Advantage Me

I remember when I was in a graceful position over my enemies in the past and I told myself that I must not relinquish it. That was until I fell into the procrastinating trap of narcotics and self-abuse. They pounced on me when I was drenched in shame and guilt and I lost any hard-fought-for advantage.

Now I am back in the driving seat, and determined not to make the same mistake.

I address you today bathing in authority over the toxic people who have spent their whole lives trying to spoil a single day of mine. Much of the history of this blog may have been penned in fear, and I regret that. I gave them far too much respect. I thought I was dealing with blood-letting demons who were right up there with God. I realize now that I am dealing with a bunch of sad and bored criminal fanatics who have never dealt with a free thinking empath like me before.

I refuse to give them much airtime here, as I know that the trick is to look forward and leave them buried in the dust, obsessed about how my finger movements are being read by a satellite; but, God help me, half of me thinks about sharing a few words about them and getting it off my chest.

I don’t want to lower myself to a string of insults however. I’m above that. They know exactly what they are. But apart from insults, there’s not much more to say about them.

I’m just happy for me. I’m emerging from their torment with my life intact. It was touch and go at one point. I nearly believed them when they claimed they were all-powerful, because they had access to my inner thoughts. The veneer has worn thin on that one. No powerful being would be racked with overwhelming obsession about another.

I’m the powerful one. Sorry about that little boast there. When surviving their petty games and silly pestering, it’s hard not to develop a big head.

Writing a title like Advantage Me is perhaps setting myself up for a fall, but my recent research into Narcissistic Mortification has propelled my faith and hope into the stratosphere. Maybe I can stop my negative behaviors and start to live my best life for once. Who’s to say not?

They will never change. They’re unable to. All they care about is what my fingers are doing, for some mad reason, and what I’m looking at. I have never experienced any form of infatuation like it, and this is coming from someone who couldn’t put porn down for 25 years. The effect of naked ladies bonking on the silver screen is impressionable, but at least I turned it off from time to time and went to work.

Nothing distracts my harassers from me, and I mean nothing. It comes across as prophetic worship. Mental retardation doesn’t begin to cover it.

I think I’ll be fine from here. Forget all the warnings about mind control, menticide, gang-stalking, and Third World Wars. I’m dealing with fickle children.

Somebody wake the Devil up, and give me a fair challenge.

Here’s to a life of peace and joy, absent from fear.

 

Son-In-Law

 I was a dad once to an ungrateful son-in-law. He hated me because I was black-ish. What chance did I have? I painted my ass cheeks white once and blew a fart in his direction. This peculiar mannerism did jack squat to ingratiate me into his good books. In fact he put my trainers in the bathtub when it was full of water. I tried my hardest with him though. I was patient, kind, caring. When he exhibited an interest in Hollywood and animals, I downloaded that flick with Caesar the chimpanzee in. Planet Of The Apes I think, the first remake. I knew he would adore it, and he did adore it. It was a moving motion picture. I was almost tearful myself.

In one portion of the feature, the chimp is removed from his beloved bedroom home with humankind and dumped in a solitary prison cage. He draws his bedroom window on the wall and stares into the makeshift vista all day, slumped against the bricks in a distraught state.

I took pictures of my step-son playing hockey. We had a game of penalties against some random tween from around the block, who unfortunately happened to win by the way, via a hats-off low bottom corner placer in sudden death. I taught him how to use his weaker foot when the astro-turf wasn’t in use. I greased up the kerbside for him so he could do tricks on his skateboard on it.

He even provided backing vocals for the album I was producing at the time. I like kids singing in the music industry, I think it softens the grunty gruff male leads. I put a choir effect on his voice most of the time. It worked great.

I asked my little sister to link up with him. We recorded a cover version of The Connells 74/75 track. Both of their prepubescent voices sounded absolutely delightful in tandem on the finished song. I thought about taking them on a pub tour wherein I would rap my album live with them alongside me backing me up.

His mum had a mental break one evening. He was out late playing hockey in Manchester, but she said she could hear him in distress from a nearby residence. She started knocking on stranger’s houses searching for him. I couldn’t calm her down. This conduct led to an assessment in hospital. With Yours Truly already hearing voices in his napper, there was nobody eligible to look after him. So he was shafted away into social care. For a while I had no idea where either of them were. The house was in darkness every time I went down there. I finally found them both at the hospital in the guest room. We enjoyed a reunion of sorts.

I forgot to mention that I charged into the neighbour’s house armed with a butcher’s knife up my sleeve. I’d just started hearing auditory harassment and, combined with my girlfriend’s disabling psychosis, was in no mood for a missing/abducted/kidnapped stepson. So I stormed in there ready for action. Thankfully there was no one home and no one got stabbed in the face. My rashness has calmed down a lot since those uncertain times.

When I got sectioned later on it spelled all but the end of the relationship. We kept in touch but it wasn’t the same. I don’t know where they both are at the moment, they might have returned back to Europe. Maybe I’ll meet somebody else if I remain clean and keep showing up with the best version of myself. You’re about to encapture a load of that version because I ain’t relinquishing this privileged position.

There hasn’t been a twinkle in my eye since my ex and her son, hardly, apart from one or two brief flings. There are plenty of women in my life, but they are bit-part cameo players who I simply share a small-talk greeting with in the pub or other. Some of them are more special to me than they know, but there’s no way I can ever divulge that information upon their ears.

Then there are the spiritual daughters which reside in my heart.

I keep configuring new personalities in an imaginary schizophrenic realm to keep me company. Climbing the walls so often tends to have this flipside about it. One of the characters I created walked past me in the street one time. I’m half-inclined to suppose that the authorities are cloning likenesses from my visual cortex and using them against me as biological weaponry. Imagine your daughter becomes evil and wants to hurt you. They are deadset upon stopping me from having anything, including pigments of my own mind. Yet I keep showing up with the goods, performing holy rites in God-fearing faith, hoping that my manifestations will prove true. Everyone on the psych ward act obsessed by what churns up from my mind. They cannot believe that my creativity runs so deep, into a mysterious spiritual internal chasm of the soul.

What’s the matter, can’t an adult have an imaginary friend or something?

I currently have...aw d'you know what, I'm not even going into it, because I'll start attracting restless spirits again, and I've only just got rid of a bunch of them. Sometimes I wish i was not innovative in any way, as it brings with it a lot of persecution. The powers that be (at least the ones I know) hate free thinking. Combine this with a faith in Angels and before you know it your brain fluid is under attack from clandestine technologies. I attract narcissists, bullies, secret societies, military departments, demons, you name it.

I tell them all to f**k off, thank you very much. Even my old flame lovelies have turned against me. Even my own flesh and blood. Because what comes out of my head (and heart) makes them corrosive with envy. I can't bloody help it though. What do they want me to do, not blog? Not express my inner thought rhythms?

My readers need to know. And I'm the feisty one telling them so. 

Don't forget to stay tuned. We'll talk again soon. Until then, take amazing care of yourself.

 APPROX ARTICLE WORD COUNT: 1000

Daddy's Retail Premises

My dad, who has passed away now, owned a domestic appliance shop wherein I helped out from time to time. He owned several actually. The one in our home town had rats in it. They would scoot underneath the washers and cookers in the back. Rain would leak in through the ceiling. I was working on the roof once, where he stored more of his endless parts/fittings, and almost fell through it.

