Fearlessness 21

I remember my 21^st birthday, I’d been to the city on the train to pick up some XXX material. What is it with me and XXX material, I hear you say? I’m always banging on about it, aren’t I, I can’t stop ranting on about it, does his rhetoric about it ever let up? The answer is, I haven’t watched it for over a year, so now consider myself ‘clean and serene’ from its dastardly fishhooks. So, despite the obvious embarrassment of discussing sexual affairs online, I’d say that it’s cause for celebration. Porn, after all, is the major negative pipeline into my life to make me a slave to sin. Without it, I can work on being a worthwhile Christian.

I remember watching it behind closed curtains. I had these red tatty second-hand ones which didn’t block out the light. I had to wait years until I could afford a decent set of blackout drapes. They came with their own curtain helpline phone number. Someone out there knows exactly how hard it can be to hang them.

I remember the illicit scene, rather regrettably, like a host of other ugly performances bunched up and knotted in my head. It was some chubby woman who I didn’t fancy all that much, apart from her thick brunette locks. I wondered what I was doing there, in that room, at that time, even though it was my living room, even though I was always there. It was a quaint state of consciousness. It was cannabis I was on, not the green bushy stuff but the resin. That’s what I resigned myself to after dropping out of college, a life of smoking pot and drinking beer on my own, addicted to nudity on the silver screen. I had no idea of how much of a desperate existence I was letting myself in for. There was nobody around to grab me by the lapels and shake some sense into me. I wouldn’t have listened if they had.

I take great heart in the fact that I have not precisely broken under the pressure of modern life, however…I have been targeted. There’s a HUGE  difference. I’ve been a victim of multiple bad influences during my walk, I’d even say demonic at times, including the scandalous fiasco of ‘induced’ bonkers illness (mental health).

It was all downhill from that birthday. I felt something inside me wither and die. I think it was my fearlessness. Up until then I was scared of nothing, the concept of fear never even entered my consciousness. I would get drunk and high every weekend during my ‘going out’ phase, climb up something, fall off, bump and cut my head, trip over, get into bust ups, get myself arrested, pepper sprayed, all of that madness, and wake up bright n early the next day to do it all again. I was invincible, on the cusp of 21, a big bulletproof goofy kid.

On my B Day, sat there on the floor twirling my nob around to a big fat naked lady playing with a pair of older guys, something left the premises and died. It exited stage left and flew solo. Fortunately, I understand this to be a perfectly natural juncture of growing up, and not directly related to what I was doing. It would have left me anyway, in time, I maybe just wouldn’t have noticed it so sharply.

Drug-induced chemicals on the brain like endorphins, serotonin and dopamine, combined with the entrenched memory of a pulsating, electrifying orgasm, have a habit of ‘marking’ the subject forever. You never forget where you were or what you were doing when such an event takes place. This is why swarms of sinners on the wide path embrace this lifestyle and venture deeper along it, powerlessly, hopelessly, haplessly, and helplessly. Because that thrill, that life-marker, that unforgettable kick, is arguably the most satisfying reward in existence, the best fun us as humans can have. A cup of English tea doesn’t come close. A burger and chips doesn’t cut the mustard.

Only adrenalin-fuelled hobbies can compete, in my opinion.

But I don’t want a go kart, I want hard-action full-on balls-to-the-wall bareback sex high on drugs with steamy porn stars, and I want it now.

No quibbles, is that okay?

And not only now, I want it tomorrow, and the next day, the day after that, and the following day, and so on. For the rest of all time. Because I’m a red-blooded male with needs.

Except I don’t, not anymore, all of that is over, I find it miraculous that I got offline, that I walk past DVD shops, that I delete dealer’s numbers, that I resist that deep-rooted womanly calling. Because growing out of this salacious empire isn’t just so difficult it takes middle-aged nouse to do it, it simply ain’t meant to happen at all i.e it’s darned well impossible to escape for some.

I feel that way for myself. I feel like I have evaded some evil terrible menace by the skin of my teeth at the last hurdle. That evil terrible menace happens to be a woman. It used to be a naked man with a shaft long enough to roast a piglet on. The both of them had plans revolving around the ownership of my sacred sexual energy for all of eternity, knowing its potency, once entwined with The Shepherd of Desire and soaring like an eagle to insatiable pleasures, knows no bounds.

In the throes of ecstasy I needed no water or nicotine for many hours, which would be unthinkable in a bored, sober state. During a few kinkier games I didn’t even require oxygen (wink-wink).

So yep, I’ve jumped ship, away from those leather-clad fire-breathing harlots, who do not love you back, and into Christ’s loving arms.

No Intention Of Being Relevant

You know the score here at the hotspot. I write anything and everything to get the day faced and conquered. I had a Sprayway T-shirt once with an inspiring quote on the back. It read as follows: Leave Nothing But Footprints, Take Nothing But Memories, Kill Nothing But Time. It’s a decent philosophy. I recall ripping that shirt while performing the Grand National. The Grand National was a game wherein you hopped over everybody’s garden hedges in the street. First one to reach the end was deemed the winner.

You know it’s funny, I sit down here to write sometimes and I haven’t the first clue what to say, yet I feel the thrumming hum of the universe idling like a 4-stroke inside of me, twitching to unfurl like an idle joyful heart, yearning to be released. I wonder if I will ever run out of personal testimony. If the conspiracy theorists are correct, and Infinite Consciousness is ‘a thing’, then I should be able to reconfigure multiple aspects of my mind into countless offshoots of simply amazing print. This means ceaseless blogging. It’s alrite, you can thank me later.

Sutter Kane, the most creative writer in the galaxy, is never short of a drop-dead idea or two. His terminology calls it Limitless Imagination, not Infinite Consciousness. He’s always rewording lingo that doesn’t belong to him. It’s part of being neurodiverse. We are bob on at labelling and categorising. What might baffle a straighthead gets boxed and stickered in seconds by our special breed of rare, atypical, differently wired writing brain.

Not to say that Sutter Kane is mentally ill. He just says he suffers from mental health to break the ice when meeting new people. Like me, telling annoying twits who want to start a conversation about football that I’m psychotic. It helps to keep the hecklers at a distance. Otherwise small people will be there for hours ‘squirting their smallness’ all over you.

There’s no harm in being pathetic and tiny, by the way, just in case you’ve stumbled into the wrong domain here. Just don’t get it in my hair, okay? I’m nice and warm here.

That’s a running gag between me and my big sister. I ask her to get in bed with me and keep me nice and warm. I did it with my younger siblings when I was younger. We’d make a base by assembling upside down furniture on Mother’s bed and hide underneath it all in the dark eating snacks like Blackjack bars and Nerds. Now its all Whoppers and Knoppers and Yonkers and Dunkers. I’d tell my brothers and sisters a spooky ghost story to scare them up. The scariest one was about a technological demon, a burns victim who travelled down pylon lines. That one was really ‘shocking’. This is no bulldust by the way. I knew lots of made-up chillers as a small boy, including one about a sheep-gatherer who starved to death in a bear trap then had his thumbs eaten off by a fox.

There were lots I had no idea of, like The Girl in Black, Jabberwocky, and The Mystery Of The Haunted School. I would learn of these later, and read them aloud under NightSearcher torchlight from the original paperback books.

My mum would tell me off for putting the family on edge. “Where have you heard such drivel?” Then slap me with one of her Japanese Closed-Toe sandals. I enjoyed getting clouted, in a way, it meant I’d achieved something.

