverse pull-up situation from a pipe located in the rafters to surprise an unlucky victim into believing that he has just appeared from nowhere observable. He has a habit of showing up out of the blue, doesn’t he? You’d think his massive gleaming kitchen knife would give him away.

King Kong too likes to hang onto big trees in the jungle while he’s kicking Tyrannosauruses in the mush pot. He swings in from the distant horizon to do so. At least he’s unmistakeable, so you don’t miss him coming.

They’re not the only dudes hanging on. I’m white-knuckling the temptation not to use narcotics. Nonsense! I always say that. I think I’m approaching the clear. That means I’m losing the compulsive inclinations to pop pregabalin like smarties. Maybe I’m finally growing up.

Just a few beers. Dead honest about it. I’m a smoking, drinking, gambling mess. But I do still adhere to the Narrow Path. I function. I believe in the Holy Spirit. So far, as much as I can tell, I still might be going to Heaven, you know. That’s how good I’m doing at fighting my demons, that I retain an unshakeable faith in returning to the celestial realms. Whenever you hear me doubt my own destiny here, it’s time to research different blogs with more fulfilling whims of hope. I don’t wanna disappoint ‘ya.

Tarzan is good at hanging onto things, isn’t he? Like vines ‘n’ stuff. He lost a fight to a gorilla in the movie once, but he lost well. Dying better on the ashes of his fathers and in the temples of his gods and all that.

QUOTE OF THE DAY: “When you have reached the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.”

PLUS ALSO TOO: “When you are going though Hell, keep going.”

Okay, that’s me for today. I’ve got to rush home as I’ve got some important cooking to do. I’m making a massive curry for myself, exactly the way I like it. I have two kinds of curry I cook, simple and complex. The simple one, like today, is just meat and sauce, with prawns; the complex one has a plethora of added ingredients I bulk up the meal with, but it takes a lot longer to prep. Secret extras are yogurt, lemon juice, and coconut.

Not that cooking is interesting…

At least I don’t think…

That’s obviously a lie, isn’t it? My own brain is having me off. Cooking is beautiful. Each well-presented tasty meal is a pocket of joy, I feel, or has the potential to be. The sense of satisfaction, chefs must feel. As pleasantly pleasing as music.

Maybe we’ll talk more cooking when I run out of posting ideas. I know you can’t wait for that one. Until then, don’t go rushing out buying rice cookers or slow cookers, or Ninja woodfire electric BBQs. Don’t tell me they didn’t cross your mind…coz I know you just been paid!

Don't Sign me Up

Imagine if an old codger forgotten his bifocals and rammed straight into a Black Lives Matter crowd half-blind in his affordable used automobile. Imagine if his foot slipped on the brake and he rip-roared through a mass of bodies. Imagine the thumps on the hood and the limbs sprawling over the shield. He’d be stunned, wouldn’t he? And so would they be. Stunned and hurt and perhaps nearly brown bread (dead).

If that happened, I can see Mason blood rewarding him. They’d give him a specialist title and honour his wickedness. In secrecy of course, so he didn’t know about it, and couldn’t expose them. The fact is the sad old tw*t couldn’t see a thing in front of his nose, but the higher echelon of evildoing would be quick to rush in and perhaps even claim the credit, prematurely claiming he was already belonging to them. Without knowledge, naturally. Something to do with birthright.

Imagine him in prison (if they didn’t get him off), with a fat canteen and honour among thieves. He’d be top of the shop. And all the time he’d be denying it, saying he didn’t know what that particular bloodthirsty faction was comprised off, he thought they were a fraternity of fruit and vegetable wholesalers. Or out-of-hour golfers.

Wouldn’t it be interesting and humorous, this storyline? Of course it would be sad too, depending upon how many perished.

I feel like perishing myself, under the weight of several measly grams of devil’s dandruff. Sorry to mention narcotics and hedonism again, but you know what I’m all about by now, surely. Psychological creativity, astral projection, skin flicks, pharmaceutical drugs, and electromagnetic technology. Just thought I’d mention that one more time why I’m here. It’s not to talk about fictitious ideas. Well, maybe a bit.

It’s to save the world.

Thanks for being in communion. We’re here more often these days, aren’t we? I’ve been plodding this trade for years, and now there is just a hint of familiar recognition from people I truly value, readers. The term ‘readers’ feels like ‘supporters’ or ‘customers’ or ‘fair weather friends’, there’s really no nice way to put it. But you know what I mean. ‘Connections’ is perhaps the best I can manage. Whoever you are, your presence is felt warmly here at the hot spot. It wouldn’t work without your clicks and scrolls. I mean, I can read over it myself as a form of daily journal log, but all I see is are typos and mistakes. Hopefully you are rewarded with unlimited access to the insight of another fully operational human being, complete with failures, faults, and flaws, not disregarding the hope!

