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.

  

Serenity

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

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

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

(or something like that).

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

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

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

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

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

Just. Go. Away.

Nothing Going On

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

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

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

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

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

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

> I call mine absolute tw*ts.

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

Toxic Puppets

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

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

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

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

And mere Toxic Puppets is what they shall forever remain.

Holier Than You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

41 42 43 44 45

Drawing The Line

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

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

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

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

xxx_____👄👅_____xxx

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

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

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

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

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

>>> I would HATE to go back.

>>> I would LOVE to go back.

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

Torn

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cipher

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Poor Buchanan

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

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

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

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

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

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

____________

And my beard.

And my whisky.

And my fags.

____________

And my fearlessness luxury branded lighter.

Same Happening, Come See

My boy James has to go a Mother & Baby Unit (MBU) with his newborn. He has problems smoking weed. I’ve never heard of these institutions, have you? I think it’s where the authorities settle custody disputes. Sounds like a neat little holiday to me. A holiday of nightmares.

Meeting last night. Some guy said he pumped his partner’s stomach when she attempted suicide with pills. Why is there always someone around when peeps try and take their own life? Sounds like a cry for help to me.

My boy Brian brags about how many people he’s saved from suicide. He said he got there on one occasion when some dude was hanging from the lampshade. Just in the nick of time.

My boy Matty claims that he is still in PTSD from chopping down the bodies of his hanging mates. Sounds like a scene from Apocalypse Now.

We all have our horror stories, don’t we? Some wear this like a badge to show off about. I do it myself, but only on here. I wouldn’t dream of talking about most of my trauma to folk outside, in public. We’ve all had it so so hard, haven’t we? None as tough as me lol.

It’s the Midlands convention coming up soon. Can you imagine the combined egotistical force of 1500 addicts in one place? The war wounds, the miraculous healings, the crawling plates of food on LSD? I can’t get a word in at my local small gathering, let alone there. There’s something cultish about it, no doubt, but there are fun stories to be heard, apart from the usual praise for the 12 Steps. I don’t fancy serving myself up with the Steps. I write enough here about my overall condition, which is much more than mere drug addiction. I’d truly like to get to grips explaining my visual disturbances, but I don’t want to give the invisible party around me undue attention. Maybe I’m slowly working up to it. They’re with me now, fake laughing and mocking, as ever.

My other boy Matty claims he is seeing humans change into animals. He calls these visions delusions. It seems that everybody has no clue about psychosis. A delusion is a false belief, an hallucination or a vision is an hallucination or a vision. I thought I was delusional in my early years, before my oppressors went overt. I was wrong. All the delusions were true and worse than. Nothing in life can prepare you for them. Not even Shaolin Monks, although they do help.

Did I tell you I’m skint? I have a rotten cash flow problem. I can afford one pint and I’m now going off to have it. Then I’m off to the green room to catch up on some gossip. People always throw snide comments my direction as soon as I leave though. I don’t mind two-faced people who are friendly to your face, it’s better than being one-faced and horrible. Or is it? I don’t much care. Pretty much all of human behaviour at surface level face value is a bit of a farce, it feels like presently, to me. I know what I feel truthfully when I am deep-thinking in solitude. Guys are always gunna stab you in the back, aren’t they? 

Credentials

	Space Hopping	Saturn and back
	Dinosaur Spotting	In local park
	Chambering Demons	Esp. porous cannibals
	Angel Making	Skylar and others
	7th Circle Survival	Habitat ground zero
	Heaven Visiting	Could see for miles
	Clone & Afterlife	Loved ones preserved
	Spiritual Warfare	Chosen/targeted
	Myth Busting	Mental Health
	Scientific Epiphanies	Relativity
	Vibration Frequency	Empath
	Nark Kryponite	Silence
	Toothpaste	Colgate Total

120.^5[0]324,XXX!XXX,,

(~.-.~)300.^8[1]266,XXX!X_XX,

(~.-.~)210.^7[1]876,X!X,

 furlong.speed.compete.

