Eternal & Snickering, When The Moon Is Phat

Hello. Weird day here. Aren’t they all? This spinnin’ blue rock gets more bizarre with every revolution. I’ve got a story to tell, but I don’t know how to tell it. I don’t know whether to tell my testimony as an autobiography, or as a piece of fiction, or as a mixture of both. I read a book called Lunar Park (2005), by a fella named Bret Easton Ellis some years ago. It influenced my writing immensely, as it let me know that anything is possible. I can bend the truth, I can make stuff up, I can swear that the make believe is real, etc. etc. Basically, like a young man named Charles Wrench once said, “I am the Creator of Worlds, so I decide the rules.”

I amplify lies, mix them with God’s Honour, interweave it all through with lashings of legend and myth, and away we go, alive with decent ingredients for a tale on the bounce. As Chopper Reid so famously stated, “Never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn.” He was so right. He also said that he was sat in a cell, unable to spell. This was after his bestseller.

I think that the results are special when you mix autobiography with fiction. I have to be careful here, because I don’t want to give away my own tried and tested tricks of the trade. Yeah, I like it. Metafiction is used to describe books which have self-awareness, like Clive Barker’s Mister B. Gone (2007). Love that too. There’s a technique called Breaking The Fourth Wall, and that’s when a character in the story talks directly to the reader and lets them know they are in an imaginary world of fiction. As if the reader doesn’t already know that. Interesting, but stupid, if you like. But I do dig such stuff, it has to be said.

Lunar Park, without me being acutely aware of it, was pulling out similar stunts. I tried to reflect a uniform sentiment when I was writing my prison novel, The Violent Arsonist (2007). It’s not as if I had the intention to bamboozle the reader, but I genuinely didn’t have much of an idea what was going on within the plot myself. This is because much of the prose in the book was centred on dreams, and we all know about dream logic. One moment, you’re sat in a café with a polar bear, the next you’re doing the waltz with the in-laws. Nothing much makes any sense now, does it? I wanted a story which exhibited the same traits. Why? Why not? Just did.

I’ve learned that for me personally, it’s not a book or a movie ‘making sense’ that appeals the most to me. I am just keen to take away with me a lasting impression which stokes my chakras. This may be a touching teary goodbye scene, or a penultimate combat scene, or a suicide or a bike crash or an animal attack. Anything poignant, really, and memorable. Making sense has got little to do with it. If you want sense and logic, watch a cooking show, or read a gardening manual. This was my motivation for The Violent Arsonist, which is about a criminal who is unable to rise up from bed, and is described, in no uncertain terms, as one, “Seriously f**ked–up novella.” And proud to be, at the time of writing. What? I was young and bold. Not quite fearless, but nonetheless brave.

I was abstinent from drink and drugs when penning that mad party, yet it’s by far the zaniest thing I’ve ever produced. It just goes to show that a sober mind is not necessarily the sanest mind. I wasn’t sipping hooch, I wasn’t blazing weed, and I wasn’t on meds. I think all of these dark materials, along with the dream logic, would have sent it over the edge. Wasted, in a lucid dream, and writing about it? Nah.

Now I’ve got a piece of fiction lined up called The Museless, but it’s starting off with characters I don’t even like, so I might scrap it and start something else. I have a girl called Romany who embodies Joy in my life so I might get into the habit of scribbling something about her. She’s a buoyantly afloat girl who sees the brightest lining to every situation. The Museless was jostling into gear with demons and devils but that’s not what I want in my life right now, more bad characters and more bad novel arcs. Life is too short to be depressed by one’s Own Shining. I call it the Shining like Stephen King calls it the Shining. It’s simple mental acuity which is capable of monstrous atrocity or trembling beauty. It’s defined by its effulgent creativity. In this modern age of terrorism, a person’s Shining may put them on a supremely dangerous and endangered list. It will make you a target. Mine certainly has. I think King gets away with it because he is a Gatekeeper, but who secretly knows what he goes through.

