Tying A Knot And Hanging On

(1) Sorry I’m not as topical as I used to be. Mainstream affairs and side interests take the back seat when your very life is under threat. I’m trying to coldly detach myself from what’s going on. The autonomy of the mind is hard to drop though. I find myself stubbornly defending myself in the face of devastating adversity. It’s to no use. They find my reasonable explanations boring, my humour non-contagious, and my free-thinking a direct threat.

The best I can do is become a more rounded emotional being. I’m striving to do this by keeping my heart open. When all around the people I trust are betraying me. It’s only sly insults under their breath, and unpardoned sneaky videos on their phone, but the tally adds up.

What’s the point in living, if there’s no one you can trust?

That’s a line from one of my own poems.

I’ve started writing another poem about the Critter behind the washing machine, but I’ve yet to finish it.

Last night I had a screaming woman sounding off in my head all night. They change their tactics a lot, but a constant visual screaming woman I’ve yet to deal with. Stronger today. 

(2) It’s important to drop your vices eventually, I feel, if for nothing else but the sheer principle of it. I can’t remain hooked to women forever. Not the ones in knee-high boots, sporting whips. I might never be able to move on.

I’m making great strides forward with my chief narcissists. I’m seeing them, wholly and fully, for the bored childish bullies they are. On the other hand, I now view myself as something great in the cosmos compared to them. This is weird on every level, as I hate comparisons. Whenever somebody treats me nicely, or I get shown respect, my heart rejoices. Because so much of my time is spent vying to ignore a heartless argumentative goon squad.

Another day survived then, it looks like. I doubt I’ll be jumping off any bridges this evening, or stringing up on a flimsy curtain rail. Or overdosing on heroin. I should be so lucky. I’m shirking away electromagnetic, mind-scuppering ruffians instead. But now it’s different. Oh so different.

Suppressing my hatred, my bitterness, my impossibly deep revulsion, and speaking the truth in a calm voice. No fits of anger, no spouts of rage, no flashes of bad temper. Yet still they maintain that I am endlessly responding to their pointless mind games. The God’s Honest would kill them.

(3) I met a remarkable gentleman who believes me. He suspects clairvoyance. I was so made up he didn’t use the term chemical imbalance. My tormentors threw a hissy fit when we connected, and I perceived supernatural light emanating from his body as we spoke.

My life is kinda like that. There was a lot more to it, but I haven’t the energy or the time to properly dissect proceedings here at the honey pot today. Maybe another time, eh.

Invisible foes and voices in the head. You wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy would you?

I hold out that I belong in Heaven. This they cannot handle.

I don’t like giving them airtime, but gone are the days talking about pottery. Not unless I sign up for the local midweek ceramics class! I’d ordinarily think about it, but it’s full of women. I’d be the only bloke. I know this because I walk past it every week in the Old School, and clock what’s happening through the window.

There’s as much chance of me making a sixth studio album than churning out another clay sculpture. I miss them both sorely. Now I have to settle for this, complaining about being battered to someone I will never meet. No offence there. Perhaps we were close buddies in a previous life. Who knows for sure stuff like that?

Erika Baggage Returns

It began with the lock-in at the Coach & Horses. My bestie wouldn't take no for an answer. She rampantly insisted I ride along with her to watch a dangerously obese kebab shop owner called 'Johnie Two Shots' make his own rules up in a pool comp. At one point the white ball flew off the table and only marginally missed smashing someone plum-full in the face. I kid you not. It could have cracked her dentures, blackened her eye, or broken her nose. The strange thing was, she didn't notice the flying object narrowly avoid potentially costing her a visit to A&E and maybe ruining her looks. She was in the middle of telling a joke...something to do screaming chimpanzees, meat paste, and blenders.

His bestie (a sex pest going by Archie Trickle), tried to seduce me with a pricey novelty phone that could project its screen onto the ceiling in IMAX proportions. He showed us a video of himself busy at work fitting a Formica table top in a celebrity’s residence. I think he name-dropped the celeb as Noel Edmonds, who wasn’t available for a signature, a selfie, or even a brief hello. Apparently, he was away filming a documentary in a high-end grooming parlor.