conk.blinkered.adjusted

thoughtful.happy.sad

 ꙮ꙰꙱꙲ꙮ꙰꙱꙲___😃

ꙮ꙰꙱꙲ꙮ꙰꙱꙲___  😢

Just messing around here with some of the more lofty experiences from my past. It was all good fun at the time, apart from the time when I had a “Who Dares Wins” soldier in my flat with a knife, there to execute me. I saw him at the last minute. A demon sniggering from the kitchen cupboard scared him off and saved my life. I would rather have been offed than redeemed by a demon, but there you go, I was pleased to survive another night. There’s an awful lot I’ve left away from this list, as memory serves correct, but I’d be showing off if I carried on, as this curious mixture is enough to paint anybody in a flamboyant light. You may think I am not serious, but I am. But I’ve taken several Big Boy steps back from the life I used to live. The gateway to all this was drugs, by the way. Don’t be surprised if your teenage daughter or son starts reporting similar experiences if they embark on a hedonistic lifestyle of mind-altering substances with hardly any sleep and poor diet. Probably not, but you never know. Just saying. I believe the correct term for me is psychonaut. I love telling you all about myself, Google Chrome. Don’t sweat it.

It's Alright Mate

¹⁷²⁶409(.6)___₠₨₰₾⅍₭₪₪ﱟﯬ

{9fear.of.losing.so(me)one-

986.6522{44537826 (🎲)

Howdy Piebald Club, the weather is great here! Feeling a lot more energetic, considering my recent tiredness getting about from place to place. Just had an excellent session in the Green Room after today’s apology session. Lots of tea and coffee and free crisps. I love bonding with the other clients, even if they have been responsible for hurting me in the past. Because my mind is open access, a lot of the two-faced people in my public circle haunt my dreams and play head games in my sleep. I believe they use neuro weaponry, which is a real thing of the world, but they insist that what they are doing is perfectly natural. Regulating emotions, cognitions, and physical function, perfectly natural? And that is putting it lightly. I constantly feel drained, confused, baffled, belittled, undermined, haunted, and victimised. This is despite being stalked, tracked, and harassed for a living, throughout every hour of every day for years on end. They all pretend to be psychics on the A-ttack. I regularly meet with some of my persecutors under the Pathways roof, which just goes to show that there’s more than hate in space. I refuse to be undone by that biological poison, hatred, and I forgive those who are running amok with my brain and my soul. What am I supposed to do, stab them up? And tell them they’re been using science-fiction ray beam guns on my head thru the wall at night? Do you think the judge would go easy on me, if I said that?

That’s why I chat with them in the daytime, after they pulverise my psyche at night. Because none of it is barely believable by anyone, least of all myself. And of course I have no proof. Directed-energy mind-control is traceless. I’m surprised I’m not hearing your voice in my head! It seems that everyone I meet soon channels their vocals into my skull shortly following our first meet. This is standard procedure. There are voices and personalities lingering around my mind which are older than some of my most sentimental bobbled socks, and my most sentimental bobbly socks are accruing quite a fair old age between them if I’m honest.

I’m a lot more stringent with socks than I used to be. I find great pleasure in purchasing new ones, and love a change of undies in case I get hit by a bus. What must the mortician think if someone is lying on their slab with ratty underwear on? Not anything too impressive, that’s for sure. We still continue to get judged after death, don’t we? Even by the quality of our tomb and gravesite.

My younger brother had a cool headstone, it had a photograph of him on it. The vast majority of the other ones in the cemetery don’t. I’d like my author photograph on my head stone, one day. Fat chance of that though. I can’t afford to pay my bin men council tax; how am I going to afford a frilly headstone?

Plus, I repeatedly get threatened with being dragged to Hell on a daily basis anyway, underneath my own floorboards, in a makeshift pain laboratory with life extension capabilities, so I won’t be needing a plush burial site! Hoping I avoid that drama and scoot up to Heaven before the Chinese terrorists and Russian spies revive me for extra-judicial punishment in the afterlife. Sounds like a bowl of cherries, doesn’t it. Heaven, if you’re there, beam me up! And pronto.