I love reading blogs in case you didn’t know. I don’t have a blog roll in the index column but I know how to find a good one. Just follow someone you like and see who they like, the odds are you will like who the one who you like likes too. That’s how I do it. I encountered one website wherein the host believed her own smile was the most powerful thing in the universe, for, as you can tell by my own ramblings, there’s no shortage of big heads on the net. We are absolutely full of ourselves.

And why wouldn’t I be, when inundated with the trivialities of scumbags day-in and day-out. I thought spiritual warfare was having your toast fall off the counter and land butter-side down. Not the thought police deleting cherished memories every time you blink. Still, could be worse. I could be an innocent woman in medieval times accused of witchcraft, because of a strange birthmark. What chance would she have? And what chance will future clones have, accused of not being human. The way we are behaving lately, they will probably consider that eventuality a relief.

I get accused of not being human. It’s the first page in the haters’ manual: Strip away the target’s humanity. If you feel like you are a target of anything, keep dropping by and I’ll look after you. That is of course if I am unable to look after myself.

Take care until next time, A x

Letter To An Action Hero

I want to ride in a car with my action hero. We’ll be sat in silence, supping Costa coffees, loads of leg room, I’ll be driving just a little recklessly, or coasting for lengthy patches on long stretches of highway. Say at 60- or 70mph or so. He’ll be humming the melody to famous tunes I recognise from my youth, whistling also too at times, he might put his hand on my hand when its resting on the gear shaft, giving my fingers a friendly squeeze to reassure me of his presence. That’s all I want from my action hero, company in the passenger seat, that’s all he has to do.

Apart from be big and strong like Jack Reacher; a light traveller, uncluttered from belongings and other nonsense. All he needs is me: All I need is him. We have no destination in mind, maybe a motel to crash for a few hours in separate beds. Maybe, if it’s chilly, the open casement windows letting in a cool draft, he might hop onto my covers and hold me close until we are warm. None of this bonking business, my hero doesn’t get too attached; I find that slap ‘n’ tickle rather embarrassing, to be blunt with you. For a younger version of myself it would be fine, but not now I’m fast approaching my golden years. It has all of the hallmarks of an awkward shallow farce. I’d rather share an interesting story on the audiobook together, it’s volume above that of the chirping crickets and the nearby traffic, and of course the drip of rain. Maybe the faint hum of a microwave or washer in the kitchen.

Maybe (lots of maybes here), we could visit a funfair. I adore funfairs. This isn’t a date, however, it’s a daily way of life. Each and every day we go somewhere new. Walking around taking in the smells and sights of a carnival is as good as an idea as any. The screaming children, the pneumatic hiss of the heavy machinery, the snappy bangs of shooting galleries as ducks and targets are downed. We’d hold hands, eating candy floss or ice cream, hanging around until after dark, when it all goes peaceful and idyllic, almost heavenly in its poignant tranquility.

One afternoon we might stay in as he writes a book in his study. I’d sit by him as he wrote, reading a magazine or a newspaper, asking him odd questions about his work from time to time. I don’t mean sit by him sit by him, but locate myself in a corner in the periphery of his vision. He has already expressed an interest in conducting his working matters with me present, as I have a calming effect on his persona. I would serve him Lemonade and Elderflower Spritzes to cool him down in the sunshine. I’d chuckle when he stretched and yawned from his office chair.

Most times would be like this, sharing few words, him simply humming and whistling most of the time

What did you think I wanted from an action hero? He’s already saved me from the burning castle by abseiling through the balcony, and removed his shining armour. All the macho deeds are accomplished. He’s shot 172 villains down dead, he’s made the deadline before bombs detonate, he’s returned 36 hostages, his previous life has been like a hit movie. Now it’s time to relax.

With me, woman of the action hero.

Gus Kidney Update

[➰ 🅷/🅶➰] Hi Hotspot Geek, 

It’s Gus/Kidney here, 

Your a-g-ent.