I wasn’t the least bit impressed by his futuristic mobile, his equally statement-making leather two-tone cowboy boots, or his diabolical beard lights. Beard lights are like mini Christmas decorations in a man's facial hair. I kept expecting them to start flashing rhythmically, but they never did. Perhaps they were a purposeful intended distraction, to free his gaze up for snatching glimpses at my deep plunge cleavage.

He never commented on my tits, but he did keep pointing at them to his mates. He accompanied this repeated mannerism by dry humping with his crotch.

A brief extract from Erika’s doorstop opus, “What not to think about when engaged in affairs of minutiae down the local boozer with people you do not care about.” (22 word title)

Quick Acknowledgement

🙋>>>Yo there, just dropping in. In case anyone cares, I feel like I am doing great. There was an awful day coped with/dealt with on Tuesday, but I got thru it and emerged strengthier. Nothing to do with me, I was hit hard with psychic attack (all that modern warfare palaver), yet now I feel blessed with beer, meat, and music - not to mention a fully regenerative self-sustaining brain rhythm!

Which might be wiped out any given second, by the way. The Thought Police aren't too keen on free-thinking dissidents who use government terminals to spread the so-called illusion of self-empowerment.

Personal Note: Stop referring yo yourself as a dissident!

I'm a Mason really. I do good charity work. Yesterday I sprayed my nametag in bright yellow graffiti over the parish entrance.

I hope that the painted dolls don't get me. My loins haven't stirred for quite some time and I'm getting anxious about when (or hopefully if) they might. Desire can lead to ruin. I must remain vigilant. I'm getting by with cold lagers and phat dinners. Better than white powders.

And leave out the narcotics!

I am worth more than the shite I fill my veins with! It is not even me who does it, but a sarcastic jinn named Simon. He lives in the weak and the wounded!

Stop calling yourself weak...

Sorry, running off course there. I want no talk about sex or drugs. There are other things going on. Like you, for example.

How are you doing? Trust me, it's important. You matter.

Hope you're staying creative and pure in spirit. Keep up the good work. It's a delight for our minds to connect over this web juncture, but I have to leave you alone to fend for yourself at this critical turnpike, as I unfinished bid'ness to contend with.

I have to put a certain woman to sleep. And I don't mean tuck her into her Teddy Bedding. I'm on about expunging her from my consciousness. She won't lie down flat dead easily though. I might need backup. 

Do you know how to rid yourself of All-Sexy Jezebel? With her twin jailbait pigtails, her scratchy talons, and her frig-me boots? Not to mention all the rest of it. Why do I keep banging on about her so much? Mention God and The Angels for once...damn you... 

(give me those eyes) she says

I've been using my penis for pissing only. Is that a decent idea, or should I put it to more pleasurable purpose? As if I haven't done that far enough too much already.

I've been "blowing my beans" far excessively across the span of my adult life.

Although, in my defence, I haven't "blasted everywhere" since Mistress Lola the escort came a'round last Saturday week.

Threat To Humanity

There’s this huge drama about AI wiping out humanity. Like many I assume, there’s a lot of befuddlement about how exactly this might happen, and where the fear is arising from. My knowledge of AI sprouts from the Terminator franchise, when Cyberdyne Systems went active. Or was it online?

This looks slightly more threatening than the Millennium Bug. That was just a bunch of clocks resetting themselves.

When I’m searching for artwork across the web, I often type in AI after my general search descriptors. I don’t mind pictures done by a computer, they have a polished and slick effect to them, as if they have just popped out of cutting-edge printers.

But how can a glossy illustration outdo mankind’s efforts to preserve his own fate?

I worked it out for myself. It’ll be the robots, as Hollywood’s Terminator suggested. Only they won’t be mercenaries sent from the future, arriving in a bubbly, sparkly, globular portal; it’ll be a police officer. Off the back of a Black Mariah.