It wasn’t a place for the faint-hearted. My sister, the receptionist, had a hard time controlling her squeamishness. The cups, should you want a brew, were all filthy. I found the grimiest one I could find once and used some tissue paper to pick a small dead baby rat up and put it in the cup. Then I sneaked up on her and placed it under her nose. I politely asked her if she fancied a cup of tea.

My behaviour (anything for a giggle) made her leave the premises to get a grip of herself. She didn’t see anything like the funny side of it. I found the place stomach-churning too but I didn’t let it show, apart from wearing gloves all the time and being protective of marks or stains on my clothing. My dad was always asking why I needed to wear gloves. He must have thought I was a complete and utter sissy. Bear in mind that I had only just met him after a childhood of absence. We had to get to know each other in a working environment and it was extremely awkward.

When I first met him, he ate a meal from the inside of a detached washer door, because he had no bowls. More alarming than the utensil is the food stuff he consumed. It consisted of minced beef and bananas, eaten cold with a large cooking spoon that was too big for his mouth. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

He would eat his dinner while driving, speaking on the phone at the same time, and writing a phone number down with a marker pen. Rather than use a notepad, he wrote the number on the dashboard interior of the van.

The wages were twenty pounds a day. He had stacks of workers in and out of the revolving doors over the years. I wrote all about it in my autobiography. It’s hilarious. One thing I will say about my dad, he had a never-ending supply of twenty pound notes. Even on his deathbed, when he was clammy with cancerous demise, he pulled one out of his nappy and gave it to me.

This subject is a vast reservoir of material for me and I could write a great many things about his line of work. I never inherited the business like he wanted me to because my heart wasn’t in it. I saw selling dodgy appliances for a living in much the same way as he saw me sat down at a desk on my own writing poncy books about his daughter. I respected his work ethic immensely and a busy business is a busy business, in a way it was a great living, but I’m just not that kind of active manual worker.

There were multiple aspects to the job. Source the appliances, repair them, clean them, sell them. There was a main road outside where he had me clean the items, and I was paranoid that people I knew could see me hunched over scrubbing a manky cooker. I would wait until the traffic had calmed down before getting to it. God forbid a teacher would witness me in wellies with a hosepipe. Not when I’d studied hard through collage.

He operated a market stall two days a week. Being in the public eye hawking second-hand chest freezers was embarrassing.

He would often makes sales in the pub after hours when he was shooting pool. It seemed that everyone at one point or another needed a fridge. There was often big money in it. Selling only two or three items a week meant more than the average weekly wage. Sell double figures and its wonga time.

My dad was great, he’s missed sorely. Every son must say this about their beloved father, but he was a real character. Character is not the word for my dad. He wore a bright orange jump suit and odd shoes. He was also drenched in gold jewelry. Everyone in the town knew him.

R.I.P JACKO 

My Shop And Work

I've just been sat idling on the high street with a glass of beer and a cigarette, away from the pub, admiring the certain shop fronts. There are so many, the old carriageways are littered with them. Why can't I have one? I wondered. I could sell books and CDs and ceramics and canvasses, all produced by myself as a one-man cottage industry. Go me.

I have dozens of titles which were wrenched out of my soul within the fiery furnace of addiction. I was so out of it I don't even remember writing them.

I recorded five albums in my time. The first one was screechy and crackly, described as 'madness' by an employee in a music store, who I kindly gave a copy to. However, an album is an album. I went to all kinds of lengths to get the rest of them produced. Laptops, boom boxes, dictaphones, tape players, the lot. The last one was recorded perfectly in a studio. From £7 microphones to Apple computers.

It would have been glorious to get my signature sculptures mass-produced. I sold a couple but I hated it, I would rather have kept them. I had a plan of gluing them all together with silicon onto a wrecking ball and hanging the collection from a chain off the ceiling. They looked alien. My favourite colour paints were bronze, silver and gold, like the Olympic medals. I had to travel to Stoke to collect them. Stoke is known for its potteries.

My canvasses made me proud. I had a technique honed down including graphic design, tracing, sketching, and doodling. Not to mention collaging. Photography was included. Usually of my ceramic pieces, but often of nature. I liked screengrabs from movies too, for drastic alteration. One of my traits was using sticky letters from the craft shop to add some text onto a picture.

There's nothing quite as stressful though, I find, as printing manuscripts or recording music. Something is always bound to go wrong somewhere.

Anyway, that's what I would sell in my shop, if I were ever lucky enough to own my own premises. I assure you, I wouldn't sell cheap ciggies under the counter, like the Albanian shop proprietors around here.

The brand would be named WOL™, short for Wheel Of Life. It's loosely based on the Buddhism faith. You know, you live and you die, and the wheels on the bus spin round and round. That kind of thing.

It wouldn't be about making a good living, it would be about doing something enjoyable, instead of packing tins of tuna in a factory. I've done all that production line work before. I used to slow the line down because I was too distracted eating chicken breasts and necking protein shakes on the job. Andy, we've got stock 'upto the rafters' my boss said.

Sorry, but I've got to get massive for the gym tonight, I replied. I'd have three or four meals in work. Then another seventeen eggs before I clocked off.

One time, I drank so much water to boost the creatine content in my saturated muscle bellies that it was coming back up and running out of my mouth. There was no more room inside me for anymore!

I used to turn up in the morning with a giant jug of it. The gaffer said I must piss like a donkey. The toilet was another great excuse to turn my back on the production line for a few precious minutes. One guy used to lacquer his hairstyle in there. He was in there pretending to use the crapper every time I was.

A coffee and a smoke on the bog equalled 'standard procedure'.

My worst job was in a marsh mellow warehouse. Several pallets of marsh mellow had 'exploded' all over the place. It was our detail to clean it up. Everyone and I mean everyone walked out but me and one other lad, when it ruined their clothes and spoiled their hair after one or two marsh mellow fights. We stayed till the end of the day, making a joke out of it and gaining a comical bond with one another. I smelled of marsh mellow for a week.

The following afternoon we were lumping heavy-ass sacks of 'hard rape' peanuts off an articulated wagon. That was the nature of agency work. You never knew what you would be doing next.

I got fired from a bakery for picking my nose one time.

It was handy, because the giant ovens were fearing me. What if the day shift turned on me and stuffed me in one? One lad in there used to sell knockoff designer shirts. I'd wear them on Friday nights out clubbing, double-dropping ecstasy tablets an falling all over the dance floor. A woman once acted like she was giving me a hand job and exposed my penis from my fly zipper. I was dancing with my todger hanging out for Christ knows how long. She thought it was dead funny.

Hounds In Hades

Here we are again on this momentous day made especially for us by The Lord. Thanking him most gratefully. Think of all the many days which have passed before this one brought us here together. I declare a moderate celebration for this stupendous occasion. Five pints of £1.99 Bud Light ought'a do it. I remembered the present revelry in advance, that's why I'm already bloated. Two Big Mac meals hardly helped.

I'm doing excellently, in case you were wondering. More so than usual. Life is still a toil, those pesky dark forces will stop at nothing to separate me from the Heavenly realms. Yet still I plod on, unaffected and faithful. Are you doing okay? I wonder about it. Hope so.

