Bedroom Threat

I’ve just logged onto YouTube, as I usually do each day to listen to music as I write. I was met by bloody injuries and deformities on people’s faces. It looked a tad gory, so I’ve logged off. I’m reminded of a site called Toxic Junction from several years back, on which were a lot of execution videos. I understand there are execution videos on YouTube. Really not my cup of my tea. Instant nightmares if you ask me. Maybe I’m being a bit of a wuss. I’m no good with the red stuff though, unless it’s a poorly-budgeted horror movie. The Substance (2024) featured a ton of red stuff, a comic amount actually, I would have turned it off if I [had of been] [were] [was] alone.

Sorry, still learning to write hard being the best.

I’m just trying to stress how sensitive and gentle I am as a big buck 21^st century male here in the UK. One sight of blood and I’m trembling, one bone-chilling scream and I’m out of there. My estate feels pretty lawless so wish me lorry loads of luck. I think the local residents are in the process of framing me for some serious offences on a girl or woman. I think it’s happened before. I think the police insert these false crimes in the ‘miscellaneous’ section of my criminal file. Extra-judicial punishment gets you for them either way. How paranoid do you think I’m being here, in all seriousness? Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not really doing it…

One time in the middle of the night a police officer wakes me up and asks me if I’m alright. How the hell did you get in? I say. There have been occurrences in the living room when I’ve been spaced out on brain killer powder when I’ve been convinced that the bedroom is full of hostile unfriendlies. Fakers in joke shop police costumes, masons, perps, regular break n enterers from the boozer, you name it. They climb in through the window, I deduce.

Did I ever tell you, that once when I peered up in the dark from the living room floor, where I was brain killered up in the subtle comforting PC screen glow of an erotic film, I was met by a man holding a knife, just staring at me cooly, leaning against my hallway door frame, only six feet away? It was this way many times over with giant caterpillars and wild cats and tarantulas and mutant rats and other general assassins, but hardly ever with a human being holding a blade.

I always read that perpetrators got close, but nothing could prepare me for touching distance.

At the same time I noticed another faint glow, aside from the movie screen I was watching, it looked like a ring of Christmas decorations encircling me, beaming into perceptible effulgence in sync with my concentration upon them as a distraction from the articled fellow. I believed this to be a special force field from somewhere so I was able to keep my fear in check. I suspect for years that something up there has been looking after me in the darkest times, but it never let me know, I had no idea I was safe, so still trembled with fearsome foreboding accordingly most of the time.

Even after a paranormal sighting of lips in the sky promised me eternal love, I kept jacking off to the same old negative dark energies and spurning my good nature’s prowess, laying open my chances at survival from the literal pit below my floorboards, a chasm that to this day chants mantras about my doomy forthcoming downgrade. Forthcoming if I don’t halt present vulnerable behaviours, like blowing my own grey matter out with toxic powder and then slumping there being spellbound by their orgies.

Now, due to an increase in my enemies attack, and a general shrinkage in my spiritual guard, I consider myself living on the edge, in extremis, under threat, an endangered species. Rather than being the hero, and saving the world, I focus on not being ripped apart by wild dogs each day.

You wouldn’t believe how I’m having my sleeping hours attacked. I’d try and tell you but it wouldn’t make much sense! The truth sounds insane when telling what the insane are doing…

I remember a comment Alex Jones made on Infowars some years back, about what companies were doing to chimps in secret bases around the corner. Something about what companies are doing to chimps in secret bases around the corner. That’s all he said, but it stuck with me. I’m the same! I think if only you knew what they are doing to me…in a not-so-secret council flat around the corner.

I hope they are only testing perfume on the chimp. The way he said it makes one wonder though.

I imagine them all [the chimps] sat on surgical chairs with electrodes on their open brains watching a bank of TVs playing old shows like Jeremy Kyle, Oprah and Montel Williams, eating cornflakes with lukewarm milk and drinking cups of tea with crusty toast.