AI cop arses. I’ve heard they already have them in China.

It’s hard enough arguing with the human ones. Don’t just ask George Flloyd, ask my younger brother. They both suffocated in custody.

They have AI police (or cop arses) in the sci-fi hit Elysium (2013). I can’t believe it took me so long to join the dots. Our only hope is that the robots, when arresting us for deportation, start dribbling white fluid from the mouth and malfunction. It wouldn’t be the first robot I’ve seen hit a major glitch in its programming. Some of them even have a habit of spontaneously combusting on the spot.

All that propaganda about the robot Olympics is smoke and mirrors – they really want them for law enforcement.

A brick shit-house metal AI pig with The Voice Of God weapon and a stun gun...

...you're going with him!

I recommend you buy an attack dog, to set on the electronic cop arse when he (or should I say it) comes to detain you – if he hasn’t brought his own counter-attack robot dog with him. He might have one with three heads, like Cerberus.

Loud Music (DNF)

 My neighbours are complaining that my music is too loud. They don’t like my favourite song, “F**k Everybody”, played when I wake up in the early hours of the morning. The thing is, I’ve been thinking that I’ve been listening to my tunes with headphones on. But, and it’s a big but, my headphones haven’t been plugged in.

I’ve been sat there, at daft ‘o’ clock, blasting hellish symphonies out into the residencies, believing I was in private enjoyment. In reality, the headset was muffling my interpretation of the speakers’ thundering decibels.

I’m surprised the police didn’t turn up.

Maybe the neighbours were terrified of ringing the 50, because I’d warned them, the previous week, when singing thru their letterbox after half a litre of Jim Beam, and I quote, # “If you even think about phoning the busies I’ll burn your children alive and eat their barbecued remains in front of you.” #

I was having a bad day at the time. I mean morning. Early morning.

They actually wrote me a letter of complaint. I didn’t read it, but I have framed it and hung it on the wall. He has beautiful handwriting, Joe does. He signs his name with a pentagram drawn after his name, in red biro pen.

unfinished

24/7

I’m beginning to share, in apology, about narcissistic abuse. I tell them that I am getting over my mental issues but still chained to the drink. I could say that a satanic narcissist dedicated to nail-gunning my ballbag to a tree finally got around to doing it over the weekend, and they would only be interested in me reducing my overall consumption of alcoholic units. It’s not seeming to go down very well. Must be quite a rare thing, having your brain pulverised daily by a narcissist.

I didn’t tell them that my oppressors are falling over each other like bashed skittles in order to chip away at me. They remind me of rabid scavengers. I’ve truly adopted it into my heart now that they are nothing much more than oppressed themselves, even if only by their complete inability to see anything further over the horizon apart from their odd and startling obsession with me, which is mad as f**king anything and takes some believing.

I thought I had an infatuation with Canadian Alexandra (less said the better). I wrote my best novel all about her, which took four years, plus many many hours watching her onscreen. In the end I grew out of her and moved onto other women. No matter how beautiful someone is, there is always another equal or improved model around the corner on Life's Highroad. I’ve never hoped my perps would find another ‘victim’ because that would be passing the buck. They might settle for a school girl with no lived experiences to help her cope with the bizarre attention. At least I am a grown ass ugly bloke. That’s why I have a hard time comprehending their twisted voyeurism. If I was a pretty woman, I’d understand it.

I couldn’t stare at another fella all day. Not even Elvis Presley or Christian Slater or Dwayne Johnson. Not even if they had piglet roasters (large penises) buried inside every individual of Little Mix.

I don’t fancy these dudes by the way, they’re the first three geezers I could think of.

If the entire universe, in its mammoth breadth of limitless entertainment options, is not enough to distract my voyeurs from removing their concentration span away from me for more than two seconds, then you might ask yourself then what possibly can? I wish I could tell you the answer.