Dark Meds

~ 3.?6⁴⁷9/.3@

~ 1)$0¹⁹2+,8~

~ 5”|6⁴⁷3.(8_

___still.breathe.react

___respond.crucial.^negate

___reason.crutch.spangle

ꙥꙵꜤꚘꙥꙵꜤ_Ꚙ ꚎꙥꙵꜤꚘꙥꙵꜤ_Ꚙ ꚎꙥꙵꜤꚘꙥꙵꜤ_Ꚙ

Those hardy fools at the clinic have got me back on medication, against my will, administered by a 9 man strong force team if necessary. Seriously. Last time I questioned it, they sent in just 4 big dudes to pin me. This was after the fiasco of nine of them. I rolled over in bed and accepted it. I’m not fighting because of dignity. I refuse to enter an outnumbered tussle and trying to hurl hurting bombs with my hands protecting my glutes at the same time. It’d be an unruly squabble. Put me in a boxing ring with the main doctor and we’ll settle it that way, eh?

I swear, this so-called lifesaving wonder drug, that’s what he called it, a life-saver, has seen me become a fat heifer. I’ve lost all litheness and mobility. Or it might not be the drug. It might be the fact that I am chained to the chippy and not doing any running. Maybe a combination of factors are at work here. Whatever, I’m now a porky tonky tubby chubster (fat bastard). And I never have been before. It’s the loss of my locomotive skills which hurt the most, nothing to do with vanity. I used to enjoy a tough old struggling jog around the estate, or a quick sprinting blast diagonally across the local field, but now Christ, I'm knackered putting a fag out.

But who the hell is interested in a lardy dude? Not even me, and I am now one.

Let’s get down to brass tax. Maniacs are trying to take over the world. Or I think they already own the world. But now they want to go one further. They want all innocent good decent folk out the way permanently. I’m being careful with my wording here, because their plans can be put across in a frightening manner. Everyone is familiar with the conspiracy. I never usually discuss it, but I’m bored. We’re talking about afterlife preservation and Matrix-style battery harvesting of the population, but in real life. What the dark human heart at the top of society has planned for everyone else is exceptionally disturbing, I won’t go into it, as it’s the stuff of nightmares, and here at the blogspot we are all about beacons of hope rather than shadows of darkness. 

That's all I can murmur about it. I'm not very good at warning people. I'll just remind you here and there. I believe that it may be the End Of Days and the world is now up for grabs by the meanest cabal maybe unless me and you start fighting (now and again, when we can be arsed) with the utmost of all our fortitude. I know it's terribly depressing, but my two golden rules are stay calm and don't react. Those pesky mind controllers with have you, as they have had me, running out of your property in nothing but your bath gown and hurting your feet on gravel with the horrors they have waiting up their sleeve. Don't ever succumb to fear, no matter how rattled you are, and never be a foolish rusher to wrath. Just concentrate on something meaningful to you, don't panic, and breathe your way thru it. What are you talking about? You may ask.

Well, the terror of nightmarish visions, voices and hallucinations, that's what's getting rabbited about here. You don't have to be mentally ill, they can do it to anyone, and once it occurs, your old life is over. You now have to enter Warrior Phase Mode to simply survive each day, let alone do all the stuff you used to do. Get ready for heaps of dread, loss of relationships, slander, isolation and armloads of general mishaps and misery. That's even if you are strong. I plead and pray this peculiar breed of torment is kept separate from your good self. Leave it to me, I'll deal with it. Someone ruddy bloody has to.

Yeah, I was wiped out on the meds yesterday. I slept for two to three hours after a smoke and a brew again and again all throughout the day and night. In the evening I had some decent grub for sustenance: Beef, rice, and stir fry vegetables. I'm no longer a veggie at the moment. Perhaps I'll rejoin that club another time. 