I call my writing wrangling. I wrangle with the void to pluck something worthwhile worth tapping some keys over about. Some call it going. Others refer to it as drinking water. Lately I've been delving into memories of my fiction. I can change it and alter it and put a twist on it and see it differently every time, I half-think it might be limitless, I'm not sure.

One of the fav scenes I ever wrote was about a Terminator in Hades. Cerberus was there, the three-headed hound dog who guards the gates. The Terminator had to wage combat against this monstrous beast to free captives who didn't belong there. The captives were actually Angels who had been betrayed by fallen humans who had traded their protection for the Wide Path. Angels in Hades, I know, who'd have thunk it? Shit happens, I guess. It was up to a simple Terminator with a gold skeleton to rescue them. She (it was a woman) was full of the Holy Spirit. She died in high school, got reconned for a mission in the Underworld, and rewarded POW Angels with a second destiny.

The story was extremely visual. Think of the highlights from all your best movies collated and displayed in a five minute reel. A gold Terminator skeleton fighting a three-headed mongrel amidst flames and lava with Angels flying about spectating the scene. Maybe a Cherub or two firing arrows. I decided to make the heads of the canine different, namely an Alsatian mutt, a Rottweiler guard dog, and a fluffy labradoodle. Only joking about the labradoodle there. I honestly can't recall what breed I chose for the third one. If I could revisit the tale, and make them different, I would probably choose a hyena, a wolf, and a jackal or something. It would be interesting to hear your take on Cerberus. Which breeds of hound make the most formidable foe?

I was more busy describing the Angels. They looked like normal people, far from winged and haloed. That's my experience with them anyway. It could be Jessica from down the road, or Jim from the corner shop. You wouldn't know it, but they could be saying prayers for you every night.

I was an Angel once, in my dreams. I had to protect a librarian from crowds of wicked drunkards. I feared no thing, and why should I with God, but the challenge ain't easy, as the desperate unholy fight tooth and claw with nothing to lose.

What waits in the future for me is unclear. I might bang on about sex and drugs for the rest of all time. It was certainly a mad heehaw holed up in that Golgotha flat of mine while restless spirits were daring me to unleash my load. I had no idea that penile discharge signifies sacred energy and is highly craved. Every time I pulled my trousers down in private to jack off I was saying no to Heaven and yes to Habits of Perversion. You may or may not be cheered up by hearing that I think I have finally grown out of that habit. It had to happen eventually. I still admire the female form, there's no shortage of juicy butt around here in the summer months, but I believe I am on the hunt for something deeper than fleshy surface detail.

I am seeking an experienced woman who doubles as a dab-hand in the kitchen and as an editor too to provide a second opinion on my Cerberus short story. Barber skills wouldn't be overlooked, chess talents would be a bonus, and also knowledge of the guitar would be lovely.

Joshing. I have Rochelle for that. Rochelle is an editor in an independent firm, she rejected one of my stories but gave me a brilliant response as to why. I called her once after an uplifting film in the cinema and thanked her for it personally. We have since stayed in contact. She's a far better writer than I will ever be, mostly due to her content. She refuses to publish me but is a massive supporter of me as I am of she. She says that it is a blessing to be unpublished, as most most first print runs are only 200 copies which linger in the stockroom of Waterstones, it's best to have an online blog that is traceable from anywhere on the globe. Some authors just want a big head on a bookshelf. Not every tale is unputdownable. Not unless it's about anti-gravity.

She advises me to keep plonking on here at the honey pot and maybe record all my posts in hard copy paper form. Although she adamantly reiterates that I will never get published. The Gatekeepers will not allow me in. This is nay to say that I can't be read. Being read is more important than being published. You can't count how many hits a book gets, or even if it gets read in its entirety, from cover to cover. Not that hits govern the web scene either. What should be galvanising you, Rochelle quips, as a desire to write a better story than the previous one. Now that's tough, because that gold Terminator imagery was knockout.

I'll try and do better next time. What with, I have no idea. Answers on a postcard. 

Any Distraction Will Do

 ~ⱦ^ꓻ_~🔆 

Where shall we go to today? I have the keys to the kingdom. The bottom of the ocean? A bat cave on Neptune? Underground, in a military bunker? Nowhere. We need to bugger off nowhere. We have everything we need right here. At the sweet spot. With yours truly. I don’t mean to big myself up, but nobody else will. All everyone does is put me down. That’s why I assume complete power when I sit here and tap these shenanigans out. Because not a thing resides here without my permission. This is all myself, myself unadulterated and true. No seedy toxic people dimming things over, stealing the light, saying they are going to ruin your life, and in trying to do so ruining their own. It’s nice to have a pocket of joy, a website, totally with nothing to do with any of them naysayers.

I advise the same to you. Even if it’s only cooking a nice meal. Claim your kitchen, claim your time, and rejoice in the fulfillment from something self-created and tasty to munch on. That’s what I do. I call it dirty rice. Rice with loads of assorted ingredients in. I mix the gravy in as a thickener, not poured on top. 

Any distraction from oppressive modern life is a bonus. Just try not to consume abundant quantities of narcotics and overdose on sexual hedonism. That’s what I turned to over the years, and I’ve wound up here, bumping gums about it until the 32^nd of Neverember. If you have nowhere to turn to, and a fat bank account, then I wouldn’t be surprised if you resorted to heaps of marching powder and subscription XXX, but it won’t sustain you into old age. The fear is growing out of it. There’ll be a void, and how do we fill it? Those flower-arrangement classes won’t fit the bill. Chess, origami and gardening might, but I wouldn’t bet you any amount of dollars to doughnuts on it. Cooking, as I’ve mentioned, is guaranteed.

Why not buy a blender, if you don't already have one? You probably have the best, don't you? How would I know? Lots of variable fun to be had. I remember when I was once at rock bottom and I had a dream. It wasn’t diving into Catherine Zeta Jones’ knick knacks. It was a grapefruit shake.

I was really dehydrated, depleted, and dilapidated. My tap water, due to my offhanded perception, seemed to have bugs in it. It tasted like petrol, if you can believe that. Orangina tasted like car window wash. The only thing I had any faith in was a grapefruit shake, mixed in a blender with ice. So I bought a blender. Now it’s covered in cobwebs underneath the sink, unused in donkeys. Only ever held a six scoop protein kidney kicker. Label advised two scoops. 

I think there’s also an impossibly chunky rat underneath the sink too, but I can’t be sure. Those bites in the night might be tactile hallucinations, like the doctor said. I’ve boarded it up with nails and hammers just to be on the safe side. Now I can sleep with my bare feet poking out. No more bumps in the night.

Speaking of the doctor…I once had a dark milf Indian chick with a mane of flowing brunette locks down to her waist. She looked like one of my hyper-real ideal erotic actresses. I envisaged her handling hard hung men (don't forget the men) on her dinner break, in my mind’s eye. I entertained a semi while she was prescribing me Olanzepine, and telling me that the creatures chasing me on the high street were phantoms of my imagination.

Was the gash on my leg the same thing? It healed miraculously the following day, don’t worry.

