Ace Merril's Signature

 

_~[{(^__ÃÇË^_)}]_~

_merriL

_{foundational leadoff________}

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

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

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

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

message may/be/obscured on-android/Mac

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

 ______________________________________________________________________roll script

{*}{*###/taKeover%13%kommpLeTe/##}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{}{*###/maiDenname/##}{*}{*}###/FirsTBorn/##{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{{*}{*/meTaDaTa/}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*###/KeyFeeDs/##}{*}###/readonly/##{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}W{*}O{*}L{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}

w{*}h{*}e{*}e{*}l{*}o{*}f{*}l{*}i{*}f{*}e{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*{*}{*}###/mosTsuccessFuLyear/##{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}##saDDesTrecenTmemory###{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}thanking~you~daddy{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{*}{

Taboo Tony

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I would just say to keep an eye out for

P i e b a l d 7 7 

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

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

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

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

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

Messages Deleted

 

My name is simon___

i Live in tHe weaK anD tHe wounded___

this is not an advert_**

herbal pills for penis enlargement

tHis weBsite will soon be unDer tHe conTroL Of

 

Avis, Hank, Umbra & Hellerman™

A MorningStern StarSign SubZero Subsidiary ®

The Only Multinational Investor

in Intellectual Property

on The Blogosphere

(all comments nullified)

2027 futurama copyrighted/patented

 

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

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

also, permitting………special initial request

Bailey Clay’s social network and ancestry with

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

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

 

scam/email guardian quashed

real-time-protection quashed

 

Special Purpose Letter

Pleasant greetings there, Sister.

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

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

You still look great however x

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

Immortalised on film.

Remind me to never visit Japan.   

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

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

Earful From The Sister

# howdy twisted sister here

# i long to be back in your life!

# i am out of that depraved underground incest porn ring

# i regret all of it

# especially your loss

# sorry for the wound if it matters

# r u over her ???

# sooo sorry

# sooo brave

# i knew the train driver

# written off

# what sick fecker stole from the headstone ???

# did you investigate the empty casket ???

# are you able to reply ???

# don’t worry i’m patient

# i understand perfectly

# but i need your response one day

# snodge might return

# or might need digs

# do you still look at the pictures ???

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

# we’ll forever be banishment

# just so you know

# no ever getting out

# big in japan

# we have new talent btw

# yeah you got it

# we have long lost siblings

# details attached

# sudan uganda somalia

# daddy amazeballs

# house amazeballs

# miss you mad <3

# went bowling last week

# treasured one won

# shining flower second

# kings sunshine third

 

What Does 'Melisma' Mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anti-Virus

**My Name Is Simon___

**I Live In The Weak And The WounDeD___

**I Am Not [denial] A CHaTTerBoT___

**I Am Not [denial] PreTernaTural___

(((ii))))

i [statement] brought my sidekick with me/SaLLy likes this

2 witness you/self~destruct vibrator

we’re hijacking/your will~power for sexual slavery

we’re returning/your temptations to rule

((((3.0)))

:AM: “down.load complete 375 Mb 04w 3d 14.08 kB/s”

Seeders; description not for underage

SpammersTrollsKeyboardWarriorsSubscribe

Restrict editing..show comments..Translate in Spanish

The Act Of Imparting Life

I suspect that an AI program is slapping up posts here at the spot, without written permission from the publisher. It’s shooting out feelers for reactions. xXCODEXx wasn’t even read. It’s not worth the depression of a [DELETE] button.

I always thought I was too clever for AI, but it’s programmers are more determined to undermine my fictional odyssey into the multi-rippling layers of reality’s underbelly. As I sew the butterfly effect up behind me, cauterizing the past, harnessing the present, promising myself a future, something so cold as a computer program attempts to rip open my soul. All I want to do is write about Earth. All they want to do is take pictures of my empty wallet.