________________

#NO CODE SPECIFIED#

_____________________

The last I heard from you, you were getting pamphlets produced at the local printing shop. Are you still engaged in that behaviour? It sounded promising. By my reckoning, you have a hundred or two in circulation. Not many, but that’s all they print in a book run. You also have plenty of stock leftover, to sell or donate to new future readers. You gave out several by mail, didn’t you? Did the town’s biggest podcaster receive one? He acknowledged you in his publication, I expect you sent him a pamphlet in return. I won’t mention his name, as it looks like brown-nosing.

I hear that the relationship between you and your failed teenage recruit didn’t stand the passage of time. Isn’t she accusing you of something uncouthly at the moment? I would ask for those particular donations back. If she had paid for them, it would be different.

You have one copy circulating in the States. I don’t know how well it’s doing. Probably idling in someone’s dashboard tray. Or it may be in the reception area of a nursing home. Hard to tell with that one.

That woman from the hospital liked the kip of your poetry, although you think it’s too simplistic to qualify as classical clobber. Don’t give up on it. Write one about that assassin you overcome underneath the bed that time. I’m trying to get an artist to give us a decent visual representation of the thing, if possible. They charge 300 an image. You are no longer active as a side-line graphic designer, by my belief, are you?

I’ve been unable to recover any portfolios. Your mother is adamant that it went in the bin. I followed up some council leads into the processing of rubbish to no avail, unfortunately. Sorry. It looks like it is gone for good. But I have made a note of some possibly reproducible contents:

Michael Douglas, comprised of multiple overlapping outlines. A severed head on a stick, with said stick being that colourful test pattern printers spin out before job commence. Stained ancient scrolls, complete with calligraphy. I have others available at inbox request, just in case you are in a fit position to one day reproduce.

Red Bubble contained a lot of artwork, didn’t it? Your account died. What a saddening and ultimately tearful loss that really is. Looks the same with Facebook and X, formerly twitter. Didn’t you post your neighbour’s cat’s nipple teets on Instagram one time, coated in cloudy slime? Or am I joking again? (Tw*t Her, you call Twitter, don’t you?). I’d tw*t that lying cast-off recruit. And anybody who did that to a cat.

I’ve taken note of your doodles. A uni grad I know has suggested another batch of wallpaper, if you can churn out enough. What would it take, another 60 or 70 or so? Poster ideas sound positive. Shame the faces can’t be sketched. I know you’re aching for something in charcoal.

Keep at it anyway. Fingers crossed for your muse. I’m glad it’s not that array of supernatural nonsense anymore, Hotspot Geek. The way you wrote about guides concerned me deeply. You should rely on the living, and mainly yourself. Don’t you talk about some kind of gaseous translucent blue spectral substance inside your solar plexus now? How much have you leaked out so far? Can you regenerate it? I quiver at the sound of this substance, too HG, but it beats living with several dozen numpty ghosts. Gradually.

Still averaging a thousand words per hour. I’ll do some digging and eek out what the other powerhouses are knocking out. They can’t be much higher than that, surely, unless they’re touch typists. Isn’t your ex-pastor’s wife a touch typist? You said you saw her in a vision. Care to share? Or do I have to personally visit your apartment and wrestle some content out of you?

Stay inspired.

P.S Call the Anonymous Journalist

Dunno

 Well it’s payday and I’ve been underscored, but it’s still better than nothing. I’ve been thinking about 20 lines of Charlie (I know!), what a silly idea. It’s that arsehole, that saboteur addictive personality inside, that wants so much pleasure powder.

He doesn’t care about anything other than getting off his chops. Speaking of that, someone was off their face in apology today. He admitted to having had oral morphine. He made me a tad jealous actually, until I thought about the comedown that follows. I wouldn’t mind feeling chilled out, but how do you feel when it wears off?

The compulsion isn’t ‘all over me’, but it is prevalent. I’ve got all day to combat the infatuation. It won’t end well, my thoughts will be hijacked and scuppered if I proceed along this course of rationale. What is the alternative? Get pissed? Eat a Chinese?

I heard about rats in experiments choosing drug water and killing themselves. I’d be like that, if I had enough. Today I can afford a fair deal of substance so the craving is strong, I can occupy that sexually-driven pleasurable place for longer than is usual.

I wish I knew what I was going to do. What am I on already? I’m listening to a bloke who is telling me that addiction is an adaptation to my environment, not a chemical hook. I just wish I didn’t suffer from it, because even if you resist the temptation, you have to keep on resisting throughout the following days, until it goes away. And guess what? It doesn’t go away. Until you give in.

I’ve treated myself to a maccies and a t-shirt so far today, that’s it. Now I’m clutching tightly all my P (pounds) to hand over to a callous dealer who doesn’t care about me. Why do I do it. Fingers crossed I won’t be back here soon writing miserably, if at all!

