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.

What Can Possibly Go Wrong?

(⌚) Garmin says you have elevated stress levels…my watch told me. I was relaxing in the sauna at the time! What a load of bollocks!

My girl Mel just shared a bunch of testimony in PAUSE, a mental health drop in centre. She said that her car, when involved in an accident, sends a message to her phone. Her phone then sends a notification to all emergency contacts. She slammed on once, rather innocently, no one hurt, just a dose of sudden braking, and next minute, everyone and his dog was ringing her, believing she had been injured. I’m only reporting this because I thought it was an interesting piece of technology.

Mel is an interesting girl. I was thinking about pointing her here, but rule number one in blogging, according to me, is never show your material your material. I’d rather write about her than have her read about me, if you get what I mean? Do you see my point? Do you understand me? Are you with me? Just nod along and say yeah to confirm.

She’s a young self-harmer with mental issues. You already know that I fully love these types, don’t you? Yes, I have a soft spot for them. It’s only the second time I’ve ever met her. I made her chuckle with a left-handed screwdriver joke. She didn’t get it at first. We got along really well, anyway, and I was able to forget my stalkers for an hour. Maybe she was placed in my path on purpose. Now that I’ve had my days off from the mission (pissballing around with narcotics), I can get back down to the nitty gritty of high frequency vibrational fields, and the laws of positive attraction.

Apology this morning was a fracas. Instead of one of us at a time relating our point of view, it was more like one big messy cross-talking conversation. It’s a joy to listen to eloquent addicts talk about their pitfalls and successes. I’m back into the role of my lifestyle now, after that horrendous break I just took, and determined to stay true on the right path.

You comedian, you’re thinking, aren’t you? How many times have you said that?

Yeah, but this time I’m serious. I’m staying clean.

And how many times have you said that?

⌚Garmin says that you are lying, Andrew.

We’ll see. I’m having a really good day. Got another lengthy apology session this evening at Peer Support Group. After a relapse, it’s quite hard to talk about anything not negative, but I’ll discuss bouncing back with an exalted purpose, which is almost as satisfying, if you really are bouncing back big time, as flying high on the business end of a decent spree. I really might stop counting the days for a while, until I get right on up there towards the higher end of the 90 Day bracket mark.

Go ten years clean, have one blow out, and you’re back to square one, as if the ten years didn’t matter.

I’m not having any of that. It’s a mug’s game this. I’m out.

Either I’m feeling well and bright and cheery and zesty, or I’m down and out on the mattress behind the curtain. Numbers have got nothing to do with it. Because I’ve recently used, do I have to sit on the shameful step for three months before I can feel well again. No, I do not, I can get right back at it with an improved mood immediately. I can snap out of the fugue and declare contentedness straightaway, by continuing my fellowship engagements and other healthy aspects of life. There’s no need to wallow in the aftermath of a binge. Back on the saddle. 

Failed Journo

^(💢1979.146÷6.7=?{23>54?

donning.new.garments.today

put.the.lamp.away.the.

dawn.has.come

core.problem.emotionmal.root

signed ahead of time: Ă.Ď

ᾭᾶ¥ῖ___ᾭᾶ¥ῖ🌁ᾭᾶ¥ῖ

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

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

___________________🚾

WritER sTATS:

Most recent dynamic transformation: present day

SPEED: APPROX 80 WORDS A MINUTE

FUEL: mUESLI AND dirty>Rice

treAT: CARlinG (568ml) 🍺

💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤💤

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

Facing The Day (Again)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rag N Bone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Supermen are a brand of old ecstasy tablets.

Spilling His Guts

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

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

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

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

I feel like a drink.

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

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

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

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

Back Intact

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relapse.acknowledged.heart.

soul.intact.conscience

forgiven.rebirth.announced

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

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

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

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

I wish I wasn’t weird like that.

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

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

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

I don’t know.

But. Most importantly.

I don’t care.

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

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

Sorry, anyway, for what it’s worth.

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

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

Hope all well in your world.

Damn!!!

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

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

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

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

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

Single As A Pringle Ready To Mingle

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^{blogger active/}

^{ready to upload/}

^{thought pattern green lighted/}

^{justice in the human race/}

^{emotive competition/}

^{rare and plentiful resources/}

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Miraculous Escape

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

> Oh Lordy. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

> A Mossad soldier.

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

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

> It seemed to appear out of thin air.

“I love it when mental patients escape” 

> Classic opening line.

But not as much as a miraculous escape.