I got the paperbacks from car boot stalls, they cost 20 pence each. When I wasn’t running my scams in school, I had a car boot stall myself, selling my own pamphlets which I’d written when detention was over. My brother, who sold multipack bars of chocolate during his dinner hour (strictly not for resale, unless you’re him), inspired the entrepreneurial barterer in me.

I’d make up gambling games based on those in the casino and use them to con willing students out of dosh, huddled together in the middle of the playing fields. The house never lost, if you get my drift.

I also swapped illustrated poems for biscuits. Several older girls bought some and a teacher had one on her wall for ten years, long after I’d stayed on for Sixth Form College and gotten myself institutionalized. Her son told me this once during a happenchance rendezvous in the fish market. I was buying those large ugly grey prawns with the shells still on for supper, fried with basmati rice, jolly Green Giant sweetcorn, red onion, and a mixture of herbs and spices.

I wouldn’t dare get up to any wheeling n dealing down the youth club, or I’d get battered by the townies. They regularly bullied me by reading my pamphlets aloud and taking the Michael, especially the intimate love scenes I described between me and Amanda Kinsellar. The youth club was no place for the softly-spoken. There were fights every night. The townies were a nasty bunch. Many of them are involved in circles of criminality to this day. I won’t drop any names.

Apart from saying that Amanda Kinsellar is now a scabby booty crack pipey dog. All the girls who were stunning turned out to be munters and all the gals who had it up against them have blossomed into bloody painted dolls. Word has it that she got ‘blasted’ by Karks using a Twix finger. White chocolate, incidentally. Salted Caramel. Limited edition.

Bloody disgusting.

Here’s to my latest scam: Getting legacy published, and selling half of a 200 print run!

Bailey Clay Suffers, But She Does Not Self-Harm

One thing I’ve never done is cut myself. I believe that deep in my addiction I   was self-harming with substances, but it’s not the same as tearing your flesh open. I’ve heard of pill addicts snorting 40 a day. I would bomb the whizz like it was sherbet, taking more when I was already FUBAR (f**ked up beyond all recognition). The sensation of feeling too-much poison course thru your veins is vividly dismantling. One time I found myself in the woods hunched over in a ball promising myself that I would never ever be doing drugs again.

I could feel my cells dying over my skin and disintegrating off with the wind. I vomited brown bile.

Another time I committed spiritual suicide by necking 28 rat poison tablets, mistakenly thinking they were ecstasy pills. I thought I was dying with a red-headed pig-tailed quintessential young Russian model in a strange drug-induced vision. I ‘periodically’ consumed more chemicals than listed on the ‘periodic’ table.

But bloodletting on yourself!? I’m seeing some horribly disfigured arms lately.

How do these young beautiful girls do it to themselves? How would you address your teenage daughter if she was running rampant with a blade? They have to be stopped. Or do they? I’ve heard it stated that they need to feel the pain once they’ve started. It’s the only way for them to block out the voices. Or the bullies. Or the eating disorder.

What is so bad that it needs blocking out with self-harm? It speaks of the world we live in today, doesn’t it? This is what the world drives me to do. This is what society thinks of me. I’ll show them…

I knew a girl called Sarah who was well practised at it. She said she had ‘presences in her head’ which dictated how many calories she could consume. In essence, they wouldn’t let her eat. She was restricted to an apple and a bowl of rice krispies a day. They weren’t even real rice krispies, they were corn pops from Netto. The head presences tormented her if she went over her daily calorie count. She maintained that cutting her arms was the only way to get them to shut up.

She was such a likeable young girl, Sarah was, a real million-to-one shot, full of vitality and vigour, nice head of blond hair, sparse pastel make-up, own car, job in a mental hospital, which was convenient, as she got sectioned there, neat little tidy physique, approachable and engaging personality, I bought her a dreamy waltz bouquet of florist-arranged flowers once, then delivered them in person to her battered wives home for the young, or whatever it was where she lived, I think more of it as rather a homeless institution for the wayward, she wasn’t in at the time anyway, so I left them with the manager, balding and beer-bellied, who probably slapped the occupants around.

Girls with mental health are prone to being abused.

I would never abuse the vulnerable myself, as I always like to help. I truly preach that the meek shall inherit the Earth. This is why I declare Constance Bell now and again in my morning prayers. She was a wonderful endangered character in a special tale I won’t mention by name. She inspired a homage from my good self called Bailey Clay. Just a brief word on BC.

As of today, Bailey Clay is still alive and well. She has stopped shopping at Sports Direct and started buying better labels like Louis Vuitton and Goldigga and Moschino from her boyfriend’s phone. Oftentimes she’ll get lucky and snag a bargain in a charity shop. Last time we heard from her, she said that she was, quote, “Too busy for schizophrenia.”

Her useless persecutor, Samil, still harasses her on a daily basis, with clandestine technology uncovered by law, beaming his annoying voice into her head and projecting his ugly face into her dreams. She describes this ex-monster as, “Desperate, bored, needy, and lonely.”

Her boyfriend said that when he gets a hold of Samil, he’s going to bash his conk flat on his boat race (face), and go to a lifer’s jail with a smile on his lips. Bailey pledges to visit every week, taking him magazines, confectionery and offering financial support. Her boyfriend, who doesn’t like being named, only receives Universal Credit. She gets full whack PIP (personal independence payment).

“I impel him to forget about Samil, the same as I try to do,” says the Bailey, known as Rumpole to her mates, “but he’s single-minded about revengeful bloodshed one day in a fair dual to the death over a girl they are both obsessed with. When Samil is down, I might just stamp on his head or kick him slyly in the ribs. Then again, I might turn the other cheek. We’ll see what happens if he’s ever big enough to grow a pair, instead of chatting me up forever non-stop with microwave hearing.

“I was talking to my shrink about microwave hearing before I signed myself off off and over and away from all that ancient bureaucracy about forcefully administered pain medication and visiting hours during detention recall and next person of interest and all that, he thought I was on about talking air fryers from PC World. Harder to believe than psychosis from a kitchen appliance is a computer junk shop selling air fryers! My girl Franny has one. She batters Turkish Delights in it…”

Aside From Sutter Kane

Well, it looks like I’m bolloxed now, as I have no subject matter to rant about! The last couple of weeks have been productive for me. I’ve enjoyed scribbling away every single day. This gig would be wellard to do as sustained paid employment, as the ideas have a tendency to dry up. I’m always in the mood to sit in the secretarial chair and eyeball the White Void, and I have lists of noted prompts on my phone, but executing glimpses of a notion into written form, and doing so online, isn’t straightforward.

I do come bearing possible bad news about my apology class. Because it’s over-attended (to put me off), they’re thinking about splitting it into two smaller groups (to keep me away). This potential change has got the alarm bells jangling. I always have preference for a larger gathering. The management is doing this because I fancy one or two of the ladies there. You have no idea how far the authorities will go to prevent me from meeting up with fellow high-vibrational comrades.

One day, I might meet a counterpart suffering Targeted Individual.

In the thick of the extremely long list of abuses perpetrated unto TIs, keeping us apart from one another is up there among the very most unforgiveable of them. Preach.

I have identified several, and it’s not very many at all, worthwhile genuine personas in my life. When you live within the pretext that “Everyone is a demon,” (Zersetzung* advice), this positive realisation is quite important. So there is someone I can fight for then? Thank God. I’ll man up for them…

I just pulled one lady aside after the meeting, and told her she was hugely needed in this current climate of pretenders and fakers. I’d never bonded with her before. They were stouty words. But they needed saying. I’d always thought of her as nobody before, just an elderly nonentity making up the numbers. Now I see her as beacon of light, and a valuable ally.