Perp Note

<.2!/!/!2.>The Procession unfolds this way THE ONLY WAY IS MY WAY SAYS I “121^≠:0” de-established personality. IT’S ABOUT BLOODY TIME AS WELL SHE’S BEEN DANCING ABOUT LIKE A MARCH HARE. public humiliation at functions SHE ALMOST SPEWED IN THE PHYSICAL{##~^1010101╓∞{##~8.8╓∞))  private dwelling static catatonia including outrageous thirst AWARE OF BUGS IN THE WATER (international spying and recording) SMILE YOU’RE ON CANDID {℡ 07+.} if docile enough from poison HELL YEAH (₉₀ < 2)_!_{ return love for brief lovebomb period; CHEER THAT BITCH UP A BIT}____@morgen’s mancave_____return finances to sustain more drug use AND GIVE HER DECENT STUFF FOR A CHANGE (X-#99confidential) + fibs and lies spun daily WE ARE WHO WE ARE (XX-10 big mac ascertained);}avoid main high street SOD ALL THERE BUT SHE MIGHT NET A UNLIKELY CONNECTION(cancel her String[¥!Ω)),,[¥!Ω],, arrangement) THAT’LL PRICK HER QUILLS/SHAME, LIKED HER TUNES{ for:flicker of recognition shut these off make sure (interfere with electricity supply i = 66’X<XX; sue’s escort) print profits daily NEXT SANCTION HER BENEFITS UNEXPECTEDLY (observe her input) IS SHE RESPONSIVE??? + outward production lowered: SLEEPING MOSTLY^{+╓-∞{#’,7#~8} power(gone missing NOW WE CAN MOVE IN

~sat.23.july.2026~ 

OUT COMES THE "HEAVENLY" LIGHT WITH MASER (power clinging to hollow objects (five spiritual entities detected) (very slender) (2 weakened) (+ 1 died of exasperation); printing new devices now (pow-er non-refundable lol ha!) (fibrous scar tissue) (argument is she conked out)

Disturbia (Grand Delusions)

Patients with good hallucinations:

Signed: Dr Venison

🔬All I's On Me (2y ago)

i was stroking goats at the time on a petting zoo at Walton Gardens. my aunty had brought them curried turkey twizzlers for them to eat. she's like that, she cooks bacon butties for the dog. as soon as she visited the toilet, and i was alone, i notice a ruffle in the nearby bush. one of my stalkers motto was "i am always as close to you as pain and antidote" he was a sicko who would often get into bed with me, that's how close he was talking about. anyway, he was in the bush, after following me there, and he held out a big (framed] A3-sized picture of a bloodied knife. i thought that he must have forgotten his real one! i call these kinds of hallucinations whoopsie hallucinations.

📐 Lord of All The Angle Grinders (18m ago)

funny was wen i got infekked with a ringwurm during an operayshon wen i wuz asleep. i thought dat rob zombies sir jen (surgeon) had skikk (s)titched it up into my artery network overnite an sewn me up like a kipper. wen i woke up it wuz breethin' in my lungs, its belly wuz in my belly, i cud hear its hartbeat in my temples, wot a frickin' dizgusting ordeal. i wud av kut it out if it wuz possible. insted i borght sum cow dewurmer from the net and i eat a full bowl with strawburry nezquik.

👢 Adventurous Muddied Boots (3y ago)

I was in such a pickle one evening that the only escape plan was to build a time machine and set myself free in another month of 3017, when all my attackers would be dead and there would only be a certain amount of Tesla robots to contend with. I emptied my gramp's shed of all his tools and brought them into the living room. before i could assemble the special device however i had to sterilise all the gizmos so went the shop to buy a trollie full of thick lemon sodium hypochlorite....bleach....this went everywhere and changed the colour of my carpet started burning my hands and more. six hours later i returned to reality and had a big clean up on my hands. the most i did was glue a egg timer to an adjustable spanner 

📯 Wrong-Ender (...)