Even God The Creator himself is not as interesting as me to them. They are utterly immersed and absorbed with every single individual thought in my napper. For years I thought I was getting head-fucked, as they call menticide around here these days, but now I understand that they are simply making a show out of lifeform by revealing how hopelessly inadequate they are at fending for themselves. Why feel the need to eavesdrop on me and follow me around like spaced-out lemmings all day long?

The worse they can do of late is give me dream manipulations, which no doubt cheers them up a bit. Gone are the days of old when they would drive me out of town or into a secure ward. I bet they still weren’t happy when I thought they were demoniac activity, much less now, when I know they are cowards and retards.

That’s the difference.

If their silly little pathetic games had gone according to plan, they would have had me in their clutches by now (with no skin on, as they say, locked in a cupboard somewhere, with some prick sticking drawing pins in me) sincerely believing that they were powerful supernatural entities from a different planet. And guess what? I would sincerely believe it. If someone is physically hurting you and you are cuffed to a chair in their soundproofed utility room, you tend to agree with whatever bullshit they are offloading your way.

Mute Point

Hi there, welcome to my honey pot. I hope you are interested in what resides here. I’d be delighted if you arrived here with purpose, actively seeking my material, rather than end up hanging around here by accident. However you found this, it’s most pleasantly pleasing to me if you stick around a while. There’s a Chaos Chronicles sidebar on the web version so you can discover my long history of creative expression utilizing the word which so far is over a decade and a half strong. In the past are also a lot of JPEGS nicked from the net. I liked a visual picture to compliment the written article. I do wonder though if the artists favour their work being highlighted on someone else’s site. I doubt they mind, but I’ve stopped it just in case they do. Now and again, if I see a memorable pik, I’ll swap it over to here.

What kind of art work are you into? I wouldn’t mind viewing angels fighting demons, or robots dancing with dinosaurs. I couldn’t dream of sketching anything like that. The best I can do is a copycat tracing of a female movie star holding a gun.

_______________________

I’m in fantastic adoration of the idea that you are viewing this sweet spot on your mobile, commuting to work, or resting peacefully on a recliner at home. I’m new to global readership so please forgive the way I address you, if I come across as a bit of nobhead. It’s nice not to be alone, and to be in contact with readers I wholeheartedly respect, no matter what race or creed you may happen to be.

For years I’ve been penning novels and discarding them unread into drawers. They remain unpublished and dog-eared in scrap piles. I have written manuscripts and bound printed rewrites. I own a sackful of chapbooks with illustrated covers which I sometimes hawk in the city sat on a bench with a camping table in front of me. One demented Ghana dude tried to buy from me with those Connect 4 plastic tokens. He thought my artistic signature was Hebrew.

_______________________

I’ve lost so much in my life, it’s hard to believe, I hold fast to this blog with everything. I fear the day when gremlins and glitches hack it and erase my testimony. Hopefully I’ll encounter nothing but a mass heart attack and it will remain here to be read by my nieces and nephew in the future, who want to know more about their estranged uncle. I must be honest, I find it hard working out where to start when it comes to blogs. That’s why the latest post has to be a good offering. If anything happens to me, I have not stopped blogging and left you in the dark, I’m simply brown bread (dead), or hospitalized. Even when I forfeit God’s grace and relapse into vice, I am still able to come here however lowly and face the music. Sorry, I f**ked up, I might say. Please forgive me.

_______________________________

Painted Jezebels with rocket knockers are planning my ruin. Knowing my stupid reasoning skills, I might choose their delights any day of the week. In actual fact, my dealer has just rang me a moment ago. I have several XXX movies I have not thrown away, loitering in my DVD collection. I’m doing really well at the moment, but I am a flawed human being with weaknesses like anybody else. I have a penchant for the flesh, I am surrounded in town by stunningly looking women, the idea of erotic escapism is prevalent in my mindset. My fetishes are multitude, my addictions are poly, my cash flow is able, my wanting is almost irrefutable. I’m denying myself sexual pleasure in order to be a better man, a more righteous man, a man who doesn’t seek cheap thrills to temporarily distract himself from reality.