Today I feel refreshed and able to get about without lethargy. I'm well in the zone here. I gave my best share today in apology, I spoke like a master story teller with tons of experience. I'm using my rough past as a badge of valour now, instead of something to be ashamed of. I'm growing into someone I don't recognise. My own inner grit is strange to me. I'm usually a shirker when it comes to confrontation. Now I'm a thinking bull with confidence and authority. It's most unlike me, but sometimes staying the same person is even harder than the modulating process of changing into somebody else.

Bodybuilder Doodles

Hope that these naked dudes don't throw you off, if bodybuilding is not your thing. And why would it be? These cutouts are all I have left in my scrapbook. I would have liked to have sketched them, to make the images wholly original. I've grown out of the sport in recent times, these are champions from years ago, but a figure is a figure. Sorry, I know you would prefer Miley Cyrus. I thought about putting outlines on them. Mostly I'm just making the best of pen work which I feel doesn't quite stand alone in its own right. Some computer-aided design would touch them up nicely. I like the idea of getting back into collaging, with or without computers, I used to enjoy it. It's great for keeping occupied in the evenings.

To begin with, I thought I had no blue tack, so was almost forced into using duct tape. That so wouldn't have worked. I never use glue if I can help it, because then the images can't be re-used as part of something else. Glue is so final. I'm presently thinking about what else I can do with these, as it's not often I doodle anymore. I like to cut a finished picture in half and re-stick it together again in an odd way. Same with sculptures; just snap them in two and restructure them as a general rule.

I've been looking at the best book covers in the world for inspiration. I like being art-minded, it's good for the soul. My initials are ATD (Art Till Death) but I haven't been living it lately. I like the idea of simple art, as basic as can be. It seems that the more complicated and complex something is, the better, but I disagree sometimes. It's hard to be elementary and conceptual.

 

Escaping The Trap

 # 3”[5]!2-6/3(7),

# 485(9)”!/5[-4],

# (0)27”[2/-]!16.

___elevate.proportion.transfer

___connect.candleflame.bookend

___glow.unravel.interwine

 

ỖỦἛἉ;~ỖỦἛἉ;~/ỖỦἛἉ;~ỖỦἛἉ;

Yeah, the slander is hurtling my way thick and fast. I got affronted by a hoodlum torpedo last week. He was there to SOS me (smash on sight). I was sitting peacefully in my abode when he stopped outside the open patio and accused me of looking at kids. Instead of smashing him on sight back, for being so dumb-ass to cite a brother of being a beast, I merely defended myself amicably, showing him respect and kindness. I Understand torpedoes, the less they know the better.  Apparently, ‘a lot’ of people have said I’ve been snatching sneaky peeks at minors. Of course, it’s not true. I value my relationship with the children on my estate as extra special. I feel like I am their soldier keeping them safe, because when I let my guard slip and end up on the comedown wastepile, unable to do a recce around my grounds, it occurs to me that they may be in jeopardy. Because my enemies will hurt anyone to get to me, and because they are reading my thoughts, they know exactly when I am not up for defending my home turf. I’ve seen multiple kidnappings in real life in my manors, so I am under no illusion what might happen if I trip up, I put nothing past them, if they are enterprising enough to build a seedy lab underneath my ground floor home, they are valiant enough to dump someone down there, and, of course, blame me for it. Everyone always blames me for all the world’s problems, it seems.

The real harm I’ve done over the course of my life tends to get overlooked, while my foes are falling over themselves in order to make something new up; the best one I’ve heard so far is the vigilante impeachement that I am a supernatural being called The Orchestrator, a star ship deity above both Lucifer and God. I think that the cabal out to destroy my life commit petrifying deeds in their little underground base (and above) and blame their hobbycrafts on me. They’ve listed me with a lengthy string of powers which fear the general public and all others who are thick enough to believe it (which is more or less everyone by the way). Basically, I can do anything to anyone. My perps DO do everything to EVERYONE around me I think, and because I was once involved romantically with one of this shuddersome mean cabal, they tend to side with her, so all the shit flows downward to me.