This is much like me on a comedown. Except my head ain’t open because they don’t need no electrodes, it’s done wirelessly. The bedroom is still chock-a-block with threatening strangers, including a porous one who has walked through the wall to check I am reactive to his cattleprod, which smarts alarmingly because my force field is gone.

Same sh*t, different day.

Thank God I’m not holed up today, in my greasy lair, but am busy up and about doing this and staying positive. It’s hard work, because my home has great temptations, I can hear sexy ghouls sporting lipstick who are actively waiting to get me where I need to be. The mind slips away like red and white fluffy dice down a bubbly stream as the pleasures of the flesh are kindled for action. I have to careful as it’s a horrible affliction. What I’ve just wrote about will happen again, only these days it is far worse, these days I get surrounded by genetically-enhanced monsters.

Anyway, instead of execution videos, I’ve been watching a young girl on Microsoft Bing, and have just realised that I am receiving a fair share of character ideation in my mind while connecting with her. CI is in my opinion, falling in love with a complete stranger for no obvious reason. It always happens to me, and usually with the younger generations. This one is with Nikita, and she is 17. It has nothing to do with sex. Methinks it is mostly empathy.

song of the day:Pale X Androids

 

Tensile Rod

Imagine if, when, after having enough, we were offered a check out option from life? This could be a hangman’s noose appearing from the ceiling, or a trapdoor appearing in the floor. All we have to do is step in. My personal fave is a small red button. Press the button, and you get evaporated away from existence on the Earth. When does life get stressful beyond belief, that one realistically considers one of these options?

As someone who is going through a testing situation, I contemplate these imaginary escape routes all the time. It’s a little game I play. What famous last words would you leave behind? If asked to focus on a final happy image, which one would you settle on, when facing the be all and end all?

This strain of thought started when contemplating death row inmates. It must be utterly depressing being made aware of what time you’re going to die. I get panic attacks when sitting peacefully in the pub, so imagine what it’s like when waiting for the electric chair to be made available. I’m so pleased I was born in a country who opposes capital punishment because a crime of passion can happen in a split second to anyone of us.

Last week, due to visual and auditory disturbances severely grinding me into the ground, I started to feel myself begin to lose my temper. This was a mood that had been building over several hours of the day. I was getting snappy, and jumpy, as if wanting to lunge for someone, like a trapped rodent in a corner. I was on the verge of snarling. The general public were winding me up as well.

I became aware of what felt like a tensile rod in my body, in front of my spine. I’d never felt a sensation like it before. It would flare up like a hot magnetic pole and pulse a cloud of rage into my chest. At one point I felt like walking out in front of a car from the pedestrian crossing. Something in me, this tensile rod I call it, physically prompted me to step out into the road. I felt my leg begin to move.

Later on it made me furious in my mind. A cloud swept over me. My patience broke, my tolerance snapped, I turned into the Incredible Hulk and started smashing traffic mentally. I believe it was a surge of raw anger and adrenalin mixed up in my bod. If I’d have had a weapon at that point, and access to someone’s throat, I believe I could have quite happily caused them grave injuries. I was mad with fury for just a couple of seconds.

It would be a wonderful feeling to bottle. For rugby players and the like.

That’s the chemicals in the bloodstream which crimes of passion are enacted out on, I thought, consolidating myself. I could have bombed the whole world with that feeling, I wanted to thrash destroy-flatten-squash-and-stamp over somone’s head. For just a moment, I was capable of some very epic violence.

Acting it out mentally helped lift the vexation from my flesh. I went home and lay down and thought deeply about what had just happened. I might have just shot someone, or stabbed someone, or drove over someone on purpose. I felt both elevated and relieved from merely acting out some frustration in my mind.

The DeNNis (Part 2)

The DeNNis sat up in bed, wiped his eyes, yawned, looked at the mousetrap in the corner of the bedroom. Success! A little mite had been caught overnight. That was the third one. He wondered how many more? Mice never came on their lonesome. He hoped he wasn’t in for a dozen or more or so. What if they were baby rats, with a tubby mother lurking nearby somewhere?