                    (💥💥💥💥💥💥💥)

I'm off to drink bargain lager and go shopping now. With luck I'm not walking into a relapse. I thought I was over it all but you never know. The disease of addiction is cunning, baffling and insidious. I heard of a 25 year relapse and following suicide recently. It's scary shit, man. We walk over our kids for a bag of white. We empty their piggy banks for a dig of brown. Nothing Else Matters With Us. If we can afford it, we need our fix.

My mind has been wandering around so much lately, I've been thinking of the wonderful and positive things I can be or achieve. Not by earning a crust or saving the whale, but by being successful mentally and having no woes or worries. They do say that it's all in the mind. Mood is so important, you can have a Bentley on the drive but if you're too depressed to drive it then what use is it. You could have a suitcase full of cash, but no idea how to spend it. If you are relatively happy in your own mind, then what bother can the world throw at you?

APPROX WORD COUNT: 850

Bearing Up

My Addictive Brain wants me to attack coppers. I’ve reached boiling point. No amount of beautiful female backing vocalists can soften my soul. I need to attack coppers.

I reckon George Floyd’s family feel the same way. I lost my younger brother in custody too. He died on the floor of a police cell. It’s a long story, and I won’t go into it, but it was on the news, I had the footage on my PC, we attended an inquest, they got off the hook with slapped wrists.

Maybe I’ll tell you all about it one time.

His death (or murder) could have been avoided by thirty seconds of universal happenstance coincidental karmic synchronicity. If only his mother had returned from shopping to the house sooner. Or if only my dad had been at his fighting weight, ten years younger.

As I’ve just said, it’s a long and complex story.

I don’t really need to beat coppers up, I’m only fooling around there.

Already done it.

I launched a violent assault on three of them in the past. I thought they were shape shifting grizzly bears in humanoid form wearing multi-threat hi-visibility vests. I thought their motor was a nature pen on wheels, wherein I would be transported to some kind of sicko zoo in a far-flung region of this unhinged permanently shifting cosmos we unwillingly inhabit against our will.

I was stranded in a wild forest reserve at the time, after having traveled miles away from home in a desperate bid to escape those pesky gang-stalkers I’m always ranting on about. Why I was scared of them in the first place I do not know. They have a habit of getting to you from time to time. Usually when you’re enfeebled from your own false-givings.

I remain quasi-convinced that someone released a real bear into the park I was running around bare-ass naked in, lost in a rare cheaply-afforded drug-induced flowery flamboyant psychosis. I saw one, I really did, I saw one. It wasn’t a hallucination. Reality check here, Andy. Ah, there. Breathe. Relax. Think rationally.

These days my aggressors plant animals in my very own living room when I am conked out off poisonous drugs which I unwittingly purchase as Class As. I might have already told you that. They sneak open the patio and plonk in an exotic mammal. I'm isolated and vulnerable with no support network, so they think they can get with anything.

When appalling tactics like this occur, I have to adopt my inner jungle instinct. My native dark African interior self-ready dramatic baboon reveals itself. No wonder they call me a monkey.

I once ingested ketamine and turned into this common leaping baboon on Burger King car park. There were no other animals present, apart from my lazy friend who I shall not name, who was kinda representing a sloth. He's so slow, he'd be late for his own funeral. He walks backward in a comatose state most of the time.

But back to bears...it's important to remember this about them:

If it's brown, just lie down. If it's black, it's okay to fight back. If it's white, say good night.

I stood up to the one I encountered and started doing star jumps while clapping my hands. Then I grabbed a big stick and chased it away. Seriously. Loads of barmy things have happened to me. This is the kind of wacky foolishness which happens when you get targeted by governments and private enterprise for a living.