What we mental patients need are nurses who come out on home visits and hold our hands while tucking us in. You know, people who genuinely care, staff who are willing to spend some quality time with us in the perils of our psychosis. They usually fall back on isolation rooms when someone is struggling with unseen visual stimuli. Jab, strip, on your own in solitary. What does that achieve? I’ve seen some states in hospital. Scratches all over the limbs are an indicator of running wild through the woods. Schizos always seek nature when faced with the reality of suburbian stalking. Those same old roads and streets, with their familiar chewing gum and dog shit, are fair game for wicked pursuers. They pretend to have guns to scare you, they pretend to link up to intimidate you, they act all big time and important like they govern the order of society. When in fact they’ve been paid thirty quid to be where you are, acting with an air of menace which is false. 

Zilch. Nothing. Pathetic.

Like the dudes I tolerate on a daily basis. When you are scared they are large and proud, but when you face them for who they really are you realize they are not all that. I sincerely dislike talking about them. If you are under their spell, however, info needs to be shared. Don't be afraid, and live your best life.

That's honest and lovin' brethren advice from the 77th Piebalder. 

Fiction Warehouse

 .-(🌙)-.I've been giving regular members of the public tours of my fiction warehouse, without their consent, by grabbing them, whether from the pub or a fellowship meeting, and placing them on a craft, then whisking them away to one of my favourite scenes from the many vistas I've manufactured over the years from being sat solitary at a desk, mostly looking up at the ceiling I might add. In actual fact, I once wrote an entire book about a guy looking up at the ceiling. And one about a guy who couldn't roll over in bed.

Because he was a half ton Daddy, he needed a crane poking through a removed roof to turn him over.

He blamed his weight on Irene in the canteen who dished him out too many beans.

If you are extremely overweight, don't worry about it. At least you don't disappear when you walk behind a lamppost. Or have to worry about falling down grids. Nobody can read you through a newspaper. And you can't abseil from a Dorito. You wouldn't like to be built like a Rizla, would you? Or a whip?

I'd normally say here be proud of who you are, but that sounds corny, as if it were coming from a self-help site. This is no wellness-speak emanating within. It's sheer entertainment. Along with the bent truth and a slap of auto-fiction, which we adore. Just be a regular stand-up guy or girl, that's how I get by. All the comedians are stand-up mostly, although I prefer some of them on game shows. They bring us laughter, which is joy. Echoing from the belly.

Back to the tours. I've been imagining taking an audience into the fabric of my fiction. I'd show them all the penultimate scenes and action sequences. Much of it is drama, nothing much happening, but it would be nice to watch. The beginnings, the endings, the kisses, the fights, the reveals, the suspense, the mysteries, the pinpoints of the arcs. There's so much, I've been doing if for thirty years, they reckon don't start too young because you haven't lived yet, but I couldn't help myself, like one or two others, I learned early on to escape into fiction.

I just witnessed one of my earlier characters in the pub. Seriously. Her name was Breeze. We did lots of intimate activities together. The crescendo was at a fairground. We had priority seats on the biggest and best attraction with one another. It was called The Ascender, and even better than Nemesis at Alton Towers. We pumped our fists in the air at the peak of the cloudy escalation. Yes, it was high. Very.

I don't know what a character of mine was doing in the same pub as me. It happens sometimes. Life throws up a curveball. It's better than seeing a ghost or a wolfmans, so I can't complain. She didn't see me sat there in the corner by the rainy window pane, yet I recognized her immediately. It was Breeze, from my second effort in the Twisted Sister Series, the homeless slovenly scruff bag who flipped her life around to become a coveted sex icon. I won't go into her anymore, as she led a disturbing existence underground in the sewers, but she was like a lover to me.

It's nice having a 'twisted sister' in real life. She inspires you to write for years about her. And then, when you present her with the book she's single-handedly inspired, she doesn't have time to read it, tossing it to one side without so much as a thank you. So you write another one, hoping she'll be more interested. If it's better. If it's cleaner. If it has her name in bold italics on the front. But she still ain't all that interested, coz she isn't into reading all that much.

She prefers music. But you don't record her a song, coz that would be weird. Well you do, but you keep it to private viewing. Nobody likes to be smothered with obsessive infatuation. I should know about it, as I'm a Targeted Individual. This is why I write strange material about having twisted sisters.

Not all of my sisters are twisted. One is terrified of me. She thinks I might 'throw a wobbler' anytime-anywhere because of my mental health. I'm unsure what it is she expects me to do exactly. Thrash the cornflake aisle, whilst shopping? Stamp over the flowers in the park, when out for a stroll? Or rip someone's head off and poop down their neck? What exactly is she suspicious off?

Another one hugs me, which is nice. I think she trusts me. Everything was perfect with her at one point. Then I sold her computer games for drugs. Or was that my step-nephew? I can't remember. Does it matter? Whoever's games I sold was important to me. But not as important as a bag of fast.

I wish I hadn't done that. Fast makes me scared of the world.

I hate stepping over kids to use. Every addict does it. But we strive to reach out in good time and claim them back. If we stay on the right path, they usually return.

Don't worry children, I'll take you to the panoramas of my stories. I swear, you'll enjoy yourselves there. They were written especially for you.

~{💕}~

Aloft & Soaring (For A Change)

You'll be pleased to know I'm in a very special place mentally at the moment. I'm aloft from all my harassers and talking down to them in my mind like scumballs for all the years of abuse they've given me. They can't bear to leave me alone for two minutes. It's more like worship than torment, it feels to me. But enough about them, because discussing them affects my vibrational frequency, which is off the charts, by the way.

If you know anything about lowlife down 'n' out gang-stalkers then you'll have an idea of what I'm talking about. there really isn't enough insults and slurs in the dictionary to describe them with.

They've moved in next door to me, for laughing out aloud. They can't bear to be any distance away. To be honest, I forget they're there half the time. I should have run away by now, I should have been locked up for a crime. But I'm still here, doing what I thoroughly enjoy, talking to you. I know you understand. You'd behave the same way. Unless you lost your rag and embarked upon a rampage. Which is exactly why they do it by the way. Cowardly filth magnets.  

Caught up with a touch of family time the other night. We've all had some rough news which I'll discuss at a later date. I forgot all about my problems for a day. Then I had to return to the plenitude of my issues back home and face the four walls I'm often climbing. We talk in group about sitting with our feelings. Toxic people are incapable of it, they have to cause a disturbance and pester someone, because they can't live with themselves. I've got no contention with it, give me a fag and a beer and I'll listen to some music and nod my head along with it, if not a little dance in the empty room. I could have a one-man party in a phone box.

Give me a bottle of Jim Beam and I'm 'going Congo'. That's what I call it. Going Congo in my head. I start roaring back thru the walls and thrashing property, it's not pretty. Myself and others are vulnerable when I'm like that. That's why I'm saving it for a special occasion. I'd like to die Congo, it's a gifted yet dangerous way to be. But so much for for the time being, those manic episodes are long gone. Now I'm a calm and intellectual gentleman. Lol. Or try to be. Better than a savage vengeful animal.

I don't get drunk anymore. I just enjoy a few beers. And walk around on a higher plain telling jokes to myself.