As soon as I detect someone vital like this, I am met with a squabble of mass imposters trying to split us up. They get up to all kinds of petty behaviours like talking over people, hijacking conversations, making unnecessary noises to disturb testimonies, using their phones when unneeded, and other cheap tactics. When several of them eencroach on an unknowing target, their small but disgusting tricks work.

When I’m present, however, in soldier mode from God, it’s a different story. I’m wise to their pathetic jealous games. Because I have a bigger and better agenda rather than running around trying to keep substantial personalities away from each other.

My present mission is to be Sutter Kane. This always starts by declaring, “I! Am! Sutter! Kane!” at the top of my voice, no matter where I am, even if it happens to be in a silent-as-tiptoe official commons law court. I am able to change into different people not because I am an evil shape shifter, like some of those other egotistical bozos out there who receive that capability from evil spirits they worship, but because I serve Sutter Kane in The Sacred World-Building Arena Of Literature, where anything is possible.

I’m only making a joke of ‘being’ him by the way. No one can ‘be’ Sutter Kane. Only he himself can do that. And no, before you ask, he isn’t a pen name for Stephen King. He’s far better than Stephen King, and I don’t know what you reckon personally, but I think that Stephen King is pretty awesome. If better is the right word. It’s not about being better than someone else, it’s about being as good as we each can be.

The only person I worry about bettering is myself.

All writers are visionaries, with wide open publicly-available souls and grapevine-accessible dreams in the collective consciousness of Gaia. They are widely influential in the societies they live. Sometimes, if they are potently serious about their craft, their work becomes alive, like in the Holy Bible. Sutter Kane knows all about abilities like this. How? You ask. Well, because he creates them.

To describe Sutter Kane and his work is practically impossible. He is simply too goddamn conclusively pristine at it. He stretches the imagination when it boils down to wondering just how much know-how majestic freelancers have at their disposal. It is rumoured that he changes his own environments by typing about them. He writes things ‘in and out’ of his work which affect the reality of his surrounding social fabric. If he describes a pink penguin smelling of cigar-smoke, one might appear close by somewhere. He has to be careful about what he inscribes due to this. Huh. Don’t we all?

I’m immersed in ‘total love’ with Sutter Kane. It’s reported that his very first words as a baby were, “I-guess-ed-they-fish-ed-me-a wri-ter.” His parents said he would have conversations with the stars. They nicknamed him The Constellation Spotter, because he was always pointing at the sky before he could walk. Little else is known about him.

If you would like to learn more, watch the movie In The Mouth Of Madness (1994). That’s where I ‘borrowed’ him from. He’s a silver mulleted masterclass of wise prophetic kosmos-creating grand wizardry. He does nothing but live in a tunnel fashioned from a wormhole and write at his elaborate keyboard and portal like a circus master. I’m merely touching upon him here, but straight up dude, I find him sooo interesting. He inspires me to scrawl on.

Yes, even on the days when I don’t know what to say. When I’m stumped with the block I recover by reaching out and touching Sutter Kane’s dressing gown, which he occasionally poses for pictures in on his cabin boat, eating cereal for breakfast in the morning when the sun is rising on the horizon. He likes posing for important press releases this way, it’s his style, although he doesn’t have a makeover for it. He just casually brushes his hair and ‘blesses up’. ‘Blessing up’ is merely having a hot swill in the bathroom wash basin. He calls it this because he believes keeping clean is a gift from God.

Long live Sutter Kane. “I! AM! SUTTER! KANE!” joke

*Zersetzung is a Stasi program meaning decomposition

Bucket Runner

I fell thru Cookie Monster’s front slammer, shattering small panels of glass about the hallway. The week before I had witnessed a pub dweller get thrown thru a closed door by a bouncer nicknamed One Punch Jarv, it had come off its hinges, I now knew what that was like, to be lying in littered debris. I cut my elbow but little else, I got off lightly, considering. Couldn’t his family afford a sturdier opening? Or was it my fault for being blotto and incapable of standing on my own two feet?

The accident sobered me up. “I’m so sorry,” I explained to Cookie. “I’ll pay for the damage.”

“You sure plunged thru that with your head there. Don’t worry, the council will take care of it,” he assured me. “I’ll ring them tomorrow when the offices are open. Now, how much more of my gaff do you plan on demolishing?

That’s Cookie for you, always laid back, always super-chilled. Probably because he was stoned as a fart.

Next I fell into the hallway wall, taking a chunk out of the plaster with my nut and knocking the mirror down. Luckily the mirror remained intact. I looked like I’d been forcibly jockeyed around Cheltenham’s Gold Cup and made to leap over all 22 jumps with a junior sumo wrestler on my back. ‘Jelly’ wasn’t the word for my legs. Surprisingly, I’d yet to throw up, although more than a baker’s dozen of Stella tends to have that effect.

Cookie stroked the damage to the wall gingerly, as if his midas touch could repair the damage. Nothing happened, apart from he got a coating of dust on his fingers.

Back on my feet again, this time I told myself I wasn’t going to fall over while crossing the living room, where Cookie had expensive furniture like fish tanks and coffee tables. Last week Rocco fed the Angelfish with his leftover kebab. One of them was motionless and floating on the surface not long after. He’d probably had his hands in there, messing around with them, taking them out and juggling them.

If I could just make it to the bathroom. There Picklehead Lisa would be running the buckets. She always did after a night out at Dragworld, the hippest shack in the locality for benders and puffs, where we’d been ‘poppin’ pillies’ like Post Malone all night.

I had to rip a taxi off in making my way back here. If I’d hurled inside the thing, the driver would have hit me with a 50 quid fine. As it was, I’d asked him to back up near the Sundowner pub. From there I’d entered someone’s back garden and navigated my way to the other side of the close. Couldn’t be helped. I was skint from 13 Stella at five pound fifty a pop.

Picklehead Leese never charged for a bucket. We tended to all throw in a few bits of quid at the beginning of the week so we could share a decent block of polly on occasions like this, when Cookie’s pops were working double shifts and we had license to be juvenile arsewipes for much of the Sabbath.

I did make it to the bathroom but I almost fell into the bath, instead landing on Picklehead and knocking the treasured bucket over. She got hot rocks on her denim dungarees, stood up fuming, and started kicking off. Pastry Face, our college mate, and so named because of what he got up to with Peshwari Naan breads in Indian restaurants, told me I was being a pissant. He shouted for Cookie and instructed I should leave.

“It’s not your digs,” I replied. I instantly had my guard up in case I was refused a chong. “C’mon, I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean it.”

Picklehead undid the straps to her dungarees and let the top half flap down beyond her waist. Her ample nips behind a funky scoop neck sports bra were on prominent display. She always looked the part, did Picklehead Leese.

“This is so not funny guys,” she came out with, voice frustrated but keeping it together. “I was going to return these overalls within thirty days.”

“What’s he done now…?” Cookie Monster asked. He entered the room with his tremendous bulk like an oil liner reversing into a disabled parking space. He ignored Picklehead’s exposure.

I didn’t. I studied her twin package of small but generous bulging mammaries with relish. We usually all stared at Picklehead when we were mashed, imagining things we would like to do with her. The reality of the situation, however, is that she was out of all our depths. I frequently pondered why she would have anything to do with us. I honestly didn’t know what she was doing in the ‘here and now’ with us half the time. I’d heard something vague about her being Cookie’s second cousin, some kind of loose connection from a foster home in childhood, but I couldn’t trust anything out of Pastry Face’s trap.