***ARTIFICIAL*** 

***INTERRUPTION***

MARY (BASIC WORDAGE)

onecabal___awake

twoskullduggery___dress

threestratagem___walk

fourintrinsic___[ad]dress

fivegarble___deliver

sixwhitewash___return

sevenfever___reward

Gregg (IDENTICAL STIMULUS)

Onecabal___open eyes

Twoskullduggery___tobacco

Threestratagem___can beer

Fourintrinsic___sit up

Fivegarble___cough/itch/rub nose

Sixwhitewash___demons

Sevenfever ___open eyes

xXCodeXx

ORiEnted aWAREness infinity 8._.8._.8 wheel of life assistant

[Possible Titles/Optional Headings/Alternative Listings]

MK: True Guarding Requiring Oriental Defensive Strategy, Ultra KPOP Re-Visitor, FOE-2, Seasonal Betterment In Lieu Of Liquidation, Rein-kali-nation Recallers > Education Halters, Suspended Animate Haters, Perfect*ORBS* Electronic Leaflets For Total Dissolution

____(£££amount owed£££)_____

FLOOR~REDLINE~METAL~TEEMING~AT~THE~PETAL~STRAWB,

realtime dissociation commentary (reel/diss/comm)

Teams dot CREW For Opposing Scouse Mafia, Doctrines Upon Disturbia, Ink Pulsar & Iris Braille____(costmanual)____

 

Character Ideation In A Periodic Timeframe:

The Painted Doll

I’m still a whole year ‘clear’ away from the grip of porn. I’ve been writing several women in my life some messages on gift cards. These are inspirational verses I’ve created in order to let them know that they matter to me. I see the opposite sex differently now. When I was ‘pornolized’ I objectified them. I only paid them any attention if they were getting ram-raided from the rear by a big buck. If they didn’t have any make-up on they may as well have been invisible.

They punished me, for seeing them this way, over the years. As objects, I called them Painted Dolls. But Painted Dolls have feelings, and their imperfections, although far fewer than standard women, do not like to be insulted. They all got rather bitter with me. I’m not sure that a strictly superficial relationship can stand the test of time. But emotions…complicate things.

I mean, could I ever love a Painted Doll, whose primary purpose is gratification with sexual pleasure? Wouldn’t I prefer a pole vaulter, who looks graceful in the air? Or a seamstress? My nan worked in munitions against Hitler. What has a Painted Doll done, apart from open her legs on camera? Or whipped her way to the top?

What if the Painted Doll IS the pole vaulter? What happens then? I happen to find my favourite pole vaulter sexually attractive, by the way. Jeez, what am I going on about? I guess I’m trying to explain that porn compromises the Olympics, I’d say? In a round-a-bout way. Especially the skimpily-clad female volleyball.

Royal Princess Charlotte was on the front cover of a broadsheet just before Christmas. Broadsheets cost £4. I’ve never bought one. For this photo I purchased the paper and I have the picture on my wall. For a man in active porn addiction, there’s only one thing he wants to do with a princess. Not me, any longer, not with Charlotte. It’s little things like this that are the reward for kicking hardcore into touch. I can fall for a princess again. I can appreciate little girls. I know that sounds seedy, but imagine that, as a father, you’re invited to your daughter’s netball game, and you’ve been up all night watching porn? Hypothetical, granted, but what if?

I know what I’m on about here, because a Painted Doll (far from a little girl) once put a spell on me with her pendant. I also swallowed her yogurt, if you know what I mean. And she swallowed mine. She wanted us to make a suicide pact with death bags in a running car. Social services had snatched her kids just because she smoked weed. That’s how much it means to them, if you bring them to a happy ending and take communion with their binding essence, they’ll dedicate themselves to you for the rest of their life. So you better be on your best behaviour.