No unwanted presences inside my flat, or losers on the other side of the wall, can bring me down. I'm The Dance (my nickname). And I'll lead you to the dance one day. If you keep following, keep checking in, and view the bags of magical wonders I've got to unveil to you.

Mostly about the survival instinct of humankind, by the way. Namely me. By all accounts I should be getting demoralized in hospital, and a lot worse, we're talking pain infliction on dissidents in the modern world, if you could call me that, because I don't clock into the slavery employment system and have a unique opinion, but I emerged through my last dreadful experience intact and parted both wings to acclimatize.

It took a gaggle of coppers to bust through my door after midnight and nick me in bed for me to agree to that bunkum. They did me by making lies up about uncontrolled fires. What is it about that arson charge from my teenage years? Will they ever stop banging on about it? I'm surprised someone doesn't call the authorities when I spark a ciggie. I come with a public warning slogan come bonfire night.

I once emptied the ingredients from a box of fireworks and inserted the gunpowder into a matchbox. I was going to light it in my mother's kitchen for shits and giggles. Seriously I was, that was the honest intention. In the end I chose the back field. You should have witnessed the explosion. It was humongous. Part of it whizzed by my face. It would have wreaked combustible havoc indoors, I made the right decision by that one. Somebody could have been horrifically disfigured. Just saying. A happy little random mischievous childhood memory. You know, the kind the Mind Kontrollers want harvesting from us, so we lose our personalities and hum along to their own tune. I'd much rather whistle along to mine thank you very much. But thanks for all the relentless attention. It's very flattering.

I've had my neighbours drain all my brain fluid via thru-the-wall technologies. Not very pleasant and it made me dehydrated. Hope they don't deem it a regular hobby. I like my brain fluid where it is. On my brain. Obvious that one isn't it. Where else would brain fluid be? 

Something else to drink for The Illuminati, when they get bored of guzzling infant blood. Or whatever it is they sup. I honestly wouldn't know.

Not to worry, my brain's fine today. Just because it's hooked up I don't do anything stupid. If you put on a show to the Mind Kontrollers they just get envious and hate you more. Plus they rip off everything you do and claim credit for it themselves.

Bye for now hero.

Random Update

Lee Child advised me to stop serving myself up with a serial relapsing diary. He said that nobody is interested in the finer smirches of somebody else's life. He prefers authors to stop writing what they know and start making stuff up. Like Star Wars, for example. They made like 9 of them. I think that Child is good at describing interior design. All his books seem to be about is Reacher walking into different hotel rooms. If we are lucky, he might headbutt someone in the face and walk away.

I watched a Clive Barker interview last night. He described himself as an Imagineer. All he does is sit in his studio up to his neck in canvasses, imagining. I imagine quite a lot. I imagine how the hell I'm going to get away from my neighbours, without storming in there with a pickaxe and wiping them off the face of the Earth.

Their dumb dog entered my home the other day and mauled one of my teddy bears. I nearly had to insert my car keys up its bottom to break its grip. Always works.

I gave an interview once, on camera, while making a sculpture, in a ceramics class. It's probably online somewhere but I wouldn't know the first place where to look. Bit embarrassing really. I had a black and gold Adidas T-shirt on and a shaved head. I was no Grayson Perry, but I actually enjoyed rolling some clay about on a weekly basis. In the end, after a few years of classes, I had a display cabinet at home full of strangely interesting models I based on termites. They were architectural by design, like homes for termites to live in. My signature was four yellow windows, and I gave them loose facial features also too, so they doubled as creatures.

Before I stopped the classes, and my pottery career ended, I was thinking about incorporating glass. Glass and clay work superbly. I had half a mind on some kind of time-keeping device. People around me were making ashtrays mostly. I dabbled in painting plates and bowls and cups.

Is this working so far? Are you glued to the screen? Would you rather me waffle about drugs and porn?

I get paid tonight, so there is a dim possibility, but I'm certain nothing uncouth will be occurring. I've got to be frugal with my finances for the time being, healthy moderate dinners all the way, although I am bursting for a beer. There's a place in town called Room At The Inn, it's a dosshouse for druggies and homeless, but they offer microwave meals for free to the struggling. Last few days I've been going in for a bite to eat. It's not exactly a place an Eton grad would go on a date, but if you are fairly streetwise like me then it poses no problemo. It's pure respect to be down with the homies now and again. I've never forgotten my roots and I'm no snob.

With me being black-ish and getting on a bit I have to be careful where my feet take me these days, in this bustling dangerous swirl of a white man's world. You never know which corner the KKK are lurking behind. They might lynch me to a tree like in the olden days, just because the blonde Blacksmith's daughter took a liking to me. The excuse in this day and age would be to shark my wallet.

I have nothing in my wallet except several cut-out tiny j-pegs of special girls from the internet. I like collecting distinct expressions I come across, I find the timeless glares from female strangers rather haunting and inspiring in a good way. It's just a peculiar little habit I have. You should see my bedroom walls at home. Recently I considered placing a framed picture of my dealer on the fireplace.

What else is going on at the moment? Well times are as hard as ever, in a way, but I'm coping more efficiently than I ever have. Things will be easier with a pint of cold lager in my palm tonight, and a delicious supper in my belly, but nothing much changes on the inside so long as I keep away from drugs. I know you want me to do well, you're sick and tired of me being sick and tired, explaining relapses every other week. I feel on course to do fine for a decent spree now, everyone can relax, I promise to be a very good boy for the forseeable.

Sort out my spiritual peace like, you know. Hope you're in a happy place too.

Observation

My first impression of an observation room was on an acute ward when I was just a teenager. It had a curtained window with the office on the other side. All the staff had to do was peekaboo through the curtain and they had eyes on you. I forget if there was a camera or not. There was a clock permanently frozen on 3am though, the animal hour.

A lady doctor entered and told me to pull my pants down. I think she wanted to see if my phallus was swollen from masturbation, but she pretended she was checking for hernias. I felt mildly violated. Then she ran me through a Rorschach test, which I probably got all wrong, as I was just a silly teen who didn’t know anything.

It was near Christmas, so the nurses provided red wine and got us all pissed. Hard to believe that, isn’t it, in a psychiatric facility? I spewed up in the toilet after smoking some weed as well. Just another typical weekend on booze and drugs. Except now I was detained in a nuthouse doing it.

When I left the observation room someone else moved in. She was a young girl called Jen in blue casual jeans, blocky black boots and a red wooly jumper, with short back and sides boyish hair and glasses. I fell for her instantly. All we ever said is hello and goodbye to one another, but we shared so much with our combined knowledge of that room. I never ever saw her again after I left, but I remain thinking about her until this very day. She used to just stand there in the room, looking at nothing, as if in prayer, with the door open.

There’s loads more to the story. I was allowed out to college on leave. Teachers were coming to visit me. I wrote my first book in there. After six months they let me out into a bail hostel and my life almost continued to roll along as normal, except for displacement, stigma and trauma. I put psych units behind me all through my twenties, which were enjoyed getting high when possible, usually on cannabis and ecstasy. I worked a few regular jobs but always signed on the dole.

At age 33 I started hearing voices. The rest as they say is history. It was a manic time of running around the woods with no clothes on and shouting at shadows. I was admitted into the same hospital and the same observation room. I woke up in there in a stupor and recognised the place instantly, with an unforgettable sense of shuddersome disquietude.