Word was up that Rocco boned her doggy-groovy in the shrubbery next to Cookie’s duck pond, and then took a pik of her dirty knees to use as evidence against her, or proof for him, whichever, when uploading on Instagram asap. I thought all this complete and utter total bulldust.

I had masturbated to this imagery in my mind, nevertheless. Picklehead ‘getting done’ by Rocco’s big dong, her slim fingers gripping cabbage leaves. Judging by the eyeful of her cleavage I was registering at the moment, I’d be in a further rapturous spank banky time later.

The cannabis was like that. It made me horny as Pan on billy whizz. I leaned forward, took control of the buke, and ran my own.

Troublesome Unfolding of Self

I was halfway prepared to wrangle about the dualism of the mind and body today. I’m aware of a lot of terms which describe the whole of the sum of our parts, or at least some of the parts of our sum. A lot of my boys in apology class have been talking about the cliché angel and devil on the shoulders. The angel gives us good advice, the devil compels us to sin. You know the old saying. No doubt you’ve heard about the wolf on each shoulder also, the good white wolf you should feed and the bad black wolf you shouldn’t feed. These are interesting but simple ideas we’ve all harkened to.

It goes deeper. Apparently there’s a chimp and a computer in our brains too, having the same argument. There’s a book about it. I’ve not gotten around to reading it yet. My head is busy buried in scripture. The chimp is impulsive and instinctive. He wants rewarding and rewarding yesterday. The computer is our rational side. It’s logical and deductive, it weighs up risk and solves our problems. It may be obvious I know about as much on this topic as sweet Fanny Adams does. This is just what I’ve come across in conversations.

If you want more I’d study the regions of the brain. It’s fabulously riveting. I looked into it during my mid-twenties, before I got into sub-atomic affairs. These days I’m content studying the theatrical make-up on pantomime horses. That’s as soon as I get done brooding over other miscellaneous professions such as sword swallowing in the modern circus, zombies in popular media, and underwater bomb disposal in the Navy.

What do we have so far? The angel and the devil. The two wolves. The chimp and the computer. Wow, we missed out the lizard. What, you haven’t heard about the lizard at the back of your brain? Where have you been hiding, under a rock? Believe me, blood, it’s there. Everyone knows about the lizard. I think it’s the oldest part of the brainstem or something. It made me lunge for a barmaid’s bosom in the snooker club. Honestly. I’m always lunging for parts of the female anatomy when high on psychoactive stims. I cannot restrain myself.

I became convinced I’d mutated into a real live salamander once, when wagon driver Wayne poisoned me with a donkey stripe of ketamine in Athena’s Loveshack during the Royal Wedding. It’s common being unable to move, or becoming ‘catatonic’, while under the influence of ketamine. It is a horse tranquiliser after all.

This bit here is real talk homes: I once changed into a baboon on Burger King car park. I was kneeling and crouching and jumping and hopping and beating my chest. Drugs again. No wonder I’ve given them up. Or trying to. So far so good.

Other constituents of ‘the whole’ I appreciate are the personality, the ego, the ID, the persona, the psyche, the soul, the heart, the spirit, the subconscious, the unconscious, the preconscious, the manna, the animus, and the aura, among many others beyond my current knowledge.

The list probably goes on. Still not as gripping as the mystery of missing socks. I found one hanging from my shower rail. Probably a perp.

Hey, qualia is an irreducible mental quality of the mind. Isn’t that an amazing fact? Wonder what it does? Is it the part that momentarily confuses us when confronted by the pickle of a missing sock?

When you tend to be a Targeted Individual, you start to notice a helluva lot more things other than small items of clothing going missing.

Like family members, for example. Or fingers.

Funnily & oddly enough, a repair guy broke my washing machine accidentally on purpose. I know it’s not relevant, but it does qualify as desperately unlucky, in tradition with the rest of this blog.

I’ll not ‘go into’ persecution stories though, coz it’ll depress the pair of us. Oh, just one more then: A perp did invite himself into my garden last spring so as he could paint a pentagram on my birdcage. Goodwill & forgiveness, most probs mentally ill. Aren't they all.

Bob-a-Job (Old Work Mate)

Back in the public library today. I’d do this blogging business from home if I had a study. I once owned a desk and a laptop, but I decluttered several years back. Most of my furniture got ‘lashed’ into the communal garden. My ‘voices’ told me to do it. They wanted a minimal, open space. For séances, mainly, so they could scheme more ferocious power from to peel my skin off with. Funny that, how they are always promising to peel my skin off. It’s lovely having voices in the head.

They greet me in the morning with terms like, “Good morning, sunshine, we’re going to crucify you today.” I couldn’t live without their acts of kindness.

My ex-boss, Phillip, or ‘Poo-Poo’ as we called him, used to have me and the boys doing a lot of ‘lashing’ in work. He’d organise a skip and have us clear out the warehouse. I couldn’t believe some of the valuables which got lumped with the general garbage in that metal container.

‘Poo-Poo’s’ philosophy, about anything sub-perfect, was too ‘lash’ it. He’d literally dump anything in the bin, including his car if it fitted, and his wife and her kids if they happened to be situated in it. Where do you think I got my computer?

My boy ‘Bob-a-Job’ extracted an impeccable Bang & Olufsen telly, or entertainment system as he dubbed it, out of the skip one noontime. You may not have heard of them but they were a bespoke novelty make back in the day. Sony, Phillips, LG and Bush had nothing on them. He was well chuffed, until he left the remote control in the garden for reasons unbeknownst to anyone. It rained overnight, so the buttons got buggered.

I think he had the remote control in the garden because he was showing a few drunkard BBQ mates its laser beam in a mirror. Yep, it’s true. Laser beams come out of remote controls if you operate them in mirrors. Fun fact of the day. My bro-bro demonstrated it to me.

Bob-a-Job was one my colleagues. He’d often turn up for work in the morning ferrying a 16 inch Domino’s pizza box, containing leftover sausage and pepperoni. It smelled awfully like a pig pen. Everything but the squeal, he used to say when ordering steak in The Cattle Grill House. We frequented that rubbishy dive on the first Friday of every month. It was always a ‘Challenge’ meal, which is what all the fat bastards wolfed for a free T-Shirt (XXXL), and a photo on the wall.

As an extra incentive, succeeders of the Challenge meal received it free of charge, on the house. So you saved in the wallet, gained an addition to your wardrobe, and were immortalised in a jpeg.

Regardless of this swine-covered tomato pie from the previous evening, Bob-a-Job would still order ‘Bacon On’ at the greasy spoon portable mobile unit before we’d even left the work site. We would talk about him being ‘oinked out’ behind his back. Pepperoni to me could literally be wafer thin slices from a real live piglet, it tastes so piggy (you never hear of Pepperoni On, do you? Or Gammon On.) Both of them saltier than a cupful of sea water.

Bob-a-Job preferred a cheapo full-fat rip-off version of Coke called ‘Buddies’ Cola rather than water, bought in-bulk from a wholesaler, which contains 27 point umpteen teaspoons of sugar per bottle, and that’s the diet alternative. Bobbers, for short, preferred the MAX substitute, which was artificially flavoured with a ‘tropical hint’ of Blue Razz. He guzzled this straight from the bottle, and only offered it out for sharing when he was close to the bottom. I tried it once, out of courtesy, and found it to be taste like a nasty blend of vegetable oil and mud water. He never offered his edible porker package of toast and pizza deal.