As one of my more understanding psychiatrists whispered to me one time, as he was hunched down over a table in a corner after a lengthy tribunal, “They pick on the bright ones.” If I was in India, I have heard, I would be esteemed for being a voice hearer, and elevated in society. Here in the West, I am frowned upon immensely. I read a top notch book from India which my doctor gave to me. He was called Dr Paul for short because nobody could ever pronounce his especially long surname, he believed in spirits and had poems published online. One was called the Lonely Planet. Anyway, this book he gifted to me was about one woman’s ordeal as she survived some floods in her village and held her own against the devil who visited her every night and ravaged her body and mind as she could hear the wind and the rain dripping down the metal sheeting of her shanty settlement, an undercurrent to her own yappy torment. It’s as if my doctor knew how my future was about to be laid out, and was giving me a forewarning of how to yield with the eternal footman’s snickering ways. The woman in the booklet both fears and yearns for the visitant; she describes him as a whirlwind which undoes all her crops, and a hammer which smashes apart her youth. I, on the other hand, and simply growing hoarse with repeated instructs directed at his going away.

Please God, take that madman way. He was passed onto me from a quack’s Indian book. Joking. It was a great book. I actually had a visitation myself, through analysing an illustration inside the book with several specific ‘scrying’ devices, including a torchlight and a magnifying glass if you must know. To scry is to more or less meddle with the preternatural. I started getting sightings of a Chinese girl with a Bradford accent who would appear down the man-sized crack next to the wall and my bed late at night, most notably 3am. This time of the day is known as The Animal Hour, or The Witching Hour, or simply 3am. Her head would be cranked at an obtuse angle, but rather than be terrifying to me she would come across as funny and amusing, mainly because she was pretty with a humorous voice. I still hear her to this day now and again, laughing boisterously across the pub, or repeating something hilarious a bartender may have said. We don’t get along like we used to because I denounced all spiritual activity in my home, and burned several artefacts, but I do still find the infectious shrill of her laugh a strength and a comfort in these lawless estates I stomp around in. At least someone else is seeing the fun side to things, like, you know, is what I think anyway.

So long then. I’m off to welcome back my many, many visitants into my pungent Golgotha. For 3am, of course. I’ll write about it one time. Stay tuned, you’ll be the first to know all about it. 

Your Fear Has Won Hard Many Chances

Yeah, hi there all, I’m just becoming aware of myself as a fearfully and wonderfully made creation. I don’t mean to blow my own trumpet, but nobody else will big me up in this way. I have to give myself a boost and a boast for reasons of self-encouragement. Sometimes, now and again, someone will say I’m looking great, but it’s not enough. I need to feel understood and respected, and for that, internal self-talk is required. I need to turn inwards, for expert advice, you know. Nobody else will ever do this as well as I can do it for myself. I would have made a good hype man for a bodybuilder. You know what a hype man is, don’t you? A hype man chats positive reaffirming gobbledegook to a person in the gym working out, in order to motivate him and keep him gong and make sure his head stays ballooned with much macho egotistical confidence.

For example, you’re in the gym working out, and I’m your hype man spotting you. I say, “Keep it going, baby, you the original number one around here. You’re so dense that lights bends around you. That light is nowhere near touching you, baby. You too dense and big and thick and wide for it. You solid, bro, you super solid…”

Stuff like that all day. Fanning bare smoke up his arse like. It’s what hype men do.

I don’t train at the moment, but I am a hype man to myself at all times. Not in a sweaty working out environment, but in everyday natural settings in groups and at home. No one out there can help you, when things get tough. I should know this, because state-sponsored terrorists have tried to kill me off with multiple assassins placed in my home over the years. All I had were Angels and God to protect me. Plus my own wits. We’re talking 12 hour standoffs to begin with, then two weeks of living with the killers under my bed. It sounds absurd and I don’t expect you to believe me. My so-called mates were nowhere to be seen. My family went missing too. When you’re looking down the barrel of death, there’s no friendly nurse who mysteriously wanders out and holds your hand. You’re entirely facing your maker on your lonesome. I knuckled down with my bible and prayed for another chance. I’ve been on my last chance three or four times over now. And I’ve had it up to my back teeth with assassins. If the powers that be are not trying to kill me off they’re having me detained in institutions to break my resolve. Their crude ‘medicinal’ injections, under that lame of an excuse they call the Mental Health Act, I’m suspiciously half-convinced contained wood polish last time. Since they gave that to me I’ve developed obesity pain which was never there before. I’ve gone past caring about what they put me through now, or what they take away from me next. I’ve decided that I’m clinging tight hold to my JOY and that’s that, their modern warfare tactics end right here. I’ve rolled over and gave everything away in the past: My home, my contacts, my freedom, my sanity. Now I’m fighting back for Joy. Joy is embodied as a woman with a name and that name is Romany. I doth do battle for Romany. I’ve lost so many other things. Not Romany, though. Please not so oh none Romany.