I thought I’d never left. I thought I’d imagined my whole life.

That feeling was more than surreal, it was multiform and many-sided. I had great doubt about the nature of reality and perception. How could I end up back in the same room, 16 years later?

That obs room, the second time around, still proves to be one of the maddest experiences of my life. It’s hard to describe my mental state within. Basically I stared into space for over two whole days in a state of fear and wonder, hearing voices and hallucinating vividly. I won’t go into what I was seeing, as I’ve already descripted that thoroughly in another book, but the shock of being suddenly ‘awake’ to all the conspiracies of the world was all-consuming.

There were strange shape-shifting figures at my window, mystical timeless patterns on the walls, space beings were performing experiments and procedures on me, the hairs on my body were combed into picturesque conformations, it was all going off and big time; the most I could do was sit there drooling, listening to people battering my head who weren’t there.

Eventually I ‘came down’ and was let out onto the ward. Same thing, Christmas time, but with no booze or weed. Weed would have been the last thing I wanted. It still is. I fear no mortal, but have an intense dislike for being stoned. It makes music sound improved, and enhances the visual cortex, but those things are not worth the compromising paranoia. If I was in a safe environment with lovely people then I’d consider it. As it is, whenever I try and toke a little, I end up hearing growls and hisses from under the cupboard. Or are they deep within my mind?

I considered killing myself in the cistern somehow, by doing a headstand and breaking my neck on purpose. At one point my skin was sticking to the mattress, I thought years had passed again in some type of time warp. I felt condemned to that room, fated to a lifetime of never getting out. The worse thing was, there was no Jen this time to think about when recovering. Like the first time, I started writing about what I was going through. It wasn’t pretty reading. All the nightmares reached back into childhood.

Luckily they only kept hold of me for several weeks, before tipping me out back home. But this spell was only the beginning of a chain of psychotic reactions which still haunt me to this present day, the only difference is I handle them a lot better. I could never give up the drugs, and I could never strike out for staying clean for the long duration. All of my trauma-based memories are still intact and very much alive, and not only that, but they get added to almost every weekend, it seems. You’ll be aware of a few of them here. Others I keep to myself. I’m going through something very difficult at the moment, but who wants to hear about monsters under the sink for example, because rationale gets in the way.

I suppose all this is a chemical imbalance, and I need treatment.

Patient's Signature: ADON

Hospital Rooms

The hospital room in Accidental Orbs might be a peaceful scenario, but so was the one in Exploitation. Exploitation was the novel where I finally and thoroughly dealt with the now just niggling obsession of having a long lost and estranged black sister. It was about human trafficking. A rich white guy named Jax was paying for young African girls from across the border. He lived in a futuristic ivory tower in the middle of nowhere. He selected one to live with him. Just before the deal was settled, she fell victim to female circumcision from a witch doctor.

The witch doctor used to rip the heads off chickens with his teeth and spray the blood around the campfire, kind of like Ozzy Osbourne in concert; then he would drink potions made from Lion claw and Rhino horn and bang his drums to induce himself into a trance. Frolics would end with a loud chanting jungle dance in which he jumped around like a delusional man on hot coals. He performed the barbaric operation with unsterilized tools and stored the clitoris in a tobacco tin lined with olive oil to be eaten with herby leaves at a later date. There seemed to be no logical reason for the procedure to have taken place. Perhaps he valued her spirit and perceived her as a upcoming princess or warrior who would benefit from non-engagement in sex and men. Perhaps he was simply just peckish.  

When her stitches came undone and she bled on Jax’s bed, he had to rush her to the hospital through curvy country lanes in his supercar, some conceptual souped-up prototype of a Renault. He played dark melodic synthwave music the whole way and almost crashed twice. He gave himself an ulcer by biting his lip. He was on just a touch of MDMA powder. He’d swallowed half a gram or so several hours earlier in a shot glass of Ribena.

You might be wondering what he was doing with young girls on his bed, but part of the plot was tricking the reader into believing he was a sicko, when really he only had their best interests at heart. His living quarters at the top of the tower included virtual reality appliances in a children’s playroom, with tons of modern widgets and gizmos. In his mind, he was giving them a better life, plucking them from wartorn famine and poverty. His only downfall was, he often got bored of the same girl and kept swapping them. To his credit, once he’d had enough, they did all go into protective 1^st world foster care families.

A remedying intervention was performed and Jax had a long existential moment with the girl in a hospital room as she recovered. He brought her all manner of nonsense from the gift shop to put on her bedside table. He sat there smoking and drinking bourbon from a flask admiring her features, as he really was in love with the African form. He called them ‘Dark Heartland Savages’ as a private joke in his mind, apt term to describe the witch doctor guilty of the butchery, but words he would never utter in public through parted lips. The scenario was so serene, the only company he ever craved was that of a sweet little wee girl.

I visited hospital when my sister gave birth. That room wasn’t peaceful, it was rather eerie. She was lost in its spacious contours, a baby rabbit in an oversized hutch. It was just the two of us. Is this what happens after you give birth, I thought, they just plonk you in a room to yourself and leave you? She looked like a mixture of relaxation and bewilderment. I incorrectly believed she’d be holding a smiling newborn. Maybe they got it mixed up or swapped it on purpose, but that’s a different story. You hear about babies being swept away from the mother’s arms and never seen of again, to be used for the purposes of experimentation in lifelong torture programs in a different country. Maybe I’ve made that part up, but I have my own ideas. Imagine what runs through Mummy’s head.

It was only on the radio the other day…a post-natal maniac killed all three of her children. It wouldn’t surprise me if she took the bodies to Macdonalds for a set of happy meals.

Accidental Orbs

I was thinking of my fiction last night, spanning way back across my career. It acted as a kind of refuge for my stinkin’ thinkin’. I told myself that the rigours of the night have purpose, so as to release me free unto the following day to further write some more, providing that I am capable and able. And here I am, having survived said rigours, sat at the typing machine, with the world as oyster. Staring into space.

I can’t start a story here though, can I, it doesn’t feel right. I’m not short of ideas, but executing them now? I’m restricted to an hour or so. If I had a study at home and unlimited beer…that might be a little different. I’m not up for starting a venture in the public library. I’m not up for pressing deadlines. It’s just never the right time.

I do have a working title for one possible story. It’s called ACCIDENTAL ORBS. It starts with a young child getting run over in the street. He doesn’t die but is mortally wounded. It’s touch and go. As a by passer intervenes, a bunch of beautiful orbs leave his body and enter hers. He’s whisked away in a helicopter or an ambulance. She departs the scene and experiences a higher quality of life for a few days. Her perception and mood improve above understanding, all her problems are halved, she starts to live beyond her wildest dreams, good things start happening instantly.

But then, recovering from his hospital gurney, the young boy communicates with her from afar, stating that he needs his orbs back. I’m not sure how this communication would take place, perhaps it would be a disembodied voice upon the ether, or messages in the subtitles of the TV, or blurry text hovering within the fibres of the newspaper, or some such other strange event. Either way, she follows instructions and goes to visit him in a hospital. Maybe his family are grabbing a coffee at the time.