There’s loads to Bobbers. But it’s all pretty similar and my memories of him principally relate to food. So far I’ve only gassed about him turning up for his daytime shift. You should have seen him slobbing out on his 3-seater recliner with his missus at the weekends, far away from the working environment. His kitchen reminded me of an All You Can Eat, there were that many dirty bowls scattered around the countertops. Rather than fruit on display, he would have Bombay Mix from Farmfoods. I was once present when he purchased two 12 sets of stoneware plates from Wilkos. I thought he was planning on spinning them for Ripleys Believe It Or Not. Surprised he didn’t buy buckets to eat from, although I doubt they’d contain popcorn. A trough would be more like it.

The last time I saw Bobbers, he was running away from a crime scene. He’d just head-butted someone on the nose outside a Chinese Buffet on Horsemarket St. He was hoisting his preposterous jeans up with one hand, as he always did, because he didn’t wear a belt, and they were too big. We called them ‘preposterous’ because they cost just four notes from Asda, made by George. George is Asda’s answer to Emporio Armani. Designer jeans can retail for thousands of pounds. To rack up a nice handy pair in Asda for less than the price of a Vanilla Latte, with the change from your yellow stickered ‘whoopsie’ supper, is ‘preposterous’ in anybody’s good money. I apologise, but there’s just no other word for it.

Don’t forget though, any more than ten notes and they saw you coming.

No More Sinful Mood

I’m beginning to have doubts about me being here bang slap in the centre of town, all up in the public section of the local government’s council offices, using their typing machines. I mean, isn’t access to these personal PC computers limited to letter writing and general enquiries? Surely they’re not for the likes of me using them for originative endeavours like apology, testimony and fiction? Ah well, I’ll dig my heels in until security politely ask me to leave. Which they usually do, after six pints and a stripdance/singsong.

There’s a new slime hall for kids opened up in the district. The authorities won’t let me anywhere near a minor. Don’t worry, this is not because I appear on some sex register; it’s just because I love them a great deal and enjoy bonding with them. To compensate for this, I invent ‘spiritual’ children in my subconscious and relate to them internally, in my heart if you like, but these too get attacked by dark forces against The Lord via cloning, hijacking and usurpation.

How do you like properly hold onto something in this villainous life, something which belongs to you, and something which is preciously coveted by warmongers of the world?

Answer: With the anchors of your heart.

There is nothing so dark, and yet so tenderly loving, as the human heart. Mine has been chewed, regurgitated, and chewed again. By the same old toxic unwanted people, committing the same old crimes, against the same old aching heart.

That heart would be mine. This is ‘mein herz’ displayed in the best approximation of wordplay I can muster in a race against the clock at the moment, without trying to be so awesome that I make you feel small in comparison. Because you know what the wise men say…comparison is the thief of joy.

I saw a school outing of ‘ducklings’ (kids in an orderly queue) earlier, leaving the cinema. Rather than ogle them up, I half felt inclined to get out of the ballpark before someone called the busies coz I was enjoyin’ watchin’ somethin’.

I feel cheeky no matter what I do lately, as if I belong in no real place, like a nomad with no real roots. Sometimes, on good days, when I’m feeling like I belong, I’ll visit the Chinese grocery shop and take a look at the names of all the strange branding. What I see are lots of monikers, big-ups, hollas and call outs relating to my childhood, as if the great nation of China was built on my personal raising through the council estate ranks in England, as a working class foot soldier for The Lord.

Particular buzzwords, unique to me, spelled out on their fancy packaging, assault my eyes all over the shop floor. It’s hard to explain. Basically, I feel like their government has been harvesting my creativity since I was little, relabelling their products after aspects of the fantastical worlds I create in my literature. Despite their unbelievable innovation, I have reasoned that China are in the business of ripping people off. May I go so far as to disclose that a lot of their them are nasty thieves. Joking, naturally. I would never make such a broad sweeping statement.

Last week I boasted that the pornographic industry was designed for me. Now I’m breaking wind that the Chinese Food industry is based on my childhood. Guess what might be headin’ my way, with claims to fame like these ones – yeah, bingo, a visit to the psych ward for mental assessment! Because I am off. My. Chops.

Sober, however. High on life. I haven’t consumed an alcoholic beverage this calendar year. Where are we now, midway through March? I know other high-flying bloggers who post pictures of themselves tanked up, reclining on their sofas, posing with bottles of chilled beer. I’m not envious about that, but I am slightly impressed. That’s the kind of thing I would do, if I was into taking pictures of myself.

I must admit though, that once you see a photograph of a writer you like, their work loses an air of anonymity. I like reading writers when I have no idea how they look. As soon as you see their countenance, stereotypical judgements come flooding in, including sexual ones, especially if they are of the opposite sex. I mean, what if you’re in love with their work, but they have leprosy on their face, or are disfigured, or disabled, or suchlike? It affects your opinion of them massively. I’m currently against author photographs on jacket sleeves.

I know an author online who writes about her own smile. Boy has she got a terrific one. But come on…

My higher power, a literary gatekeeping giant who I won’t name anymore, wrote a scene about a detective sat at his desk looking up at the ceiling. I wonder what he was up to himself, when jotting that eye-popping nugget of information down. Was he sat at his desk looking up at his ceiling by any chance? Doesn’t take Sherlock, does it?

Similarly, Lee Child readily admits on camera that when he has a coffee, Reacher has a coffee. Or is the other way around? Either way, they both guzzle lots n lots of coffee. It’s all they flippin’ do, whenever I’m reading anyway. That’s why I read it. To get down with the skinny on Reacher’s coffee intake.

Even better than coffee drinking is Reacher shopping in military surplus stores for shirts, combat pants and toothbrushes. Reacher, shopping…Classic. Coffee swigging, and retail therapy…who needs espionage, violence and conspiracy?

The DeNNis

I have an idea of a killer called The DeNNis. He’s based on a real person. What marks him out as different is the fact that he’s not scary at all. He’s a bit of a dweeb, actually, a pencil-necked nerd, a geek who probably owns the complete Lord Of The Rings collection. No offence against LOTR fans. He’s not that tall, very skinny, and a boring council clerk. He wears plain shirts from the supermarket and pressed trousers with unexciting ties. He doesn’t sport hair gel, and has a sharp hooked conk like a bird of prey. His shoes are black brogue. Slip-on.

There’s not really that much more to say about him! He lives alone, doesn’t drive, no known family, cooks simple meals…and murders homosexuals!

His killing spree has been in full flow for several years, on and off. He pays for their services in the local red light district up Richmond Square, where they hang out beneath streetlamps, half-concealed in billowing clouds of smoke from blunts and vapes. They gather in twos or threes, linking arms in unison. Occasionally you’ll get a singleton in a fashionable wig, whom he picks on. They are all always slim and attractive.

He’s been gay since his first encounter in high school…

He tried and failed ‘giving’ penetration around Aaron Jenkins penthouse suite. Penthouse or Shithouse, it didn’t matter to The DeNNis. The suite belonged to Aaron’s older brother who was working away in Wales. He sold cleaning solution for factories from the boot of his car. (Blast-Away Hydropower could have come in useful for The DeNNis’s bloodbaths later in life.)

The DeNNis and Aaron had been flicking through a XXX magazine, it featured underage Chinese men in varieties of naked poses, having vigorous intercourse with black African studs. These exotic juxtapositions drove The DeNNis doolally. He had only had one mixed-race victim in all this time. The dude was a mixture of Irish and Jamaican, skin the colour of coffee mocha, hair matted rather than dreaded, legs lanky yet strong underneath his stylish jacket which accentuated his buttocks. He like drinking Guiness and listening to Ziggy Marley via portable cassette headphones. The DeNNis thought that Bob had changed his name by DePol.  