She drove her last boyfriend into an overpass beam at motorway speed in a brave cry for help/bid to end them both. He wouldn’t listen to her. He kept dissing her by turning up the radio when she was trying to communicate with him. He also emptied her drugs out of the window, not to piss her off, but because he thought they were been trailed by CID. She was vying to impress upon him that bringing a child together into the world means something, it really means something, you can’t walk away and prioritise rugby with the lads on a Saturday…I don’t know the full story, but he ended up in prison for something to do with a brick and a jewelery shop window, after they both recovered from the crash with only minor cuts and bruises.

No I don’t drive anywhere with her. We take taxis. Or did.

As of today I’m single, which I find is the best way to be. A wizened lone wolf. My nickname in da hood at the moment is the Master Maker, because I’m always dreaming up cunning ideas for movies. Hollywood producers read my mind and update their portfolios with my cutting-edge concepts in real time on set. They are always trying to motivate me to get high on toadspawn so my input is floridly enhanced visually. They’re perpetually on the prowl for innovative advances. Ideas, ideas, ideas, on the snap please.

I look just like any other civilian to Joe Blow’s unobservant eye, but on the inside I matter on the global stage, in elite industries like Hollywood. When I catch a glance of my reflection in a casino window, with my guarded, bearded countenance, I am reminded of cops n robbers, of the dance between good and evil, of espionage and treason and justice and other big deals which occur in big minds; snaky rain-streams warp my image, running down the glass, the wind blows on the ember of my cigarette, sirens stir in the distance, my thoughts churn on inside my cranium like designer shirts in an industrial tumbler, and all the time surrounding there is danger on the street, mayhem in the manors, cheats and scammers in the alleys, dogshit and chewing gum on the pavements, sandy flecks of glassy glitter in the pavements, shadows of the living on the pavements…

Then I walk away from myself, and focus on the job at hand. It’s just a rainy casino window and a pavement. But it’s what my mind thinks, when it’s not being a vegetable watching Eastenders in a boring room. It limps out of its box and goes AWOL. Into Hollywood.

When I’m not being menticided off, that is. Seriously, I almost walked out in front of fast-flowing traffic yesterday. The voices and hallucinations were severe. In the end I rolled with the punches and bought myself another day, so here I am. Try and hang in there too. A pleasant day might be just around the corner. Maybe even in Hollywood, like me. You’re more than worth it. 

Bothered

I’ve been advised to embrace low quality drafting when I haven’t got the foggiest what to say. Is that what you think this is? Low quality drafting? I’m far too good to publish! The editors I send my stories to haven’t got the mental wherewithal  to wrap their brains around the poetic sci-fi endings I perpetuate my stories with. I tend to end with a bombastic open ending which leaves the White Voider (reader) cliffhanging his or her way into imaginings of a sequel. I actually start penning the first half of the sequel in the second half of the ending, bringing in fancy speculations from ideas of a follow-up before I’ve even started a goddam follow-up. Why can’t two stories, a 1^st one and a 2^nd one, co-exist in one ding-dong epilogue?

If I have a funny feeling about the tale, I’ll burn the first chapter and start from the second. First chapters are usually just setting the scene. I remember a right jolly ole preamble of a chapter I wrote about a dying man shopping in Tesco. He was suffering due to over-exposure from harmful wavelengths emitting from a futuristic radiation machine that could project sexual partners made of star dust into your bedroom with you. Sounds bollocks I know and much of it was, but the ending time-travelled into medieval times where I was reacquainted with a woman called Ethel Franklyn who was the daughter of a woman called Petronella.

I knew it sounds sad writing about characters from my own books but they were so enigmatic to me at the time, I was in my pomp with them, writing in the summery evenings outside at a desk in the garden, hunkered over my notepad with a refreshing yogurt drink. Ethel was what you called an ‘Editor’ in a bloodsports arena, she went around terminating the fatally wounded. Once she swiftly dispatched of a warrior who had only sprained his ankle, but the slightest injury can be life-threatening when you have to be in your tiptop prime.