It would be a nice scene. I once wrote overly about a bedside scene on an emergency ward. It was about my long lost sister, when I was obsessed with females of African heritage. Whenever a black girl appeared on the television, I would hit the RECORD button on the VCR. I amassed quite an amount of neurotic footage this way. I even found the confidence to start chatting them up in real life, whenever I was in the city. I took ‘one of ‘em’ for a long walk around the neon districts once. We spent the stroll mostly in silence, holding hands. I didn’t kiss her at the end or swap numbers, because I didn’t even really fancy her, but she was black and that was enough.

My sister was suffering from a rare flesh-eating disease, and in a coma. I had to apply special lotion to every inch of her bare skin on a daily basis. I was addicted to her presence, no matter her condition. I made a big point about her smiles. They lit up the entire room. The whole affair was corny and sentimental, I kept repeating that I was never going to leave her side, I was never going to leave her side, I was never going to leave her side.

She recovered and broke my heart, after everything I did for her. I recall crying for the first time in eight years, in front of my best friend, who could not understand my ache. It ended up with me as a seedy stalker, prying upon her premises from afar at all hours of the night, plastering photos of her over my wall. At one point I was sat in one of her skirts applying her makeup in front of the dressing table, getting into character so to speak. As she was working in a whorehouse and getting chauffeured around by wealthy but perverted clients. It all went so dark, from that pretty calm and peaceful bedside scene. Why did she have to turn out to be such a sex-addicted tramp who can’t keep her legs shut for five minutes?

So (back to the main story) she has to return the orbs because the boy needs them for his future. She doesn’t know how to do this. She doesn’t know how she got them. It’s all like magic; above her head. The boy explains in terms ahead of his years, he appears to be an expert in orbs, and anyway they eventually flow from her belly into his heart or something. Then she’s back to her normal boring life, the fancifulness falls off the design of reality like soap suds, everything is monochrome again, she’s done the right thing but her heart slumps with disappointment.

Then she has a wicked idea. She could turn off his life support and see if the orbs go back to her. She’s a decent lass with a strapping heart who feels for the boy dearly but the elation of the power derived from the orbs have rewritten her reasoning skills. For, sans them, she feels depressed and depleted and even sorrowful.

Maybe she even suffocates him with a pillow.

More likely he gives her one or two back from the bunch as a gesture of goodwill, to keep her still moderately happy.

Or maybe, if she kills him, he could haunt her for the rest of the tale, traipsing around after her with two feet planted firmly in the afterlife. Yet another ghost story for our delectation. In a decade or so, when he reached puberty, if dead boy ghosts ever do reach puberty, he could rape her on her own bed and wipe his peewee on the drapes. Her fists might tug the blankets and her nails might break, tendons in her neck straining like popping cords. He might fling her about the room like a rag doll, like the Evil Dead having a party with a crash test dummy at a demolition rally, or invade her private parts with a burning crucifix when she wasn’t looking.

He could drive her into an unsane institution, where she is drugged and studied and forced to tell of her experience about the accidental orbs to the disbelieving ears of doctors. Or maybe she handles it better than that and keeps herself away from the authorities, too high and aloft to spare him a second thought. What would be the point of taking his marvellous potency if her conscience was going to damn her for it?

I’m curious about how the hospital room looks though, before we meander into the nitty gritty. It’d be showered with love wouldn’t it, for a small child, loadsa’ flowers and get well cards, perhaps momentoes like toys ‘n’ stuff. And what of his family, when they return from their coffee break in the lobby, and his school chums and soccer mates? It might be a busy riot of characters. I’d much prefer just the two of them, bound together in fate, having to work something out.

I’ll start writing this baby for you, just as soon as I get my study, and unlimited beverages. I’ll write into the early morn, snow outside, candles inside, all my ink flowing in an exotic direction, the direction of accidental orbs…

How Are We Ever Going To Agree?

More surprising than the amount of doe I’ve blown over the last week is the fact that I’ve made it through again to comment about proceedings here, at the sweet spot. This last bender was rough, aren’t they all, and I sit here teeming with disbelief regarding my own behaviour. Why doesn’t anything good happen when I’m sat at home? I received a financial package lifeline and spurned it in my dealer’s direction. It must have been the luckiest episode of his life. Thankfully I’ve just slept it off for over a whole day and manned up to face the public, perched here typing in the council lobby.

It’s nice to be away from whatever is lurking in my flat, hissing away beneath the sink. I’ve considered torching the place and walking off in to the sunset. With nothing but a sleeping bag, ciggies, and booze. How far would I get?

My neighbours deserve bloodshed: Not for their opportune harassment, but for the terrible music they sometimes play.

With no wedge, I consider myself safe from myself for another couple of weeks. There’s no way I’m ingesting anything else cheap and nasty in the meantime. Hopefully I’ve ridden my system of recklessness for the time being. There’s also no way that state of living can be maintained without dollops of cash. It’s time to bite the bullet of sobriety, no matter how mundane it might be.

I’ve been away to guzzle a few pints and take time to think about things. Hardly anything was forthcoming. I’ve chosen to partially wipe my mind off, rather than strut around waffling to myself and providing my mind-reading perps with free entertainment. My internal monologue for the last few years has been off the hook, and all it merits is them punctuating it with negativity. Now it’s the right time to remain silent and listen. Only thing is, there’s nothing to listen to. Nothing but repetitive hate spiel. Which I’ve heard all before, and gets no more less interesting.

I’ve said all I’ve ever wanted to say. I’m now thinking about coffee in the apology green room. It’s just across the road. I’m in the library now. It might be full of harassers who have been filling their boots over the last few days, outside my window at home. It’s a ball ache figuring out how to react to them. Should I wade in there screaming and shouting my wrath, or calmly greet them with fake warmth? Probably just ignore them and slurp coffee.

He’s on speed, and he stinks, so he can’t come out and get us, they were saying. Now I’ve come down with the grand illusion of a Radox bath, so whatever’s on their tongue now I have no idea. Nothing of any intellectuality, that much is for certain. Only inaccurate jibes and subjective false assertions. They’ll most likely revert to aged, and basic, terms of slander. Which is codswallop by the way, and they know it. If only I had a weapon and no concern for my future, I could storm in there and extinguish one or two of them. Go to a lifer’s jail with a smile on my face. Although the paying hierarchy would go on, and they’d delight in tormenting me locked up. Nothing would be accomplished, except I’d definitely be the bad guy with no reasonable doubt about it. In black and white to the public, on the front page news…another schizo loses his rag. Not a mention of their crimes against humanity.

While Out On Leave

It’s the day before pay day. I’ve only had one can of beer since Friday. I don’t know whether to cane a few good old pints tomorrow, and buy an all-you-eat. Life isn’t that bad on porridge, mixed with Nutella and Whole Earth peanut butter. It’s healthy and cheap. I can’t afford to be spending 15 notes on one meal anymore. Although I can afford almost half a grand on coke. It doesn’t even fill you up for the day. Several hours later you are starving again.

I’m also thinking about an 8-ball of that drug. Just one. The potential is there for two. I’d like two. But I also like a bit of few quid in my pocket. If I could afford it, I’d be on it right now. You wouldn’t get a look in with this web convergence we have going. The substances blow my readers away. Isn’t that a sad thing to say, to a reader, don’t you think? Don’t take it personal. They’ve already blown my family, jobs and life chances away. What chance do you have?