Aaron was still alive, to the best of The DeNNis’s knowledge. And why wouldn’t he be? They were both still relatively young. Only both just making way into middle age. He thought he might have bumped into him in a Co-op in Beddington last summer, buying a ham and pickle sandwich, but he couldn’t be entirely sure of the positive ID, not with the goatee and the Lakers cap.

To put it very bluntly, The DeNNis chops up his victims and flushes them down the toilet. No laser etched granite headstones for his casualties. And why would there be? Only poor Gregg Wilton from Ford Common has ever been reported missing. Where did they stick his mugshot? In a side column on page 13 of the Herald Gazette. Which is only good for wrapping chips.

The irate neighbours, met with slammed doors and vulgar gestures during every failed confrontation, have made several complaints about the stench emanating from the drains. The DeNNis insists that it must be dead rats. He uses a mini-chainsaw for the dismemberment business, a 40 quid jobbie online, playing booming classical music over the tinny, rattling friction from the cheap rotors.

He wears a ladies smock when busy in the bathroom, and wellington boots. Underneath he docks a special homemade suit he sewed together himself from bin bags designed to keep every single drop of blood from his skin.

MORE FROM THE DENNIS LATER

Running Scared...Not

I woke up after the standard dream manipulations into a fresh cacophony of gibberish from my stalkers. I always try not to mention them here, as there’s more to me than being a whistleblower, and they crave any semblance of limelight I afford them. My sexual thoughts puts benzene in their pencils, if you know what I mean. They even take credit for this blog, believe it or not. They say that they are putting these words onto the screen through my fingers via my head. Or though my head via my fingers. They act like I’m a puppet of theirs, but like a dream come true I’m starting to see them all as puppets of mine. Unwanted puppets which I’d like to burn on a bonfire, I have to say.

They can’t bear for me to be cheery. If I am, they are cheerier. If I am breathless and laughing myself to tears, which I do often, because I’m going prematurely senile, then it is they who are giving me the joy. If I find a cash five pound note, then they find two. They are ridiculously petty and immature. I’ve said I’m not going to insult them anymore, because like the potential of all worked-up tongues, my words have the capability to pierce to the marrow. I don’t want to hurt my sorry clan of cling-ons, I simply want them to rot in Hell without bashing their gums about my phat belly. They always talk about my phat belly. I know what my own belly looks like.

To anyone out there who is hearing voices and suffering from hallucinations, which are either brain projections or invisible suits, but not a natural disease, please do not panic to the point of despair. Simply quit your vices and you’ll be fine. They prey on our own downfall and they want us to pull the trigger ourselves. Suicide makes them HORNY!

I first saw ‘invisible men’ on the day Corona Virus broke out. I’ve had them chatting all manner of sh*t in my ear ever since. At times it was hellish, they were chasing ‘my fear’ (not me, my fear) all around the estate throughout the night. I’d finally return home, relax, only to ‘partially see’ a blood-soaked weaponized invader invite himself in through the wall. So I’d leave, and start the dance, or shall we call it chase, all over again.

I’ve been such a scaredy-cat in the past, aw man, you would think I was a hopeless coward with the jitters. Two things here: I wasn’t. Plus: There’s nothing wrong with being a hopeless coward with the jitters. These are hardcore criminals with a budding thirst for brownnosing their way up the chain. They will stop at nothing to see innocent suffering. It’s okay to be terrified out of your wits among this devil spawn. I’ve seen people so scared they’ve been running naked down the street away from emergency services. I’ve practically been that person myself. Who to trust? No one.

But alas, people, there is hope, because after putting up with their grief for so long, you start to see it bleedin’ at the cracks. They are just a bunch of bored sados who can’t survive on their own.

We do better than survive on our own. We thrive while surrounded by them. So may you lot live long and watch me progress.

Indebted To Spill

Still busy dodging people who are being dishonest with me. They’ve been lying to me for bare clock movements (time), but I’ve been letting their souls off the hook because I’m a nice kinda dude whose inner vibration mainly chimes to the reconciling/pacifying kinetic fluctuations of peace/goodwill. The bible says that we should not forgive someone seven times, but seventy seven times. I’ve been sussing them out by utilising one of my ‘Denzil’ tricks, which includes a gently mild violation of their personal space. Don’t worry, no one ever gets harmed. When I am certain that someone is observing me in my immediate surrounds, I go and stand directly behind them and pretend to be absorbed with interest about something imaginary on their shoulder. Then I whisper a romantic chat-up line into their ear canal, careful not to spatter them with warm spittle from my tongue. I’ve been thinking about applying lipstick and giving their neck tissue a bit of a beefy, but as of yet there’s no need for that. They soon scarper, relinquishing their normally trustworthy eagle eye.

People greet me in the pub. I respond with, “Not now thanks, I’m psychotic.” Just to give them a clear message that I’m not interested in their crappy small talk. Then they run away to tell the bar manager that I’m not well! Then the bar manager rings the police. The police ring the outreach team…

I’ve also been thinking of other ideas regarding the soft tissue of spying guys’ necks, but we’ll not go into it here, because it might get me arrested, like I’m always getting, all of the time. You don’t have to commit a crime to get nicked (especially if you’re me). I once was sectioned for ‘threats to kill’ for example. I only said that I was going to insert a spiky baseball bat up the nether regions of my ‘fav nurse’, twist it around, and then pull it back out. This was over the phone at said nurse while absent without leave from my very own tribunal. Of course I was joking, but it wasn’t funny on speakerphone to professionals arguing my future. I always crack forceful jokes when on the juice (ale). I was arseholed in a bus stop if I remember correctly. There was no need for the board’s reaction whatsoever. Dr Paul, chiefo quack, wasn’t impressed. Thought the bollocks of my poetry collection though.

We swapped poetry when I wasn’t running around tampering with electric and igniting uncontrolled fires. That’s what they routinely accuse me of. See, I can be placid. When I’m not a psychopath on hallucinogenic compounds bought for £50 on a rainy street corner by a joker who can’t even give me the correct amount of what I wanted. Always under what you asked for, and never too much, isn’t it, have you noticed?

The words, “Excuse me Mr Dealer Man, you’ve given me too much,” have never being spoken.

One poem was entitled, ‘Why Satan is More Powerful Than God.’ Another, ‘Why My Bathroom Is Dangerous.’ And, ‘Why Is The Bus Full Of Porn Stars?’ Sorry, but most of my poems start with a philosophical adverb.

He highlighted some of my proudest verse in bright yellow Sharpie and showed his psychiatric buddies. They included a judge, a councillor and a complete stranger who was oddly listed as one of my next of kin.

Like usual I was arrested by more coppers than you can shake a branch [at], [at] divvie past 3am in the supernat morn. Somewhere deep in the animal hour anyway. My estranged half-sister who I never see any longer calls it the witch’s hour. Her dad, or step uncle as I call him, calls it the wild b*stards hour. The ‘five oh’ bashed my double glazed front door down with what is it, the iron key or the big red key or the magic key or something they call it? It looks like a thick cylindrical cannon. If it’s been deployed for drugs or weaponry, or shoeboxes of laundered cash pound notes stored in the freezer, the time of action is usually 7am. If it’s a disengaging chump who’s swallowed his month’s supply of tablets in one handful and posing as an immediate high risk for possession of golf clubs, it’s roughly 3.27am in the middle of the night.