Once you survive a few hits on your life, you start to believe you are invincible, and then a stronger more measured attempt on your life occurs and you are filled with doubt. When you stray from God, you get worried about your divine protection, but when you are solid In Christ, there really are no worries, He Will Provide. It all depends upon your state of mind.

I’ve just had a wee conversation with a nice lady at the photocopier, who said she fully believes in the end of times. She reckons that we are in the final days. With this war that I am fighting in my head, I feel well biased enough to side with her. Things are ominous, dude. It’s taking all of my strength reserves some days to shuffle through the portentous anxiety shoved in my face by invisible energies. At times I feel like running around in circles while pulling out my hair and screaming. There are things JUST THERE, and they WON’T GO AWAY. But I don’t wanna complain. I have two arms and two legs and breath in my chest. I have a roof over my head and all the rest of it. Richard Dawking once stated that, “We are not here to be comfortable.” But man, this hard!? Why so tough. But also, at the same time, “Why so serious?”

Think kismet. Think God-incidence. Think zef side. Think synchronicity. Think faith. Think love. Think Joy. Think Heaven.

I think these concepts sound corny when all you want is some stiff illegal drugs and a fire-breathing whore, but in the morning there’ll only be one thing you’ll regret. The dark side of life. The hedonism. The hangover, the comedown, the hooker. And you might lose everything in the spin dry, such as your house, your marriage and your kids. Then where will you be? Bound to that wide path of fake counterfeit pleasure for all time, when you could have stayed with love and freedom for the princely sum of nothing but a little willpower. Now you ain’t no numpty, so you know it might be hurting for all eternity unless the universe throws you another rope, right. But all I’m saying is, how many ropes have you had by now? How many more will you be expecting, by the way? Pardon me, but I reckon that somewhere out there someone’s counting.

A Complaining Bomb

Since I’ve redefined myself as a super soldier, my horrendously harassed life has become a little easier to cope with. I’m trying to no longer see myself as a target of futuristic stalking, which is helplessly depressing, but as a warrior showing these sad wrong’uns how living life is done. Thank goodness all this menticidal warfare is in my head, or otherwise I would lash out at these indescribable cretins and kill one of them off for good, as they so deserve. If one of them had the cohonies to knock on my front door and fight me in person, instead of picking apart my brain all day via cowardly microwave hearing methods, I think I might detach his head at the neck with my bare hands. Just remember, these obscene lowlife gangstalkers hate life and each other, so take all their loathing and dissatisfaction out on their victims. They cannot bear to be away from a Targeted Individual’s mind for any length. It’s like being out of shelter for them on a stormy day or something. They cannot THINK unless they are harassing someone. And the evil they do is directly relatable to the self-disgust they feel for themselves. That’s why they are after our JOY, because our feelings of happiness, when connected to their own brainwaves, distinctly unsettle them, just as their negative emotions of bondage and pain disrupt our biorhythms. Why they connect themselves to us, I have no idea. Perhaps it’s because they cannot stand to live alone, knowing they are putrid and vile inside. They need a human radio on.

Someone once said, “If all of mankind were able to sit in a room alone in peace, the world would be a better place.” Can you sit in a room on your own, doing nothing, maybe a bit of TV or a newspaper? If you can, fair play, take a bow. If you are unable, you are most probably an evil menace to has to interfere with sombody else’s livelihood to pass time. In recovery, we learn to sit with our emotions. It’s very hard. We want a drink, or a smoke, or to pace up and down, or to go out and rape Caroline from three doors down.