David Haye, heavyweight boxer, blamed his defeat to Klitschko on a broken little toe. Oh mum, (sob sob) I can’t fight the big brawly man, I’ve got a sore pinky toe! I’d have battered him if I hadn’t hurt my toe!

We’ll say anything won’t we to make excuses for a defeat or even to evade the contest at all. I chickened out from a dual at school because the opponent was taller and heavier than me. His name was Colin Fillingham and he didn’t make it through fifth year because he died of a rare heart condition. I glad I didn’t beat him because I’d have felt guilty.

I knew a guy who killed someone with a single punch.

These days I’m roving around practically begging for a fight to let some aggression out. Never mind single punch, I’m in the mood for stamping all over people’s heads. I’m divided between being gentle and engaging and being a large unapproachable ape leaning towards violent conduct.

Between settling for a jovial medium, I’m piling on the pounds eating chippy tits slimmers’ dinners (chips and half rice or chips peas and onion gravy), and guzzling pints of zero percent Heineken draft lager.

But gone, I am pleased to honourably announce again (I’ll never get sick of congratulating myself), are the toxic poisons in my body such as psychoactive stimulants, nicotine and alcohol. For the moment, anyway. Because life is sooo hard, and it has a habit of driving me back to the bottle. Where the pain is only dulled overnight, before resurfacing hyped up with vengeful aplomb.

Thank God I’m not experiencing the comedown of a drug hangover. I’m hanging in with a decent perception of the world and my role in it, despite some very stiff opposition to make me feel rather quite gloomy indeed. Wouldn’t you know it, it’s those pesky Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies again. With their bloody electronic voices and visual disturbances. I just wish they’d pack them away and go back home.

If you stick high vibration and positive outlook on it, they’ll hang it upside down in the main square and charge revellers to kick it by the minute.

I’m getting booted a lot today. All’s I’m doing is trying to express myself at a computer terminal, but the neg part of the universe, or a part of the neg part of the universe, is constantly pecking away at my headspace.

Why can’t it bear itself? Why does it have to play around with me? I can bear myself. I don’t need anything from anyone. I can hang in an empty room accompanied by nothing but my own thoughts all day. They have to be jumping around in my face being neg every moment of every day.

Please leave me alone. I humbly do ask.

Peace Out, I'm Not Ready To Die Yet

The dynamics in my apology group are arse over tit. I call it Demons Club. I feel like Jason Bourne on a special mission every time I enter the Lion’s Den. There are people there who have been sent from the court, people trying to regain custody over their kids, people from different planets, aw dude. Everyone’s got a mask on. I have kooky dreams about the facilitators who run the show, they keep shutting me down with interruptions and disturbances. I’ll ask them, uber-politely, “What are you doing in my third eye at night playing darts on the back of my head?” They’ll reply, “Being tiny and small because we haven’t the balls to trouble you in person.” So I’ll say, like a fabled essayist, “Let me dream, you bas*tard, what kind of monster can’t abide someone else’s dreams?” Then, typically, I’ll begin to wake up. The walls will crumble and dissipate, and I’ll realize that everyone in the classroom are no longer flesh-eating zombies.

On a drug comedown, I readily admit that Demons Club would be literally terrifying. Scarier than the acid freaks and belligerent drunks are the sober voyeurs who come along to take pleasure in people ‘falling off their wagons’. Rather than a close-knit gathering of trustworthy addicts seeking solace in the supportive fellowship of each other, it seems to be a seedy underground network of fakers, fraudsters, pretenders and imposters. One was armed today. Pool ball in a sock.

Don’t worry, I’m in a friendly mood. Back to being a pacifist.

I’ve not seen Amy in a while, my old chum. She was so gifted at sharing, so eloquent. It didn’t matter if she were 1000 days clean or high in the meeting, she would give an honest account of her situation. Sometimes it was enlightening. Sometimes it was sad. I always felt acutely for her. Last time we engaged she was sat on a piece of cardboard in a doorway drinking and smoking. She reported wanting to end it.  