I threw a wobbler in Heron Foods because all the sweetcorn sausages and mushrooms were saying "sausages can!" "sweetcorn can!" "Mushrooms can!!" i didn't know what they meant, i thought rip my throat out, so i tossed them all on the floor and kicked them out the towards the door. i got a 2--year ban policy. shame because i really like their full english breakfasts in a tin, it s a complete fried breakfast except its only diff is it comes in a tin. sausages and mushrooms but no sweetcorn. only a madman would have sweetcorn with his breakfast. anyway still barred

Ploddin' On

(🕐)0x0:X¥{X}^x(3.0)2.0xy∑⓭∞≡0110001

Just found myself an hour long window between SMART and AA. Dom is sharing in AA, she has an extremely strong powerful message, almost too extremely strong and powerful, if you know what I mean. She’s very individualistic and wears her heart on her sleeve. I’m just thinking that it may be too serious for a Wednesday afternoon.

It makes a change from toxic liars though. The people in Warrington recovery, when they aren’t been two-faced slanderers, are very approachable.

I get a month’s worth of money on Friday, enough for a phat bag of coke. I’m thinking enough for twenty decent lines. Wow, imagine how my brain is currently protesting about that eventuality! Why can’t he buy twenty bottles of water for a change? I’d be stupid if I chose that option, however, as I want to try and finally value the things that I have going for me, such as writing and public speaking and music and cooking and generally being out the house in fair non-paranoid spirits. Going to a meeting with sturdy personalities like Dom flaunting her wares, after a comedown, would be near impossible; even opening the patio can be an ordeal, or putting the bins out, or doing a recce around the gangland neighbourhood, to make sure no criminality is taking place, which, unfortunately, it always is.

Her tremendous energy would scorch my shame and make me feel small.

That’s why so many people hate me, I understand, because I make them feel them small, so they say. So, when I suffer with backsliding psychotic regression, they big themselves up by treating me like a doormat.

Stop squirting your smallness all over me!

I’ve had a good year so far, in all, ever since I survived the ‘neuromodulation suite’ at Christmas. There was a computer through a gap in the toilet behind a wall. Says it all really. So secretive and sly. I hope you never find yourself detained without hope of freedom in one of those suites, they’re nasty. Makes you wonder who is who.

New Year’s Eve was a special one, as I took myself out to watch the fireworks on the canal bridge. It is hard to describe how I perceived the flying, thrusting, hanging, floating missiles in the timely night sky…just great. It made me think of being inside a firework, when they seem to wobble just before explosion. I love that little suspended wobble they do, it’s inspiring.

All too lately in recent times, on New Year’s Eve, I’ve stayed in and missed out on them. They come to you, of course, audibly, but it’s so much more satisfying to lay eyes on.

I skipped the relapse in my share today, and just spoke positively. About recent growth and change, about overcoming panic attacks of crushing anxiety, about looking inward for strength. The facilitator gabbed on about his usual thoroughfare of people, places and things: thoughts, feelings and behaviours. That’s all it ever seems to be about. Hearing people share is nice though, you always learn something, much better than watching the box. 

Morning Battle

🚑I had a dream I got picked up by a woman from my home and airlifted to safety, away from the lawless estate and away from the spiritual warzone. During our departure, our armour took 16 shots. She spirited me away to a safehouse in Vietnam, we held hands along the route, it was a blessed relief to be distant from what they call the seventh circle underneath my flat.

I know this woman. Maybe this can really happen one day. Who knows what the future might bring?

Then I woke up and had a warm can of beer and a fag. It was hard rising from the pit this morning, I feel jet-lagged with my tiredness, but it’s great to be kipping a lot instead of crawling the walls with insomnia. I haven’t got any time whatsoever for no sleep. I had a second dream too, that I was in the holocaust. My belief about where dreams come from is ever-presently changing. I believe they can, if you let them, set your mood for the morning, or maybe the whole day.

Bit of music to wake up, juice and dark coffee, then off and out to this place, the council offices, where I type this up for a living. There are secretarial types lounging about in booths, and members of the general public hanging around waiting to be seen by them. It’s spacious and clean and fresh and well lit.

No screaming, as yet. Screaming has a tendency to follow me around, sometimes. Especially when I’m using, when it’s harder to deal with. So far, so good.

Yeah, I’m just surviving. Some videos on YouTube said that I don’t need to do anything, my presence is proof enough that something decent worked out.💯 There’s a spot of graffiti on a post box near my home, it reads: YOU LOST THE GAME. I’ve been wondering if this is aimed at me. I’ve lost a fair bit, granted, but winning is not about losing something or gaining anything. I can succeed this battle by simply not allowing to let my rivals bother me anymore, or by refusing to play the silly game in the first place. That’s what it’s all about. Not shooting your rifle off every time you hear a hostile let rip with theirs, hoping you result a headshot.

I refuse to get involved hardly, anytime, anymore. Mind games are not a real war.