The energies I perceive around me, tormenting me consistently from morning until sundown every day without fail, I feel by now I am getting used to. I mean, you never do, but it just gets easier. Some days it gets harder, it all depends. They had me half believing that they were the Eternal Illuminati, invisible, porous, and all powerful. But listening very carefully to them over a number of years, I’ve just about gotten diddly done that they are not worth anywhere near my equal. This is not to say that I have any exceptional breed of greatness about me. It’s just to conclude that they are boring, repetitive, petty, small and unwanted. They no longer scare me, they just annoy me. I’m not getting angry because I have come up against a greater foe, but because they are stupid and will not go away. They cling to every thought in my head like babies to Mother’s apron strings, and it’s thoroughly maddening. They fidget and tamper with me, like toddlers obsessed with a noisy toy, and take turns to step in for one another when I lose interest in each of them. Their obsession in my life drives me mad. I see through their cynical criticism, designed to hurt and bring me down. I know there’s only one way to be sitting in a pub, and that I can’t be doing it wrongly. Sometimes I go for long stretches waxing creative philosophy in my head. They have no idea of how to keep up with me and so instead simply resort to racial slurs. Then they have the nerve to repeat over and over that they are ‘better than me’ at everything, because I am nothing more than a stupid negro who doesn’t know anything about nothing, or nothing about anything, depending upon which you prefer. The fact that I am black and smarter than they are chews them up big time, I reckon. Their uppity ‘we-can-never-be-caught’ snobbery cannot take being outdone by a monkey. They cannot believe what I know and what I tell them and how I respond to them. Not like Eternal Illumnati, but like complete wasteful rags of filth who don’t deserve to breathe the same air as other humans. I mean I can’t be sure, but their reactions are so infuriated lately that I have to remind myself that it is they who are harassing me, not the other way around. I’m starting to feel guilty, talking of them this way. Considering they are stood behind my computer at this very moment, huffing and puffing! Backlash on it’s way…I might be getting punished by a numpty ghoul tonight! Is it a ghoul from the darkside, or a black op who can’t sit still? Seriously can’t tell the difference.

You know what, if I went out of my way and met an attractive girl, or if something else nice and cheery were to happen to me, I think my oppressors would curl up and cry.

As it is, I’m happy that my life matters and that I am fighting for a beautiful purpose such as Joy.

Siberia, Sober

I was in the pub the other day, and I consumed 5 bottles of non-alcoholic beverages. Since putting the booze down, it’s been my go-to thing. Never have I been so disappointed, however. It looked like a beer, it tasted like a beer, it cost the same as a beer…and I was in a pub, which is all about beer. Except that I wasn’t pissed. I was bloated though, it was terribly gassy, so much so that I felt quite ill. I had severe acid reflux later that evening.

What happened? I had a mini blowout without substances. That’s me off that shite now, it’s bollocks, honestly. I’d rather sip blackcurrant soda waters. The coffee in the pub is awful too, I call it steamboat fuel. I’m just sober and natural and high on life. Don’t get me wrong, the real thing (alcohol), has been calling my name over and over. I almost had an encounter with a beautiful pint of Kronenbourg. It looked me up and down and demanded I buy it for leisurely comfort. The first step in AA is admitting that we are powerless over alcohol. When you readily accept this into your heart, it can be quite weakening. How can a pint of beer be more powerful than me and all that I stand for? That’s impossible. With sex and cocaine, I have no problem relenting my position, but I’m not having a seedy pint of lager getting one over on me like that.

I thought of nature, and the cosmos, and my higher power, and how I used to have friends and a job and a family and a social network, and I summoned all my love into one healthy bundle, and I told that beautiful pint of Kronenbourg to sling its hook. Well not quite. I didn’t have to go that far. But you know what I mean.