Other victims of my perps hold me responsible for their suffer. And there may be many. All I know is that I am directed with vile antagonism day in day out. We are not here to be worshipped though. So I guess it’s just tough on me. Don’t worry, I have an extra large set of bollocks so can handle it. The reason they do it, so they say, is because they are after my supernatural power. They trust in their own lies. Well, so much energy has departed me over the years, thanks to a mixture of my sinful loins and their harassment, that I am surprised I can still function with just a dribble of vital steam inside of me. Every time I think I am practically out of fighting substance I hear a knock at the door and feel that invisible prod in my ribs from the footman’s blade; it feels all over to me, until I summon one more morsel of mustard seed faith from the very innermost chambers of my self-volition and start to breathe again. I’ve had strangers enter my flat and trap me in the dark with my trousers down, armed, with animals, multiple times, depleting my ‘powers’, and I’ve always lived to tell the tale, despite , at the time, current contrary beliefs.

I’ve found myself in some especially hairy predicaments over the years. The reinforcing death threats don’t help. One time I partially woke up from a drug-induced slumber to find what I can only suppose to be a torturer-for-hire cutting my hair. When it was done he hung around like he wanted a tip. Eventually he returned to hiding in the cupboard for laughs. They like to put animals in my flat when I am out of it. I forget to turn on the lights and soon enough I’ll be windblown by the dire hard truth: My boundaries have been breached by high-up riffraff who wish to physically render me seriously harmed. The realisation never fails to make an impression. Usually I am in the throes of passion so I hold my nerve, as long as the drugs are still in ready supply. Once I am spent though, with no substances left, it is time for the real fear to kick in. I am getting better with it. Best two rules in life I have ever learned: Stay calm and don’t react.

Several times I’ve woken up in the morning grateful to still have my head attached to my neck. These days I spend either arguing with or ignoring my persecutors. I am becoming emotionally distant from their erring, unnerving motherly attention. Enough is enough is already too much. Their antics are silly and childish. They are boring and tiresome. Seriously, the Third World War battle for the human mind is not really worth getting irate about, if you understand human behaviour. People are just control freaks who want attention, it’s as dyed in the cloth as that.

I appropriated an angelic daughter along the way of this uncanny process. In the end I sold her, forsook her, whatever you wanna call it, and she flipped to the demoniac. Now she hangs around sticking her tongue out at me in mockery of anything I ever do. You couldn’t make this joke up could you?

I am now happy to be flying solo mainly, apart from a gentle vague blessing of the angelic. I remain stalwart in the Holy Spirit, am steadfast to protecting my heart, plus my peace and my joy, and I am always trying to stop sinning with my winky dicky pocket rocket. I don’t know what else is expected of me. Evil spirits have taken to surrounding me in a tight circle, upping their noticeability in the visible light spectrum, and watching me intently without saying a word, in order to make me so anxious that panic stations is not far away. I remain untroubled by this odd phenomenon and take to falling asleep on them.

They give me atrocious nightmares, as soon as I am comfortable dozing. I wake, open the window, have a fag, and return to the mattress. It looks as if nothing bothers me, I only cry tears of happiness lately, but underneath I know that my troubles are vastly unique. Life is hard enough, but to be followed every minute of the day by ghouls and ghosts is a bit of a piss take.

I’m writing about them again, which I hate. I should be writing about the grace of God, who sees me through their every plundering attack. I am still here, and telling you the script to myself. I enjoy describing the chaos, but please no more, I am done, stick a fork in me to relieve the pressure.

I’d like to be a warning and an aid to fellow Targeted Individuals, Chosen, Empaths and Dissidents etc, by whistleblowing and exposing, but I am too busy relishing time getting creative about my surreal & outlandish & erratic & unconventional experiences, hopefully for your delectation. I would be honoured if you were slightly amused by my ordeal. I see the funny side after the paperwork is done. What I would hate is if this were to make you even minutely fearful. Don’t be. Stand up with a higher power of your own understanding and take authority over the footman. The atomic karma and justice of the universe is an excellent candidate for anything higher and such. I know a guy who has Father Christmas as his higher power. It’s a fellowship thing.

I stand with Christ as I love what he represents, such as all the virtues and the beatitudes.

Until next time, folks.