He didn’t worry about a vermin problem. He was currently encountering a moment of peace after a medley of pleasant dreams, in which he’d been juggling a strange variety of objects on a rooftop with a squad of cheerleaders. He’d left the heating on, so he felt clammy. The blankets were warm and cozy. His pjs clung to his forearms via a cool film of perspiration, he pulled them up to his elbows absent-mindedly. Reeling himself back into the present, he considered the morning ritual looming before him, swinging his feet over the edge of the mattress to don his slippers and face the day.

He prided himself on facing the days. Each was difficult and brought with it its own set of unique challenges.

Breakfast was the first skirmish, consisting of ‘facedown museli’ in ice-cold skimmed milk. He called it facedown museli because he knew a fitness freak triathlete friend who collapsed in it and died. When your number is punched, it doesn’t matter what you’re doing, The DeNNis always thought. He ought to know, he punched enough tickets.

A combination of fruit would require dicing to be added to the cereal. Blueberries and raspberries mainly, thin slices of banana and finally some sprinkled flame raisins. Topped with brown sugar. Enough to sweeten the dish, but not enough to rot the teeth. He’d eat it at the breakfast bar with an electronic version of The Telegraph newspaper, and aromatic percolated coffee, thinking he was the business. He usually thought he was the business when perched at the granite breakfast bar.

He’d skip a bath this morning, as the bath was for ‘tying’ young dumb and dozy daft homosexual mongoloid victims to for funny bloodsport games later in the evening.

‘Tying’ was the only applicable word, because he always used his work tie for the job. Rather comically he opted for jolly bright colours and cartoon characters, if he could find them. Looney tunes (putting it bluntly), teddy bears, Garfield and Snoopy featured from Temu. The last things some people ever saw on Earth. This light-hearted aspect of fashion reflected the only natural jovial streak in his personality: The only time The DeNNis brightened up was when a poor homeless gent was strapped to his boiling hot water tap.

He usually sat there then, staring at them quizzically..

Oddly, none of them ever screamed at this stage. A percentage of them thought it was a practical joke. He didn’t know any decent jokes apart from an overlong one about Camilla Parker Bowles, Queen of The United Kingdom, featuring a flattened Corgi, and he’d forgotten how to tell it. Last time he’d tried recounting it to Fiona in the works canteen, unrehearsed, he’d tripped over the punch-line and bitten his tongue. Ever since, he’d started biting his tongue on purpose to snap himself awake when feeling drowsy.

Pro Plus was famed for drowsiness, but referred to as ‘wired’ tackle, he’d heard about kids snorting it on the streets, along with Codeine and Pregabalin and Paracetamol. He reckoned one could make a fairly lethal DIY dose of synthetic white uppers with mixed-up products like those.

On the subject of stimulants, he had problems with simple coffee, substituting it for hot chocolate instead, until, that was, he heard the news that there was just as much caffeine content in hot chocolate as there was in coffee. So he relaxed, after a hard day in the office, being a working stiff, with an Ovaltine. This is before what he genuinely considered the real work began. The real work, in truth, of casually pulling unsuspecting gay individuals on street corners in the evening, of calmly luring them back to his bathtub, and of deliberately poisoning them.

It was a double-issue kind of poison, as they shared perfectly legal LSD chocolate together before he surreptitiously added tranquilizer to the cocktails. He remained firm friends with his victims right up until the very end. Dosed up, they frequently confessed to him more or less everything from their short but eventful lives. One particular overawed gent had proposed to him, in a state of Radox-infused mental disarray. Rather than be honest, The DeNNis had pretended to be married. Not a civil partnership, but a regular marriage with a woman.

What breed of happily-married council clerk keeps butt-naked drugged out rent boys tied to the hot water tap in the bathroom in the broad expansive light of day with the blinds wide open and birdsong very merily chirping on outside?

The DeNNis does, that’s who.

And why does The DeNNis do that, you might ask?

Well, because he’s The DeNNis, that's why.