If you were a nice bird, and decided to move in to help me cook and clean, with optional extra benefits, then things might be different. I had the family unit with my ex and her son, once upon a time. I kicked them both out into a bed and breakfast so I could use and view XXX. I was hiding drugs in the freezer, waiting for their eviction date. I had to wait for social services to escort them off the premises. I’ll never forget the look she gave me on her way to the door. Goodbye, girlfriend, now I can rock out.

Before that first night without them was over I was on a psych unit having a nightmare. As soon as I got some leave I would go home and get high for a couple of hours before returning to the ward. The time flew by so quickly watching hardcore in that precious window of allotted time. I was using legal highs if I recall correctly. One female nurse said she’d get me some Pink Panthers, or Charlie Sheen, before I left early at 6am. It turned out to be caffeine powder what she produced. I’d never been so disappointed in all my life, but I sniffed it anyway, and it got me there, so to speak. These were the days before impotent priapism. Priapism is a rare condition of the penis, and one I could have lived without.

When out on leave at my home, I was limited to like say six hours off the hospital grounds. I’d usually neck some Green Beans or some such other crap and rock out until half an hour before it was time to return. The idea was to pull up my pants and ring a taxi, therefore getting back to the ‘ozzy bang snap on time. But I found myself so elevated from the legal toxins that I couldn’t stop what I was doing. The porn was novel at the time, I was a pig in shit, after spending weeks and months on a sterile acute ward with a dozen or so other mentally-retarded bozos (sorry). The thrill of sex at home intoxicated was exhilarating. Going back when I was just getting into a satisfactory state of horniness seemed stupid. F**k them for a few more hours, I thought. I was risking them sending out law enforcement for me being AWOL. One time they did, threatening to hammer down the door. It was a bluff. They left me alone in the end, after I blasted music openly to give them a message. But on other occasions, I’ve had them burst thru. It’s a gamble. You’re probably better just opening the door to them, although if you really have no intention of speaking face to face with a copper then try ignoring them, they just might go away without coming thru.

The worst thing was, when I finally decided to stop after making myself late, there would be no cabs available. I’d have to walk back to the hospital high as a kite. I’d finish rocking out on the toilet with spank memory once I was in. That nurse lingered by the door uttering mantra.

Dragging myself away from XXX with substances still on the kitchen counter is an impossibility. When they run out, I have been known to resort to drinking a cheeky shot of bleach. That sums up my mental state when I run out of narcotics. The more you have the better you feel, but the more you do the less you have, and the quicker it disappears. That feeling is dreadful. You’re still in party mood but you have none, can’t get none, and can’t afford none. If you have the funds and the dealer’s phone is still on then I’d spend next month’s pay check to finalise that deal, and the month after that, until I was selling my arse up the common for half a line.

It’s this vice-like grip I will encounter again tomorrow when my money goes in. It’s the same dilemma every time, and I usually lose out. Don’t worry, I won’t be drinking bleach. It was a very peculiar porn star who made me do that. She was like a demonic force. I wanted a hit from anywhere to spend a touch more time with her. All it did was make my teeth squeaky and give me a pain deep in my organs. There was no buzz whatsoever. I was probably self-harming in a lenient way. Graphic sexual imagery has that effect on me.

That porn star, and the aforementioned nurse, are now part of the stalking network giving me grief, wouldn’t you know. They hail from Scotland and Russia. They harass me on a daily basis with visuals in my head and vibrational auditory stimuli. When I used to get broken in psychosis they’d drive by me and stuff on stolen motorbikes. They have even moved in next door under a cloak of high clearance secrecy to torment me from the other side of a flimsy wall with plausible deniability. I am still in a kind of complicated sexual relationship with the nurse which makes things extremely overcomplex when navigating feelings like sheer hatred and weird attraction. Half of the guns and goons who currently pester me for fun I was once in love with. They do say that only true love has the ability to hurt you.

I hope your emotive feelings are a lot more manageable than mine.

This has been the 77th Piebalder, typing at the sweet spot. Look after yourselves, and each other.

Storage - Face Off

Vivien Maier Photoghraphy

 

Uneventful

WARNING: The following blog contains pointless information. Please be advised about lack of stimuli while reading. Google recommends Toxic Junction for shits and giggles. Any resemblances to living people are strictly coincidental. That's if the author knows any living people, as he is a recluse who sees less sunlight than a potholer. Coping mechanisms have been tried and tested, but when faced with the challenge of a fully grown mountain lion in your neighbourhood, you are advised to seek technical assistance. Armed guard if necessary. If you are suicidal and here for desperate measures (like most readers), admin recommends you drown your sorrows in a bottle of rum with an affordable escort to get you over the thick of it. If you still feel lousy in the morning leave a comment in the relevant section and one of the team will cheerily respond to the particulars of your ailment. The ideas in this weblog arise from daydreaming in front of the local brook smoking hash. Please speak to an experienced fisherman who can lead you thru the process of understanding exactly what is entailed in the act of doing classic f**k all, and thriving from it. The whole of this site is now available in print. Please request from Emerging Futures. There is large print and braille available upon demand, not to mention illustrated hardbacks and audiobook. Negotiations permitted. This site was written for soul mates, the oppressed, deep thinkers, goth chicks, and mulattoes.

Things are getting dire around here now. There are no life events going on in the existence of Yours Truly. I’m plodding from one uneventful day to the next. Today I’ve been out and about functioning in public, but with no real chance to speak openly and meaningfully in SMART class, or what I call apology. The facilitator does all of the talking, we don’t get a sniff in. It should be the other way round.

Last night my skeletons were creeping up for a private sneaky-peep showing. It’s been quiet in my head for a week. I silenced them by thinking creatively. I think about what I’m going to write during my next blog spot outing. It’ll be big, I tell myself. It’ll be mental. Except when I get here at the station crap like this comes out.

My pretend Agent Clint gave me an idea earlier, to raise me up from the stagnancy. He told me to write about someone who has the whole world in his hands but it isn’t enough. I thought of power and eternity and corruption and where that leads to. In my head, Royals sacrificing children. I’m not dwelling on that for a living. My neighbour sacrifices children, for God’s sake. Or that’s at least what it sounds like at daft o’clock in the morn. Then he has the cheek to bang on the wall over my music and shout thru the plasterboard.

I post mental health leaflets thru his letterbox, but what I really feel like doing is storming in there with a weapon and wasting everyone in sight. There’ll be blood on the windows and walls. Enough about them already though. I have bigger issues going on. Like how to remain creative. When the anxiety transforms into panic attacks, focusing on inventive endeavours is all I have to sustain me thru it.

I’m drawing a bit at home. I wish I could sketch dragons perched on castles and water skis rolling in white water rapids but I’m limited to abstract doodles which depict only a neurotic mind. Although they appear as a whole load of nothing to the casual eye, I must admit that I do enjoy the way I perceive them, once having been rendered. I see all manner of possibilities within their inky detail. I can’t do 3-D or perspective. Yet I still enjoy the process of being a basic scribbler. I like my pens and my colours, they’re simple pleasures. One day I might try something brave, like a robot.