And it’s the same with pathetic scumbags who won’t leave your life alone. You just simply ignore them. They start to panic when they are ignored, and cling to any portion of your attention desperately. The truth is, despite not being massively important government assassins and weapons of war, they are tiny insignificant criminal wannabes who crave attention because nobody loves them. My hatred of them used to be monumental. Now I actually feel a bit of pity for them. They hate each other and life itself because the devil they serve has banned them from joy. They are not allowed to smile or laugh. That’s why they cannot bear me joking to myself all the time. I must drive them equally crazy as they drive me. The only time they feel any emotion is when they have me crying on my bed at home, unable to venture outside. I promise, I am never letting the toerags seeing me down again. The less said about them the better. They don’t deserve any limelight here at the hotspot.

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HER [SIB]ERIA IS wipe out

Sorry, I’m just referring to a teacher I used to know. She was my first crush. I thought I’d fallen in love with her. Every sunset on the horizon reminded me of her smile. She was all that mattered in life. She said that I inspired her to be a writer, because of my dazzling fiction, which was based on her. I written about us on a bus out of control, it was called Tragic Unity, and later went on to become the Hollywood blockbuster Speed (1994). This is not the first time I have seen my work ripped off by Hollywood. They read the chip implant in my brain and steal all of my best ideas. They don’t even try to hide this, it’s the perfect crime. Tom Cruise even thanks me for them in a downloaded sound file. He says thanks buddy, keep up the good work. They reward me by not cancelling my security benefits.

Anyway, this teacher writes about a mental hospital in the fabric of her created reality, called Siberia. It’s a futuristic hospital. Straight up there are similarities between my work because my first novel was about a mental hospital too. Mine was called Jazat. Yeah, she has a better title, so what. But she puts me right in there, in her hospital, under a different name, but it’s me, I recognise myself in a myriad of forms. I can’t believe what I’m reading, it’s a signed copy from a private bash at Waterstones. Her main character even has the same name as my girl at the time. Her hospital is new age and ethical, they are trying freshly sanctioned schemes to engage criminals in compassion, mainly by showing them re-enactions of their crimes and administering special empathic drugs.

Loads of strange psychic events happen when I’m reading my special teacher’s book, too strange too mention like, they’re like a million to one chancey. One thing she relates her creativity to is bubble gum. She told me this in person before starting the book. She says that writing is like chewing bubble gum. Conrad Williams says that writing is like drinking water. I call it ‘wrangling’. Some call it ‘going. Anyway, I’m right at the end of her novel and bubble gum comes into my mind for some reason. I remember her quote. Then, two lines later, one of her characters is chewing bubble gum. Then I see a vision of her, an implanted vision, in my head, of her blowing a bubble. Via the chip implant.

Later she starts taking me to her hospital in modulated dream technology, deep in Siberia, where I meet several of her other ‘fav’ pupils from school, and various other randomers immersed in the detritus of my memory. I once read up that to fight invasive mind control methods like chip implants, the only defence is to turn to God and love in order to avoid becoming brimmed with hatred, which is the purpose of it. But how could I use my teacher’s grade-A fondness if she was one of the controllers of the evil program wreaking havoc in my grey matter?

I complained to her literary agent, implying her in remote neural monitoring and cyber harassment, but she just simply had me locked up because of my long steeped history in madness. Nobody believes a word I say. So, no wonder, when I start dishing the dirt back out to where it belongs and emanates from, it comes back to stick. Now I really am locked up in a real institution, going to her make believe institution in my dreams, and still rereading her stupid dumb bestseller book about me.

Her evil is Siberia. Her Siberia is wipe out. And her first crushy face is lodged all over my chip implant. They do say nothing can hurt you like love can. All the people I used to love are now my enemies, in this WAR ON JOY currently going on in my life. In Christ, it’s perfectly acceptable to show love towards your enemies. That’s what he advocated.

Today, instead of being an embittered old croak without pleasure in my life, hating all around me and wishing harm outward, I will be a shining exemplary beacon of love and friendliness to all I encompass. Please bless this vision, Lord, and help it to be true.

THIS IS HOW I WANT TO BE. IN CHRIST. WITH MY MAIDEN (ANGEL).

 

 

Priceless Intellectual Property

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Out Of It - Where Did You Come From?