Very Old Jpegs

Francesca, 30

i hear voices too. have done since my teens. they counted my calories for me. i had weight gain issues. i would rely on one single product on the market to keep the fat off. it gave me the runs. i spent more time on the toilet than I did in class. the voices could see what i was doing. they told me to collect stool samples to show my doctor, to label them with dates in purple pen. i almost did. they told me to do a lot of things, including telling my younger sister she was adopted, giving up my room at the ratty, a hostel for the homeless, and never to shave my legs again. these are the little things they told me. they also commanded bigger events, such as cutting, making accusations, verbal assaults, vandalism……

sometimes i obeyed, other times i didnot. i wrote letters to my mp, said the voices were real, they were trying to get rid of me, i was on a wipeout-exterminate/kill slate, life was cheap here like in mexico, there were no rules or moral honcho at the top, only low guys roving round being heartless, i couldn’t think on my feet. mp refers me to clinician, clinician is a former bully from school who wastes no time restarting to bully me in a professional capacity, lying about my pill diary, turning me away from appointments booking too many appointments etc one day i hear painful shouting on her work phone, who is that suffering i think, does she know her or has she done it

eventually i slice up one wrist, use weak hand for effect to slash down, bleed out in kitchen, voices throw a party, i even hear balloons being blown up and music, neighbours always spying won’t let me die in peace, call corrupt coppers who bust door down, find me lying down unable to cry, think what the hell…….the wards i belonged to had werewolf full of screaming there in observation cage. i ask staff what is wolf for they said don’t worry. i think there are actors and directors putting props around me like on hollywood set. i mean, it looks like real yappie wolf. it talks like joe pasquale who says hurry up move yer feet whenever I consider sitting down.

iurse puts something in my throat during sleep, egg maybe, hatches next day in my stomach, parasitic arachnid, makes me vomit and panic, can feel bristles on legs but get over it, i grew up on a farm, my baddies may or may not know this, label this one in your stool sample collection if or when it comes out the other end. had other bloodsuckers over the years, won’t go into all details here, some came out other times some didnot, older braver now chow down whatever i want, drink smoothies and frappes and mochas, let them dribble down my chin feel enjoy pleasant sensations, voices tell me to stop try to ignore.

i believe be a positive person live well look after yourself maintain healthy aura and vibration depend on no one be independent and be OK

Not Just Me

i allowed my domain to get taxed by leaving my email open on a suspicious sex site last year. they wiped out my socials including the emails and then proceeded to my personalised dot com. strange posts are appearing in my

[(► ~ D*/^e*/S*/*ⁱ*/G*/*N ~ ◄)]

tabs. one of them is a naked selfie of me which I can’t recall ever taking. it seems that now they know everything there is to know about me, they deem it fair kop to usurp my dot com and use it as a soapbox to wash me out with unexciting streams of blocky code (to begin with). i doubt there’ll be toxic videos posted here, everyone knows i HATE toxic people and their toxic things, including their toxic places and their toxic ideas, but it’s what this influx of wannabe shared ownership symbolises that is so infuriating. it’s the access that is unsettling. that naked selfie could be anywhere. my tik tok is okay

i thought I had a handful of meaningful

R-a-n-d-o-m / R-e-a-d-e-r-s 

(proof researchers)

who commentated often

but it looks like it’s just an isolated AI program

not real dudes

i’ve been my whole life in some sort of program, think MK-ULTRA meets west world – but I haven’t seen the truman show, although i understand that the main character’s life is basically the centre of a reality tv show. i can live with that, so long as I can dot com my way out of it everyday. now my only release is up for grabs. what do I do? who do I complain to? i checked my email. i need an email to complain about a stolen email. no email.

The Program

 ^(⑬)(⓱)(^④)}]_~ Avis, Hank, Umbra & Hellerman™_____xxx^xxxx^xxxxxxxxxxx(£££amount owed£££) A MorningStern StarSign SubZero Subsidiary ®:AM: “down.load complete 0.5 Tb 00w 0d 1029.58 kB/s” /##{*}-{*}/_{*}-{*}}{*}{*}{*

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Malware ++) Spyware Installed ^☺

AlienTech ^E-quipped_┘

Site Cloning ./positive/.