I’ve decided that I’m not going to present them with an excuse to detain me anymore, although they don’t need one these days, they just make one up. I’m definitely not responding violently to any provocations in my vicinity (and boy are there plenty of those). I thought about carrying a minute, highly inventive shank around with me, and giving the swarming perps a little slash, like their lower backs or somewhere. I possessed one at all times on that brutal hospital wing I’ve just made the cut from (pun unintended), for strict measures of self-defence against hotheaded nurses who lived for ‘tying up’ patients (restrained, injected, isolation chambered). But no. I’m fighting back with calmness and solution-focused clarity, not bloodshed.

Phew. Tuff decision ‘dat. For an instant I wanted someone’s head on a spike. Can’yer blame me? I get demoralised and disrespected every time I turn around. Like a fool quick to rise to wrath I’ve recently been keen for going full-on into chaotic fighting mode with whichever jackass oaf numpty blockhead goofball steps in my way. KNOCKING DEMONS BANG OUT BLUD!!! If I stick my chest out some snitch or coward or other reports me for it though. There’s no point in reacting like that. I choose not to react, by giving very meticulous thought about how to respond, instead. Not sure I know the difference like! But it sounds better than swinging for someone’s eye socket.

Double Agents Bums On Magic Seats

I’ve been to a Hong Kong church in my hometown this morning. This was after my usual early morning visit to my favourite coffee shop. They usually only fill the lattes three quarters full. Much of the top half is mostly froth. I’ve politely asked them to fill my cups to the brim. There’s a buzzword in the industry for this practice: It’s called Extra Wet. I recommend you also start asking for your coffees extra wet. You get much more bang for your buck.

I get heckled everywhere I go in public, so after the caffeine boost, I decided to grab the bull by the horns and enter the church to go on the attack against them all. I sat at the very front of the pews, something I never do, shouting, “Long live Lucifer! Long live Lucifer!” Or Loserfer, as he’s known. I know, I know, I’m smack out of order, but come on, it’s only a joke. I didn’t really mean it. I was just looking for a comic reaction. All the Hong Kongish stared at me like a Bushbaby with two heads.

Then there was my apology group. Because my testimony has taken off into stratospheric levels, I’m become prey to a hoard of jealous fellow sharers who have maybe relapsed lately or are lying about how well they are doing. They are trying to get me omitted from the group for being disruptive when I do nothing but question how the apology structure should be managed. We have values on the white board which need reading each and every session. There are rules I’m familiar with which go back years, and yet new faces with false testimony are moving in for the kill and shifting the goalposts.

My apology group is a special place for struggling recluses to come to for comfort and solace from me, which I freely & graciously offer with compassion and love. I have been in a crusade against addiction for over 20 years. Like most middle-aged addicts I have a story. I often make a joke to the other participants, stating that I have the best story. This is not too far from the truth. In a way, I mean it.

The story of my life, despite hardly any career or travel, is astoundingly incredible. I don’t share it, because no one would believe it. But I touch upon it eloquently and poignantly. It’s so touching and tearful at times. I hope it inspires.

So, for the lost souls who blunder in through the door, baffled by the chaotic disaster of their lives caused by drug and alcohol abuse, my apology group is a chance to get emotional, expressive and intellectual about their shattered lives. Because talking matters. It is the last chance saloon for some. Plus, recovery IS possible. There is nothing quite so magic as a destroyed victim of substances standing to their feet again and forging a rewarding, fulfilling life for themselves. Getting their families back, managing their finances efficiently again, getting healthy and fit once more, and all of that other good stuff which arrives with sobriety.

I adore meeting those who are crushed by their own self-destructive nature when it comes to booze and drugs. Even Sex Addicts are welcome. Any kind of addiction at all. I do not own the premises to these apology groups, but I consider myself the main guy there. Mainly because I see it as apology, like all the greats, and not merely ‘sharing’ about narcotics. And we don’t wallow in defeatist terminology either: I try to speak like a politician upon whose words hang the fate of the spiritual state. My own destiny depends on how I react to the prospect of falling foul to demonic temptation. If I die, the universe dies with me. That’s how I see it anyway. Because if I’m not present, it won’t be in my perception anymore. If it’s not in my perception any longer, it may as well not exist. I am the state, in a fashion. And the state is me.

The economic state can find a tall cliff and topple off over the edge of it. All that cares about is change and growth which arises from destruction and creation. No need to mention corruption. Bombs away! Another country liberated by US police. Now Pepsi-Cola can move in…

Remarkably however, I find myself in almost violent combat with fakers who are sabotaging my special debating place on purpose and plonking their big fat rumps on my chairs with no drug or alcohol background to speak of! They are double agents there to disrupt proceedings by interrupting people who are testifying, wasting time by waffling about nothing, and generally being low vibrational frequency and bringing the place down in energy.

They are there to terminate my happiness for no reason at all. They strive hell for leather to achieve this in vast organized numbers and with gritty doggedness. One word out of place and they hurry to go above my head and report me. One passive aggressive reaction and they grass me up to the police. They take great umbrage when I retaliate with laughter. Joyful laughter. Because I have joyful laughter in the deep creases of my DNA helixes. This is why everyone hates me. This is why they do it. Worse, they pretend to me my friend in the process, sticking the knife in with a smile and a nudge and a wink. But I am joyful laughter. And I. Am. Apology.

My temper is in the balance lately. I’m honestly thinking about lashing out. This will undoubtedly get me arrested. That means nick, or more likely psych ward. Years of freedom lost. So, if I go missing, don’t fret, I might be able to continue blogging from the prison computers. But rest assured, I shouldn’t be dead. I have quit smoking, and secured myself a future. I am alive and well in Christ, so nothing should happen to me. If you find me missing for several weeks, give it another several weeks before you check in on me again. I should return. Of course, one of these days, I'm going to surely shuffle off this mortal coil permanently, and my last entry will be the deadest last. In that case, you can travel backwards in time via my many previous posts, where I was blindfolded and misled by many untruthful forces, to read about how I arrived where the current date sets me.

Now, as of this day forward, I am grateful and honest with My Maker. I don’t want to be the best blogger in the world. I don’t want a thousand hits a day. I can live without cars and holidays and kids. I just want to retain my joy. I cherish the same for you too, if you’ve been with me on this scribbling nethead’s odyssey into bleak caverns and back again, or if you’ve arrived here accidentally and are simply having a mooch. Now, for the first time, although my persecution is excessively impactful, I sense a clearing of the windstorms, I detect an easing of the overflowing floods. My soul is flying high, my spirit is sailing free, I am conclusively becoming who I was born to be…

Got This Got That

I’ve been getting followed around now for many years, by the same people. There’s been one bin-dipping vagabond in particular who is in the library where I do my blogging every single time I visit, sat there smugly, watching me from the corner of his eye. I’ve finally just gotten rid of the eyesore only to have another watchman take his place immediately. This ‘confronting’ the enemy isn’t going so well thus far. Once you start asking the question, “Are you following me?” you find yourself asking everyone and his dog the same thing. One day sooner or later they’ll be up for a tussle, if I can find one with any minerals, and I’ll be incarcerated for practising kung fu without consent.

I just want to get a few things straight in my life, before I bite the bullet and get done for murder.

I have a future. Now that I’m not drinking or smoking, I can realistically ruminate upon partaking in some exercise. This may take some time to set into motion, because usually, whenever I feel like getting active and running, I lie down in comfort until the feeling goes away. A future to me may mean only several more years of life extension, but if I were to carry on down that route of chain-smoking and necking lagers, I would only last at best several more months. I’d accepted my breathless, bloated fate many moons ago. Those poisons had a vicelike grip over my behaviours, I could not stop, first thing in the morning I would go the shop, I couldn’t imagine being without. Now, there are many ongoing dramas in my life, but self-assassination by harmful chemicals and corrosive fluids isn’t one of them. I will survive much longer now than I previously thought. Sans beer; sans fag.