So it’s once more into the fray then, in this 3^rd World War battle for the human mind. I could think of other things I’d rather be doing. I’m taking it all in my stride to be perfectly honest. I know who I am, I know what I own, and I know what they want from me. It may sound naïve, but I’ve never been aware of info like this. I’m starting to begin to accept how important we all are in this melodrama. They’ve spent millions keeping you from the truth.

I remember opening up the bible and being reduced to tears by the first psalm I read. I started seeing childlike images of a cartoonish nature behind the fading, smeary text. My tears were making the words drool and slip and slide off the page, revealing colourful depictions underneath. It was all very life affirming. I believe that revelations like this are scarce and mighty, and that somebody out there didn’t ever want me reading the bible for this reason. They call it the Living Word and I trust in that. Once, when I was reading it while homeless on the streets of Liverpool, I could hear a man deep in my subconscious roaring out the print with me. I wouldn’t say he was God but I’d be surprised if he didn’t think he was. He was a character in my schizo circle who would then become known as The Father. He has several brothers. Sometime the other year I counted all the personalities in my schizo circle, and the full house totalled 30-odd. I hereby trust none of them at all wholeheartedly and remain standing alone. I know a girlfriend who also concurs that all of her angels shat on her as well. That’s just life. Those evil spirits are forever mimicking pleasant presences. But you work them out eventually. They’d con you for all time if able.

I’ve seen evil spirits in their natural form. They look like big black and hairy caricatures of comic sketches resembling oversized creatures with silly expressions. They like to assimilate themselves into people close and familiar to you. They love to look like your partner or your best friend, even when everyone knows that they’re not. I got told, by an evil spirit incidentally, that my interracial pornography use attracted so many into my life. Apparently, sex between members of different races is like a red rag to a bull to them, they can’t ignore it. Good job I haven’t watched it in over a year then. I swear, I’ve seen enough tits n arse to last me ten lifetimes.

Imagine if you’re an evil spirit and you’ve been summoned by the dark manager back to Earth for a simple assignment of possession. You think to yourself wow, what could this be, is it a mass ritual of carnage on an Indian burial site? No, it’s just a man tossing off in a council flat to Barely Legal 18. He’s looping the money shot and sticking his tongue out for some mad reason. Plus he keeps swapping his hands and speeding up. And he keeps looking around the room, as if he’s expectant of company. Maybe his other half is due back from the salon or something. Perhaps she can catch him mid-whack and nip his disgusting habit in the bud, because he’s a filthy fapper who can’t stop playing with itself and doesn’t wash its own hands before he stops to raid the fridge.

I remember many times when I was in the shameful habit of self-abuse, lost in deep dark torrents of XXX material. I’d be out of it on Class As, in a sexual euphoric cloud of delinquency, watching hardcore this and hardcore that over and over again, in a proper trance like, slobbering and everything, when I’d take a glance upwards and notice someone in the room with me. Instead of reacting with shock and horror, I’d simply look away from them and turn back to my restricted exploits on screen. I didn’t care about my perps getting ‘extremely’ close to me. My condition was so out of it that I made it fantastically easy for them. One perp in particular said he was going to appear from behind the settee and pull my underpants down. He said the last bloke he did this to killed himself inside 45 minutes. I told him that I wasn’t settling for that happy-crappy, my underpants were already down, and I was ringing the police. He had no idea that I never get the police involved, because all they ever comment on is my medication. He didn’t appear from behind the settee to try and pull my already-down underpants down, but he did smash one of my mirrors when I was sleeping. I left him some flowers one morning, as a joke.

Yeah, mid-wank, in a trance from drugs…some very weird things happen indeed. I once looked up and saw a giant rat hanging upside down from a chair looking straight at me in fascination. Then it waddled over to me and pissed down my bell end. Serioiusly. Truthfully. Honestly. No lies here. And that’s nothing, compared to other stuff what happens in that state, all alone in the apartment, which is swarming with hateful perps and their booby traps. I am more often than not too frozen with panic to react.