I sometimes felt like someone had volunteered me for an episode of The Crystal maze, with Rob Zombie's Spooky Surgeon in control of proceedings. Rob Zombie is a horror director. You may have heard of him. I don't mind mentioning his name here at the honey pot. If you think he's disturbing, then you should meet the distasteful characters who are clinically obsessed with stalking me around the clock everyday of the week.

It takes some mettle to meet them with cold detachment, in order to cope. I used to share jokes with them, when they love-bombed the daylights out of me. These days I straightforwardly insist they go away. To no avail of course. I'd say they don't listen, but they listen intently perpetually, even when I'm talking (or thinking) bollocks. They just don't listen to me when I'm telling them to crawl into a lonely corner and die alone somewhere.  

I wish they did. But then what would I write about? A Mills & Boon bro-mance?

APPROX WORD COUNT: 750

Rapture

Payday. Boom Boom. Ker-ching. But I am not buying soul-destroying chemicals! Not unless my usual escort invites herself around to show off her new breast implants! Then I might succumb! I might soon be snorting rip-off novocaine from her deep plunge veiny cleavage! Don’t say you wouldn’t do the same!

Talking about sexy women. There’s one or two in apology class. I get close to them, let my feelings known, and then they poop on me with a hurtful comment. For some reason, I attract hurtful comments. They all cannot friggin’ help themselves. I think it’s because they envy my upbeat state of mind, megalomaniac mood and cheery personality. I suspect they are reading my thoughts, somehow. I may have mentioned that before. They seem to know so much about me. Strangers, associates, family members, the lot. They all give the game away. All that results from it is me walking away. I’ll save my attention for those who deserve it. If such a select few worthwhile people exist, that is.

James Herbert said that there is ‘Nobody True’.

“Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can share its joy.”

I shared about rapture today. I think that’s why I was on the receiving end of a backlash. I’m in a room with druggies and drunks; I shouldn’t be bragging about happiness, I suppose. My girl Grace thought rapture was an evil word. I had to explain biblical trumpet sound. In Jesus name naturally. Whose other name would I discuss biblical trumpet sound in?

I’ve been thinking about smiling porn stars smoking weed in the morning before performing on a set. I’ve been thinking about standing up to all my adversaries in the name of God. I’ve been thinking about how boring life can be at times, if you’re not thinking about anything.

This isn’t enough for me, in a way. I need to write florid prose about a character in a plot. And a character who knows a character in a subplot. My next tale will be entitled The Museless, I’ve already made bitty headway into it. The title tells its own story. It sounds like its about losing everything that ever inspired you, and the desperate places you travel to from there. Fortunately I ended up somewhere safe and secure, or I wouldn’t be able to deal with the concept.

I’m fundamentally pleased with where I am at the moment. I don’t mean to come across as an emotional snob, because I know that our kids are killing themselves. I should be able to empathise, as I tried it myself on multiple occasions. I have enormous compassion for suicides and self-harming.

_______________________________________

You are reading the words of

CHOSEN, 

SUPER EMPATH 

and TARGETED INDIVIDUAL.

________________________

That’s me. Among other things.

Hope you have a fancy name too! Like Johnie Kick Doors Down! Or The Chip Shop Torturer! Hell, even something like Walter Mellon would suffice.

It doesn’t harm you does it? As long as you identified yourself. You wouldn’t want someone like a shrink labelling you, would you? Otherwise I'd be nothing more than a mental patient who can't prevent himself from lighting uncontrolled indoor fires. It's a pity I don't set my neighbours house on fire. A blessing for them, but a pity for me.

Back soon. Enjoy what remains of your day...

Considerable Progress Maintained

👸Forgive me, for I need to discuss my harassers again. I don’t mean to bring the universe down on purpose, but they are presenting as mentally unwell. I think I am on their medication. For years I thought I was the unlucky one by having to listen to their repetitive hassle: Their inexplicable obsession of my mental processes appears to be far worse however.

I feel like the guilty party all of a sudden.