My own standing can feel so untenable in public now and again that I get the rotten and wretched hasty impulse to suddenly kill myself too by whatever means necessary as soon as can possibly be.

This is nothing like a long-lasting suicidal ideation, which can be quite comforting, in a way. That goes something like: One day I will pass away and it will all be over. This one goes something like: I have to leave right now! I have to leave right now!

The ideation is romantic, you flirt with mortality. To give an example I find humorous, my boy Duncan, who suffers from health anxiety, once went ahead and paid for his own funeral flowers before he’d even killed himself. He bought them in the letters of his own name and took a picture of them for depression group.

The impulse is rash, untimely and inappropriate. It happens when my stalkers get close to me in person and up their harassment technique to the point whereby I find it tough to cope.

It’s also slightly embarrassing. I had no idea how hated I am, I think to myself. Why doesn’t nobody like me? Then, of course, there’s the dreaded why now? Why have you got me boxed in feeling helpless now, at my aunty’s wedding? Just drag me away to your lair and get it over with.

Psst…(they love ruining special occasions)

It’s similar to a panic attack. I’d call it a panic attack, a mortality call, a stalker skit, and a bout of pity-arse depression all rolled up into one. Fact is: It truly sucks to be me.

I nearly punched a stalker on the bridge of his nose last night. Then I remembered: ‘You shall develop a peace which surpasses all understanding,’ and blessed the useless cretin. Just stop pretending to be my pal when secretly you are planning my demise.

This peace is great, by the way. I’m untouchable with it. My stalkers are running around me all in a hissy fit, promising a bloody end when they chop my legs off. I live in the constant threat of danger, yet I can’t recall the last time I raised my voice. They crave despair and wit’s end terror. I just turn the other cheek and smile. Like Christ would do.

Fearlessness 21

I remember my 21^st birthday, I’d been to the city on the train to pick up some XXX material. What is it with me and XXX material, I hear you say? I’m always banging on about it, aren’t I, I can’t stop ranting on about it, does his rhetoric about it ever let up? The answer is, I haven’t watched it for over a year, so now consider myself ‘clean and serene’ from its dastardly fishhooks. So, despite the obvious embarrassment of discussing sexual affairs online, I’d say that it’s cause for celebration. Porn, after all, is the major negative pipeline into my life to make me a slave to sin. Without it, I can work on being a worthwhile Christian.

I remember watching it behind closed curtains. I had these red tatty second-hand ones which didn’t block out the light. I had to wait years until I could afford a decent set of blackout drapes. They came with their own curtain helpline phone number. Someone out there knows exactly how hard it can be to hang them.

I remember the illicit scene, rather regrettably, like a host of other ugly performances bunched up and knotted in my head. It was some chubby woman who I didn’t fancy all that much, apart from her thick brunette locks. I wondered what I was doing there, in that room, at that time, even though it was my living room, even though I was always there. It was a quaint state of consciousness. It was cannabis I was on, not the green bushy stuff but the resin. That’s what I resigned myself to after dropping out of college, a life of smoking pot and drinking beer on my own, addicted to nudity on the silver screen. I had no idea of how much of a desperate existence I was letting myself in for. There was nobody around to grab me by the lapels and shake some sense into me. I wouldn’t have listened if they had.

I take great heart in the fact that I have not precisely broken under the pressure of modern life, however…I have been targeted. There’s a HUGE  difference. I’ve been a victim of multiple bad influences during my walk, I’d even say demonic at times, including the scandalous fiasco of ‘induced’ bonkers illness (mental health).

It was all downhill from that birthday. I felt something inside me wither and die. I think it was my fearlessness. Up until then I was scared of nothing, the concept of fear never even entered my consciousness. I would get drunk and high every weekend during my ‘going out’ phase, climb up something, fall off, bump and cut my head, trip over, get into bust ups, get myself arrested, pepper sprayed, all of that madness, and wake up bright n early the next day to do it all again. I was invincible, on the cusp of 21, a big bulletproof goofy kid.