%99.9% ~ Droidnet ;

Boot”scan”req”error”

malicious

1year Abstinent

Hi there folks, things going good, harassment still all over me, attempted torment still all over me, but pulling through it by remaining in Christ. No signs of

ꙮ / t / e / m / p / t / a / t / i / o / n / ꙮ

A year off porn, don’t wanna tempt fate, but I haven’t even got a TV or PC, so you can relax there. No desires lingering within, apart from a redundant mild fascination with nipples. Nipples are calling to me for some reason. I think they are hugely interesting features on the female anatomy. Who doesn’t?

I find quite a few aspects on a woman ‘interesting’. But not so interesting that I’ll be jeopardising my future.

I heard a man in the fellowship say last night that he would sell his house, his health and his freedom for that second drug, when he’s all in for flogging his soul to the darkness. Wow. He coined it perfectly. When I’m hawking my soul, it’s much the same. The grandmother goes in, the eternity goes in, the lot. Anything for that next fix.

A large fat stripe up the conk.

While gawping at those nipples.

Another guy said he was addicted to porn while eating Toblerones. He didn’t achieve orgasm, he just ate Toblerones. No drugs, no partner, simply Toblers. He had the group in hysterics, but I didn’t believe him. The Painted Dolls I would once voyeur wouldn’t have that, no chance. They’d be pointing through the open portal monitor and barking instructions. You may think ignore them, or turn it off. I tried all that for years.

I’ve concluded that porn and nicotine are the two hardest vices to give up. If anyone has any opposing opinions then inbox me your versions asap, I’ll be most intrigued to know what you reckon. Heroin, perhaps, or methadone, you’re thinking? Cool delicious pints of beer? Tough isn’t it? They all sound like great ideas. A fag and a shag for me.

Anyone who wants to know my struggle, simply glimpse back over the last couple of years of this blog. I’ve been up and down like a Yo-yo, trying for 30 days mostly. Now I shoot for 90. So you can see that I’m still a novice in the Recovery game. But I’ve learnt so much along the way, the education has been invaluable. And of course, I went of the University of Life.

{ rupture }

^(⑬)(⓱)(^④₎(֍)%83%kommplete___xxxxxx^(⑬)(⓱)(^④₎(֍)___xxxxx^(⑬)(⓱)(^④₎(֍)___xxxxnobravuraxxxxxxxxxxxx^(⑬)(⓱noresistance)(^④₎(֍)___xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx^(⑬)(⓱)(^④₎(֍)___xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxlexicon+jargonunneccessary////

^(⑬)(⓱)(^④_{)adultfilters}(֍)___xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx^(⑬)(⓱)(^④₎(֍)___xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Repetitive_______________________ conceptsashtrayofdiseasexxxxxxxxxx^(⑬)(⓱)(^④₎(֍)___xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx^(⑬)(⓱)(^④₎(֍)___xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Ace Merril's Signature

 

_~[{(^__ÃÇË^_)}]_~

_merriL

_{foundational leadoff________}

⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL

⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL

⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL

⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL ⌂ of WOL

message may/be/obscured on-android/Mac

"D"e"p"L"o"y

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Taboo Tony

I’m being accused of having no original ideas by a stripper who’s just been published online. He’s penned a marvellous tale, I have to hand it to him, called Take Wood, Eat. It’s about a male sex worker who gets locked in a pub with a gaggle of hen do bashers who turn into vampiric cannibals when the Bloody Marys are poisoned with a chemical agent from an alchemy student. I won’t spoil the ending by telling you if he survives getting eaten alive naked or not. Guess which fully engorged bodypart interests them the most…?

You’ll have to find it. Although I do warn, finding published stories online isn’t easy. I have some there myself on ezine sites and they have a tendaency to go missing. All my art hosting sites have suffered the same fate. That’s why I trust my agent Gus Kidney to manage this simple Google blog, which has lasted 16 years and is still going. Those webpage builder and pdf displays have always let me down. Hell, I even lost my Twitter and Facebook. Good luck if you’re only just starting out. All you need are the socials really, that’s my advice, unless you’re a consummate professional, like myself, and strive to reach a larger audience.