Can’t they turn me off or something? They seriously need to pull the plug when it comes to eavesdropping on my thoughts. By the recent kip of them, it isn’t doing them any good whatsoever, only rising their stewing funky hatred of me (because I won’t shut up), causing them to trip over one another in order to get a word in (which I’ve heard a thousand times), and generally being too incomprehensibly small and insignificant to adequately describe.

I feel big today. Probably small tomorrow (they always come back at me with something), but large and in charge at the moment.

Having plenty of amusing ideas, talking healthily to myself, and sneaking a few unhindered images onto my visual cortex without their pesky thought deletion tactics going on. In short, I’m able to (partially) think freely again. This totally and utterly sends them into a frenzy. They want me on the mattress wiped out cognitively, so they can reiterate how much they dislike having to analyse my finger motions twenty four hours of the day. Only joking, they are not that honest.

"Every time they open their mouths exposes another dirty lie."

I always half-believed they were having the time of their lives torturing me. By simply refusing to feed their narcissistic supply of attention, living my own life, and delighting in my discovery of peace and joy, it is now me who is torturing them. They hate me because I don’t hate them. They don’t leave me alone because they cannot bear to be with themselves for a single moment. They they they they they…

Why do I even bother giving them this airtime? Perhaps dealing with them once and for all will enable me to lock them in a cupboard and finally forget about them.

Only better thing than a cupboard is the front page of a newspaper.

I don’t think they fear exposure, or even losing me. I think they dread their terrible vulnerability and fragility being made known to those who they have deceived into respecting them with steadfast devotion through a reign of false power obtained through lies and secrecy over the years. They sometimes brag about kidnapping people. I regularly offer them all a fist fight straightener on my lawn any time, they can even bring backup and weapons if they want, because I just ain’t scared of them anymore. Mainly because I can see right through them. They make themselves out to be blood-letting monsters, but they are just bored emotional vampires who need someone else down in the dumps to feel moderately more less miserable about themselves.

A very small part of me pities them. I sure would hate to be one of ’em.

I think of myself as a master story teller, but even I’m not as infatuated with me as they are with me.

Would you want to spend eternity with someone you hate? It makes not a scrap of sense to anyone. Yet they always declare eternal bandwidth with me. Whatever the hell bandwidth means. Isn't it something to do with radios?

I refute them. I deny them. I reject them.

Yet I do not hate them.

REST IN PEICES, EVIL PERP.

Strength For My Story

Another night of deep thinking and reasoning. Emerging from a history of abuse, trauma and hatred isn’t straightforward. I don’t want to solely define myself as a survivor of narcissistic tyranny. I want to emerge as a greater human being overall with more to me than somebody’s else’s persecution. My mental capacity is still being stretched and tested to the max as we speak. I am rising to the challenge and currently trampling all over any insecurities arising from deep within.

People have committed suicide over far less.

I don’t see myself as above anybody else. I only know that my experiences make me different. I suppose that most people who have transcended hardship can testify to that. Amen to them. If you haven’t been through anything then I guess it’s lucky you. Nothing to complain about.

I have suffered enough on planet Earth. Of that much I am positively certain. My addictions left me exposed to bullies taking advantage. I kind of asked for it. Only now do I feel strong enough to stop letting them injure me anymore. I am severing their pipeline into my emotions and breaking free.

I feel extremely strong and confident. I’ve been working out my life story. It’s one hell of a testament. Quite hard to believe, in fact. With the modern futuristic terrors of mind control, it reads like a science-fiction account. It’s terrifying. It’s supernatural. It’s technological. It’s Godly.

I am a Child of God, and all Satan’s little brown-nosing helpers can get f**ked away.

Do I sound like I’m trying hard to convince myself of that? I can’t recall ever saying it before. Do I repeat myself over and over? God is easy to forget, when there is something hissing in the cupboard, or when you’re being followed at night by a gang. It’s vital we keep our eyes on Him. The world will try anything to take your mind away from His grace.