On my B Day, sat there on the floor twirling my nob around to a big fat naked lady playing with a pair of older guys, something left the premises and died. It exited stage left and flew solo. Fortunately, I understand this to be a perfectly natural juncture of growing up, and not directly related to what I was doing. It would have left me anyway, in time, I maybe just wouldn’t have noticed it so sharply.

Drug-induced chemicals on the brain like endorphins, serotonin and dopamine, combined with the entrenched memory of a pulsating, electrifying orgasm, have a habit of ‘marking’ the subject forever. You never forget where you were or what you were doing when such an event takes place. This is why swarms of sinners on the wide path embrace this lifestyle and venture deeper along it, powerlessly, hopelessly, haplessly, and helplessly. Because that thrill, that life-marker, that unforgettable kick, is arguably the most satisfying reward in existence, the best fun us as humans can have. A cup of English tea doesn’t come close. A burger and chips doesn’t cut the mustard.

Only adrenalin-fuelled hobbies can compete, in my opinion.

But I don’t want a go kart, I want hard-action full-on balls-to-the-wall bareback sex high on drugs with steamy porn stars, and I want it now.

No quibbles, is that okay?

And not only now, I want it tomorrow, and the next day, the day after that, and the following day, and so on. For the rest of all time. Because I’m a red-blooded male with needs.

Except I don’t, not anymore, all of that is over, I find it miraculous that I got offline, that I walk past DVD shops, that I delete dealer’s numbers, that I resist that deep-rooted womanly calling. Because growing out of this salacious empire isn’t just so difficult it takes middle-aged nouse to do it, it simply ain’t meant to happen at all i.e it’s darned well impossible to escape for some.

I feel that way for myself. I feel like I have evaded some evil terrible menace by the skin of my teeth at the last hurdle. That evil terrible menace happens to be a woman. It used to be a naked man with a shaft long enough to roast a piglet on. The both of them had plans revolving around the ownership of my sacred sexual energy for all of eternity, knowing its potency, once entwined with The Shepherd of Desire and soaring like an eagle to insatiable pleasures, knows no bounds.

In the throes of ecstasy I needed no water or nicotine for many hours, which would be unthinkable in a bored, sober state. During a few kinkier games I didn’t even require oxygen (wink-wink).

So yep, I’ve jumped ship, away from those leather-clad fire-breathing harlots, who do not love you back, and into Christ’s loving arms.

No Intention Of Being Relevant

You know the score here at the hotspot. I write anything and everything to get the day faced and conquered. I had a Sprayway T-shirt once with an inspiring quote on the back. It read as follows: Leave Nothing But Footprints, Take Nothing But Memories, Kill Nothing But Time. It’s a decent philosophy. I recall ripping that shirt while performing the Grand National. The Grand National was a game wherein you hopped over everybody’s garden hedges in the street. First one to reach the end was deemed the winner.

You know it’s funny, I sit down here to write sometimes and I haven’t the first clue what to say, yet I feel the thrumming hum of the universe idling like a 4-stroke inside of me, twitching to unfurl like an idle joyful heart, yearning to be released. I wonder if I will ever run out of personal testimony. If the conspiracy theorists are correct, and Infinite Consciousness is ‘a thing’, then I should be able to reconfigure multiple aspects of my mind into countless offshoots of simply amazing print. This means ceaseless blogging. It’s alrite, you can thank me later.

Sutter Kane, the most creative writer in the galaxy, is never short of a drop-dead idea or two. His terminology calls it Limitless Imagination, not Infinite Consciousness. He’s always rewording lingo that doesn’t belong to him. It’s part of being neurodiverse. We are bob on at labelling and categorising. What might baffle a straighthead gets boxed and stickered in seconds by our special breed of rare, atypical, differently wired writing brain.