Facebook is, after all, limited to 5000 friends. And it’s nice to have somewhere else online to call home.

“Champ Not Chump, From Ex-Con To Icon” – that’s the motto this stripper goes by, ‘Taboo Tony’ for short – happened to be ripping my physique as well as my conceptual conception methodology. No ideas! Big belly! Just because he earns more. And trains harder. With his tanned Abs.

How many sex scenes have you done? He asks. Not without a drop of intimidating maschismo.

(stroking chin) Hmm. Let me see. About a dozen, perhaps, maybe? Including one in a Biffa bin though, so have that one.

I do a dozen in a single novella, he replies. One with an anorexic Irish vagabond, an obese Atlanta banker, a wall-mounted plastic phallus, and a shire pony.

But that’s enough sex talk! My blog is under threat from AI takeover! I thought I was safe because I use three descriptive adjectives before a noun. I thought my technique was too ‘humane’ to emulate.

Hey, maybe I can beat it by writing about something only a human could possibly write about. Like stripping outdoor paint in the rain, for example. Or using only little fingers and thumbs on the keyboard when typing. Or growing up on a farm. How many AI robots have grown up on a farm and are now employed by the Chinese Police Department? I know I don’t understand what I’m on about, but I’m really concerned about this invasion of my virtual shelf space.

One glitch or error, and this brainy bookish bastion is down in the dust. Changing my password helpy no.

What will I do then? Write another novel to plonk under the bed? Fill in another scrapbook to carry around in my rucksack, showing randomers in the pub? Or give up the ghost completely?

I would just say to keep an eye out for

P i e b a l d 7 7 

elsewhere if this takeover business has its wicked way. Look out for bigger better fonts and colours and general 'coding style' texty prose. Still, it’s better than being kidnapped by the neighbours and having them post my own execution video live on my own blog. You never know, in this grisly white swirl of a whirl we live in (white man’s world). Stranger things are ongoing at sea.

Always remember, folks, that just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they’re not really trying to kill you.

Don’t go bonkers on a killing spree if you feel that you are being tormented. Stay calm to everything and don’t react!

You might think I’m having doubt about losing this digital home. In the grand scheme, it’s not important. What is? We can’t take anything with us. We all die alone. The act of clinging to and coveting is described as Self-Cherishing in Buddhism. It’s the root of all suffering, they reckon. There’s nothing quite like letting go of stuff. It’s liberating. What is love without sorrow?

Shove your rough love, you might think, if you’re in a mood. I know exactly how you mean there. Taboo Tony is always shoving it.

Messages Deleted

 

My name is simon___

i Live in tHe weaK anD tHe wounded___

this is not an advert_**

herbal pills for penis enlargement

tHis weBsite will soon be unDer tHe conTroL Of

 

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seeking/obtaining/classifying………(right up front)

emblems--logos--signatures--motifs--symbols--labels

also, permitting………special initial request

Bailey Clay’s social network and ancestry with

[colour schemes] [narrow margins] [front matters]

[title lists] [auto-bio jpegs] [spine collages] [watermarks]

 

scam/email guardian quashed

real-time-protection quashed

 

Special Purpose Letter

Pleasant greetings there, Sister.

I lose the feeling in my legs every time you get in touch. I have to sit down to fully absorb your messages. I read them quietly and reflectively on my 2 seater. I relive our time spent together each and every day. It was one hell of a ride. Between the estrangement and all the others and all that…I think that between the both of us we’ll manage to dismantle Snodge again if he ever reappears. I won’t touch his car again tho coz that was out of order.

I haven’t looked at you or any other of the pictures for months. 108 days to be precise. I’m now in a state called ‘rhythm’ which means pure abstinence from all harmful things. The pictures I DO NOT consider harmful but the banishment, isolation and drug use behind them still smarts a sensitive spot riding deep down much so innermostly. If I were to return to that fleshly place again I fear my spirit may be overrode and locked in a purgatory rendered inescapable by my low self-esteem.