I’m glad I didn’t get lost along the journey. Some very wicked individuals had my soul in their pocket at one point, and I was lucky to come out the other side with my life. Once I was assaulted in my own home with a blade by several invaders. When I was down they stood on my head and posed for photographs. Then they pumped poison spray into my face over and over again to kill me. It made me weak as anything but I managed to crawl outside. I had to dig very deep for that willpower to make it away. I wish I could say it was the only murder attempt I’ve prevailed through.

At the time, when dark bizarro is happening, I’m too shocked to accept what is going on. It’s only after time, with the opportunity to look back on events, when I start feeling rather positive about my survival instinct. I did well there, I think to myself. You should be proud.

Thoughts On Exposure

I’ve been thinking about naming a few unsavoury dudes here at the sweet spot, and immortalising their unlawful identities for ever. I’ve never name-dropped in all my years of abuse, because I think the authorities are the ones doing this to me, but I might take a chance and perform my share of exposure. I’m surprised the authorities tolerate this website. I’ve been advised to let God expose the guilty parties, as cosmic karma has a habit of getting around to everybody in due time. Keep my nose out of it.

How would I like it, if someone slandered me? Believe me, that already happens a lot. This would not be slander, it would be truth. What would it achieve though, if I were honest here? Probably nothing. I ought to write a letter to the police instead. The only difference is, you won’t ask me about my medication. The police will. And you just might trust my judgment and actually believe what I’m telling you. The police won’t.

If they were honourable thieves, I would not grass them up. But they are torturers who are obsessed with my finger motions; something to do with nervous energy in the hands exhibiting fear emotion. They drool over me masturbating (who in the world watches someone masturbate for a living?), waiting for sacred fluids which never arrive, and slobber over my brain patterns in my place of work, when I am doing something that they are incapable of – interacting with fellow human beings without the hindrance of an infantile power exchange at hand.

They simply will not and cannot leave me alone. They pretend this method of annoyance is done to lower my mood, to keep me down in the doldrums, but really they are explicitly bored with their own miserable existence and need the company of someone who makes them laugh, which I do a lot, because I am quite often laughing a lot, and certainly not bored of my own existence.

I have access to photographs online for a couple of them. I never can quite be sure just who in fact is reading this. The first thing I do in lucid dreams during periods of astral projection is share this blog address. I know that’s la-la land stuff, but I must have faith that someone out there might be able to help. Even if it’s just understanding where I’m coming from. Because trust me, around these manors, nobody believes a word out of my mouth.

That’s why they had me misdiagnosed with mental illness, to tarnish my testimony. Have you forgotten to take your meds?

One of my harassers is a celebrity. That mugshot shouldn’t be hard to attain. I recall a fellow patient told me that a footballer was targeting him. Bollocks, I thought, what would a footballer see in you? But you never know. The television is common in a lot of paranoid delusions victims have. They hear voices from the telly, receive messages from the telly…the modern day celebrity can win the hearts and minds of any of us ordinary folk any day of the week. They’re a force to be reckoned with. And not any old Tom, Dick or Harry can make it on the box. You have to pledge your allegiance to a Royal cabal first, don’t you? And spill the claret of innocence.

Another one of the fools is an ex-teacher cum author. Mugshot no problem. Considering we were once very close, and I attended one of her signings in Waterstones recently, she might find my claims bizarre if it isn’t really her.

Then who the hell else is it? I think I’ll take the risk and point fingers. If it’s a Chinese terrorist or Russian spy assuming her I.D, then I’ll explain that to her in due time. But it looks and sounds like her.

What, you’ve been cloned? Forget about my insinuation then. I’ll delete the post.

It would mean a lot to me if you took my word for it. I don’t care if they never meet justice, it’s hard enough for them to have to watch me make a joke out of them over and over on a daily basis. But if I started to share the details of my story and an engaging audience was actually interested…that’s a lot more than spilling names to a doctor who’ll only up my tablets.

Visit me soon and we’ll have a chinwag about it.

“They twitch among the brambles.”

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.