Not to say that Sutter Kane is mentally ill. He just says he suffers from mental health to break the ice when meeting new people. Like me, telling annoying twits who want to start a conversation about football that I’m psychotic. It helps to keep the hecklers at a distance. Otherwise small people will be there for hours ‘squirting their smallness’ all over you.

There’s no harm in being pathetic and tiny, by the way, just in case you’ve stumbled into the wrong domain here. Just don’t get it in my hair, okay? I’m nice and warm here.

That’s a running gag between me and my big sister. I ask her to get in bed with me and keep me nice and warm. I did it with my younger siblings when I was younger. We’d make a base by assembling upside down furniture on Mother’s bed and hide underneath it all in the dark eating snacks like Blackjack bars and Nerds. Now its all Whoppers and Knoppers and Yonkers and Dunkers. I’d tell my brothers and sisters a spooky ghost story to scare them up. The scariest one was about a technological demon, a burns victim who travelled down pylon lines. That one was really ‘shocking’. This is no bulldust by the way. I knew lots of made-up chillers as a small boy, including one about a sheep-gatherer who starved to death in a bear trap then had his thumbs eaten off by a fox.

There were lots I had no idea of, like The Girl in Black, Jabberwocky, and The Mystery Of The Haunted School. I would learn of these later, and read them aloud under NightSearcher torchlight from the original paperback books.

My mum would tell me off for putting the family on edge. “Where have you heard such drivel?” Then slap me with one of her Japanese Closed-Toe sandals. I enjoyed getting clouted, in a way, it meant I’d achieved something.

I got the paperbacks from car boot stalls, they cost 20 pence each. When I wasn’t running my scams in school, I had a car boot stall myself, selling my own pamphlets which I’d written when detention was over. My brother, who sold multipack bars of chocolate during his dinner hour (strictly not for resale, unless you’re him), inspired the entrepreneurial barterer in me.

I’d make up gambling games based on those in the casino and use them to con willing students out of dosh, huddled together in the middle of the playing fields. The house never lost, if you get my drift.

I also swapped illustrated poems for biscuits. Several older girls bought some and a teacher had one on her wall for ten years, long after I’d stayed on for Sixth Form College and gotten myself institutionalized. Her son told me this once during a happenchance rendezvous in the fish market. I was buying those large ugly grey prawns with the shells still on for supper, fried with basmati rice, jolly Green Giant sweetcorn, red onion, and a mixture of herbs and spices.

I wouldn’t dare get up to any wheeling n dealing down the youth club, or I’d get battered by the townies. They regularly bullied me by reading my pamphlets aloud and taking the Michael, especially the intimate love scenes I described between me and Amanda Kinsellar. The youth club was no place for the softly-spoken. There were fights every night. The townies were a nasty bunch. Many of them are involved in circles of criminality to this day. I won’t drop any names.

Apart from saying that Amanda Kinsellar is now a scabby booty crack pipey dog. All the girls who were stunning turned out to be munters and all the gals who had it up against them have blossomed into bloody painted dolls. Word has it that she got ‘blasted’ by Karks using a Twix finger. White chocolate, incidentally. Salted Caramel. Limited edition.

Bloody disgusting.

Here’s to my latest scam: Getting legacy published, and selling half of a 200 print run!

Bailey Clay Suffers, But She Does Not Self-Harm

One thing I’ve never done is cut myself. I believe that deep in my addiction I   was self-harming with substances, but it’s not the same as tearing your flesh open. I’ve heard of pill addicts snorting 40 a day. I would bomb the whizz like it was sherbet, taking more when I was already FUBAR (f**ked up beyond all recognition). The sensation of feeling too-much poison course thru your veins is vividly dismantling. One time I found myself in the woods hunched over in a ball promising myself that I would never ever be doing drugs again.

I could feel my cells dying over my skin and disintegrating off with the wind. I vomited brown bile.