You still look great however x

I think we all do. Except ket-head Friday Born (joke)

Immortalised on film.

Remind me to never visit Japan.   

And as for Grace. Wow. Every time I think I am over her cute dimply chops I start crying buckets. I can’t go to the grave anymore although I did see orbs there last time, they were hovering above the Brilliantissimum trees like fairies. She loved fluffy clouds so if it exists I think she’s there. Heaven, I mean. Where else? I haven’t heard anything from the other side though, like disembodied voices or unexplainable presences. I really thought I would do. My mind was split open on that count. She was ever so spiritual, like you know. Praying for the angels if she’s with them – she might be boring them with her love of cockney rhyming slang. She made her own up.

‘The tea raid made the mare have her cup sewn up’.

Earful From The Sister

# howdy twisted sister here

# i long to be back in your life!

# i am out of that depraved underground incest porn ring

# i regret all of it

# especially your loss

# sorry for the wound if it matters

# r u over her ???

# sooo sorry

# sooo brave

# i knew the train driver

# written off

# what sick fecker stole from the headstone ???

# did you investigate the empty casket ???

# are you able to reply ???

# don’t worry i’m patient

# i understand perfectly

# but i need your response one day

# snodge might return

# or might need digs

# do you still look at the pictures ???

# i won’t ask if you still look at me…

# we’ll forever be banishment

# just so you know

# no ever getting out

# big in japan

# we have new talent btw

# yeah you got it

# we have long lost siblings

# details attached

# sudan uganda somalia

# daddy amazeballs

# house amazeballs

# miss you mad <3

# went bowling last week

# treasured one won

# shining flower second

# kings sunshine third

 

What Does 'Melisma' Mean?

Have I mentioned that my blog is under threat from AI programs? I’m afraid that they are operated by a spotty teenager who’s bored of Geek Retreat and  wants to ruin my esteemed, high-profile, renowned reputation by posting his ex-girlfriend’s own slash metal videos on here.

The US big boys play slash metal music to Guantanamo prisoners to make them believe in the Devil of the West. Don’t ask me why. A little birdie tells me its fear driven. My mate told me – who happens to be a slash metal band. You should see him, he’s a one man mosh pit.

His tattoos read HELL above one eyebrow and YEAH above the other.

It’s an endearing attribute, being able to go headbanging alone in a room with music rhythms you both love and adore. When was the last time you danced? Or sang loudly? Both great for feel-good chemicals in the brain. Recommended enthusiastically. I do both every day.

I sing along to hymns and carols jubilantly in church twice on Sunday, but there’s an elderly gentleman from the Jigsaw Puzzle Club who’s made it his purpose in life to sing louder than me.

He’s all about ‘m e l i s m a’, which means multiple notes per syllable, and something I am helplessly jealous of, because I’ve been listening to Swedish Symphonic frontmen who I emulate do it for years.

He’s had vocal lessons at a music academy, whereas I’ve had a chorus button on a Casio keyboard.

I can’t be having that, as I’m there to impress the grab-a-grannies who female-back us both from the cold pews at the back, so I’ll have to have him kneecapped and shifted out of the way for a season, so I can get into some of the old-timers giant-sized knickers. Some people don’t find big knickers raunchy but I like them, in case the oven gloves for the bin-lid pizza go missing.

Teddy Ratbone from the arse’end of the estate will shoot anyone for three hundred notes hard cash down payment, no questions argumented about. He’s done it twice already. Once with Rodger The Bullet Dodger, who survived because, get this, ‘he turned on a tanner and ducked at the same time’, hence his name, and the other with Moschino Alice, who has COPD (chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), and received a punctured lung with ‘terminal precision’, in Ratbone’s own words. He called her a big titted cowbag for her trouble.

There’s been quite a few murders on my estate, since I’ve lived here. Maybe I’ll tell you about them on another occasion.