I have love. Yes, despite wanting my organized stalkers crucified upside down along the high street, I still have love. I refuse to be embittered by hatred, like the cold-as-stone voices which abuse, molest and rape me without even momentary cease. I have high-vibrational compassion going on richly in my life, with empathy and peace. The ring of evildoers around me insist that they have love just because I do (if I had a mouldy butterfinger they’d want a piece of it), but they are lying about it, they are loveless and envious and jealous of my giftings. If I had only a single chipped marble to my name, then they would want to take it off me. They wouldn’t leave me with a pot to pee in. I am a big soppy pants when it comes to love, I wouldn’t dream of ever wanting to snatch it off anybody.

I have joy. Christ, do I ever stop laughing at the silly immature daft perpetrators surrounding me? Instead of being frightful I find them demented. I simply laugh at anything now. Even dark stuff. As long as I am giggling, that is the main thing. Because the Devil hates jokes. Do you think there is laughter in Hell? You’d be wrong if you did. I should know, because I live above it. There’s plenty of whining, but no guffawing. I. cannot. Stop. Laughing. At them.

I am powerful. This is big-headed of me to admit. I don’t mean the deceitful power of supernatural influence, where dead souls serve power over love, but I mean the self-inferred determining power which comes from putting things right with God. I have always been getting walked all over by hostile operatives in the neighbourhood, because I was using drugs and sinning with my loins and not in the scripture, but now I am an iron shank for the Most High. In fact, sometimes, I feel like the Most High. That’s how powerful I am. I walk down the street, and despite never-ending evil opposition, I walk anywhere with my head up fearing nothing, least of all not cowardly sado masochists. Whom I batter.

Snapping Gangs Like Dolls In Apology

I regard ‘sharing’ my experience of resilience, strength and hope in drug counselling meetings as ‘apology’ these days. I’ve always had an interest in apology, watching shows like The Big Questions on a Sunday morning. I’d tune into any debate on the box, be it Kilroy or Esther Rantzen or Vanessa Feltz. But what I really preferred were the big religiosity hitters, like Richard Dawkins, Christopher Hitchens, and William Lane Craig, to name but a few. I adore a good old-fashioned argument between diplomatic intellectuals, I think it’s dead interesting. It’s hysterical if one of them loses their rag.

I once saw an apologist pull another apologist’s trousers down live on air.

Before my meeting this morning, I got a touch violent myself in the canteen room. I accused a group of people of stalking me. Well, I didn’t quite accuse, I asked. Sorry, but it seems like the whole unruly town is in on my collapse. So I’ve started asking a few honest questions to people I don’t wholly trust. But when they look at me as if I’m daft, or pretend to not know what I’m talking about, I tend to get angry with them. I get locked up when I am peaceful, for nothing more than manning a BBQ, so you can imagine the panic in people I incur when I’m ready to throw my weight about.

I was huffing and puffing before, I was ready to batter someone. Some imbecile wound me up by expecting a handshake. When I refused, he followed me around with an extended palm, unable to accept that I didn’t want to shake with him. Then he ran away and grassed on me for getting aggressive. Everyone I know is a snitch round here. Weird thing is, they’re proud of it. That’s why I’m not scared, and why I feel extremely capable at the moment.

I’m Brave Against – 

>other criminal hoodlums

>the corrupt police force

>invisible numpty evil spirits

I’m brave against them because I belong to Christ. I have been persecuted, I am meek with entitled inheritance, I am Heavenly bound, and I, most importantly, am a bloody and violent Angel of wrath (if I want to be).

You should see my rap sheet. Arson, fighting, harassment, weapons, drugs…not proud, but it weren’t my fault. I was young and stupid and being led astray by negative forces. I’m not exulting these deeds but I’m far from ashamed, for they are honest reactions to being raised in modern society. What chance did I have, snatched away as a child? And now being oppressed sadistically by lonely bored maniacs every minute of the day! Go way!

I have a history of violence, and now that I am certain that I belong to God, after much recent doubt, I’ve been thinking about embracing that homicidal unpredictability again, to protect myself and to rout out the snakes. I’ve been a self-professed pacifist for nearly twenty years, so my hands have been tied behind my back all this time.

My brother says that there is a difference between being non-violent, and being harmless. Harmless can’t fight, even if they are provoked.

Still, even as a pacifist, I’ve been arrested for battery. Lol. All I did was break some stalker’s mobile phone as he was walking his Afghan Hound in the local park. I was at my wit’s end. I wrapped my arm around his girlfriend and she pressed charges too. You may not know this, but battery constitutes laying a single finger on another person. Yep, touching their shoulder pleasantly in greeting can be classed as assault. And it was. With me.

I wouldn’t be surprised if someone asked me for a light and then reported me for starting uncontrolled fires on their cigarette. I’ve been done for only marginally worse.

I have a twistedly wickedly streak like most people, only mine is suppressed deep down because of my moralistic convictions. I’ve been considering utilising all my wrath on someone, because the guilty are lining up in front of me with nothing but more sticks and stones to bring me down with. They don’t realise that they are useless agents of the dark one being used as collateral when I go full retard on them with wrestling moves. As I intend to do soon because I’m losing my mind.

You, by simply been here and reading this, help keep me sane. So thank you, if your intentions are pure.

That’s why I kicked off in the canteen earlier. I’d been hearing their voices in my head all night, and next morning there they all are engaged in small talk, as if they are all my friends, doing me favours by telling me the football scores. I was warned not to approach ‘real’ people if you are hearing their voice in your head, it’s probably not them, this new wave of neural weapon can imitate strangers easily, damned if I know about it, I just want to exert my anger over someone at the moment, any excuse’ll do, I’ll be honest about it, because I’m not training in the gym, and getting pent up feelings.

I’ve been thinking about the mentality about being a torpedo, and ‘smashing somone on sight’, (SOS). I reckon I’d be quite efficient at it. Three punches, three kicks, then I’d walk away. I’m fair. I don’t stamp on heads unless they have particularly upset me, although I would in certain circumstances, because 13 years of non-touch torture has me virtually foaming at the mouth for someone’s blood. Question is, whose? Anyone’s while I’m in this mood, straight up. I know this line of venture sounds horrible, but you should see the lengths I’m been driven to.

It would be nice though, wouldn’t it, to exact revenge on one of these impossible-to-describe dirt lords who drive good honest innocent people to the unimaginable despair of induced suicide through years and years of malicious covert harassment? It’s decided. The next person in the street who jangles their keys within earshot is getting thrashed up. Can’t wait to unload some hurting bombs. Their ancestors will feel them, like being kissed by the express train.

This may sound bizarre, but somebody once broke into my apartment and hurt a baby on my bed as I half-dozed on the sofa in the adjacent living room. I was frozen with fear at the time, there was an armed psycho in my home, I almost left. If that occurred now I’d investigate the intruder and dismantle him, no problem. That’s the difference these days between being a hapless victim of evil or a righteous fist of the Good Mighty Lord. I once ran from danger, now I charge into the fray. To live, and also to die, on this chosen, eventful day…

Kismet, synchronicity, zef side and all the rest of it.

I don’t think I’ll lose control, I’m too reasonable, I despise violence, plus I can express all kinds of furiousness through a practiced, measured vocal range in apology. Words can hurt just like a slap with a wet slipper. You should see me in class rip these fakers a new one. People attend apology sessions just to shut me up. For years I’ve let them get away with it.

But now the dream is over, and the monster is awake…