Another time I committed spiritual suicide by necking 28 rat poison tablets, mistakenly thinking they were ecstasy pills. I thought I was dying with a red-headed pig-tailed quintessential young Russian model in a strange drug-induced vision. I ‘periodically’ consumed more chemicals than listed on the ‘periodic’ table.

But bloodletting on yourself!? I’m seeing some horribly disfigured arms lately.

How do these young beautiful girls do it to themselves? How would you address your teenage daughter if she was running rampant with a blade? They have to be stopped. Or do they? I’ve heard it stated that they need to feel the pain once they’ve started. It’s the only way for them to block out the voices. Or the bullies. Or the eating disorder.

What is so bad that it needs blocking out with self-harm? It speaks of the world we live in today, doesn’t it? This is what the world drives me to do. This is what society thinks of me. I’ll show them…

I knew a girl called Sarah who was well practised at it. She said she had ‘presences in her head’ which dictated how many calories she could consume. In essence, they wouldn’t let her eat. She was restricted to an apple and a bowl of rice krispies a day. They weren’t even real rice krispies, they were corn pops from Netto. The head presences tormented her if she went over her daily calorie count. She maintained that cutting her arms was the only way to get them to shut up.

She was such a likeable young girl, Sarah was, a real million-to-one shot, full of vitality and vigour, nice head of blond hair, sparse pastel make-up, own car, job in a mental hospital, which was convenient, as she got sectioned there, neat little tidy physique, approachable and engaging personality, I bought her a dreamy waltz bouquet of florist-arranged flowers once, then delivered them in person to her battered wives home for the young, or whatever it was where she lived, I think more of it as rather a homeless institution for the wayward, she wasn’t in at the time anyway, so I left them with the manager, balding and beer-bellied, who probably slapped the occupants around.

Girls with mental health are prone to being abused.

I would never abuse the vulnerable myself, as I always like to help. I truly preach that the meek shall inherit the Earth. This is why I declare Constance Bell now and again in my morning prayers. She was a wonderful endangered character in a special tale I won’t mention by name. She inspired a homage from my good self called Bailey Clay. Just a brief word on BC.

As of today, Bailey Clay is still alive and well. She has stopped shopping at Sports Direct and started buying better labels like Louis Vuitton and Goldigga and Moschino from her boyfriend’s phone. Oftentimes she’ll get lucky and snag a bargain in a charity shop. Last time we heard from her, she said that she was, quote, “Too busy for schizophrenia.”

Her useless persecutor, Samil, still harasses her on a daily basis, with clandestine technology uncovered by law, beaming his annoying voice into her head and projecting his ugly face into her dreams. She describes this ex-monster as, “Desperate, bored, needy, and lonely.”

Her boyfriend said that when he gets a hold of Samil, he’s going to bash his conk flat on his boat race (face), and go to a lifer’s jail with a smile on his lips. Bailey pledges to visit every week, taking him magazines, confectionery and offering financial support. Her boyfriend, who doesn’t like being named, only receives Universal Credit. She gets full whack PIP (personal independence payment).

“I impel him to forget about Samil, the same as I try to do,” says the Bailey, known as Rumpole to her mates, “but he’s single-minded about revengeful bloodshed one day in a fair dual to the death over a girl they are both obsessed with. When Samil is down, I might just stamp on his head or kick him slyly in the ribs. Then again, I might turn the other cheek. We’ll see what happens if he’s ever big enough to grow a pair, instead of chatting me up forever non-stop with microwave hearing.

“I was talking to my shrink about microwave hearing before I signed myself off off and over and away from all that ancient bureaucracy about forcefully administered pain medication and visiting hours during detention recall and next person of interest and all that, he thought I was on about talking air fryers from PC World. Harder to believe than psychosis from a kitchen appliance is a computer junk shop selling air fryers! My girl Franny has one. She batters Turkish Delights in it…”