My perps, when I am wiped-out on harmful brain-numbing poisons, simply open the front door and pile animals into my home. No shit. It’s dark, and too late to do anything about it by the time I realise what is going on. It’s the way the animals move, all stealthy and creepy, above the periphery of my f**ked up lowered eyes. I often have strange creatures engineered in laboratories surrounding me in my own darkened home. I’m off my nut listening to female satanic mantra, chugging my bishop sinfully, so what chance do I have with all of my attention distracted. My brains are all blown out everywhere with hundreds of pounds worth of nasty narcotics, albeit terminating my brain chemistry. Things slither all over me and even lay eggs and stuff in my mouth. Parasites in my stomach have audible conversations with one and other.

Then, when they admit me to hospital for ‘neglect’, all they do is inject me with wood polish against my will and tell me I have an overactive imagination. And why the hell can I hear moans and groans of pain all around the building? Isn’t this supposed to be a safe environment? Sounds of torment follow me around, and everyone looks terrified that a goon squad might jump out from around the corner with a machete and start cutting everyone’s ears off. Honestly, ever since I watched that movie Hostel (2005), about a network of torturers, I’ve never felt safe anywhere I go. Thanks for that one, Eli. But in hospital!? Anywhere, mate, anywhere.

I was in a general ward one time when they were all making calls (the nurses and staff) selling me on to other hate breeds around the region. My net worth shot up to £3million. This was for the purposes of pain infliction. Apparently I am very popular and sought after because of my appallingly low pain threshold. I can’t state it to the rooftops high enough that I am surrounded knees deep in sado masochists who wish me great harm around my lawless neighbourhood. All the authorities are in on it and only Christ and his angel ilk are keeping me afloat. If you feel like you are on a hopeless plain then keep in touch for help and support. I live day to day on the edge of my survival wits but am happy and proud to be a soldier who is hard at work fighting for tomorrow’s children not to be unwitting victims of horrible mind control, which is a genuine threat to all humanity.

What if I give up and the next soldier, my replacement, is not as strong as I am, then what chance will he have? I’ve been up against the invisible soldier and the porous soldier, all with his incredible array of weaponry, and I am still here engaged in glorious combat with him and his numbered foes. I’ve held my own against half a dozen assassins in my home, and still sleep next to the window with no curtains bathed in candlelight, with nothing to hide.

I am unashamed, and ready for the oncoming battle. Of the mind. Here’s to it, Amigos.

When Harry Doesn't Want You To Meet Sally

So this is it then, eh, what being free and liberated is all about, being able to speak one’s mind across all the platforms? Having a safe soapbox from which to vent, only to understand, that once you have cleared your throat, there’s very little to say. Just as I start to cherish this public podium, I realise that my words have all but dried up. I think there may have been one or two attempts to have it removed. I even got it into my head that this site might be protected from such attacks. The truth is that I don’t know what’s going on. I just keep turning up and running out of things to say.

One thing I can comment on is the discussion we’re just had in SMART recovery group. We were talking about our thoughts and how they influence our decision making process. The woman sat next to me rather surprisingly stated that our thoughts are not our own. Well whose are they then? Someone replied. I chuckled wryly. Come on then, if they’re not your own, somebody quipped in. Then where the bloody hell do they come from? Mental health, the lady answered. She thought that thoughts ringing around in your head which do not originate from you come from mental health. As if mental health is a general ‘thought policing’ board which meets daily in the town square and assigns clouds of unwanted cognitions into people’s heads.

One guy, a paranoid schizophrenic and proud of it, said that he controls the voices in his head with benefits. Vodka and cannabis, to be precise. I would have thought that that would make them worse. He said his day begins with a glass of vodka on his bedside cabinet. Before his feet have touched the floor he’s rolling his first spliff. He maintains that every single morning starts like this one, and always has done, apart from when he went two weeks clean several years ago. Something to do with the birth of a daughter long ago cast off into the care of social services or something. Keep at it. You’ll get there.

Some of the groups I attend have a strange chemistry. I’m becoming increasingly aware that there may be one or two ‘community based operatives’ in them. Their primary function is to talk over me, or to keep me quiet. I can’t prove any of this of course, but certain people in the fellowships I attend around the town seem to be either butting in ahead of me or interrupting me when I open my mouth. There’s not a lot to be done about this, I can’t go letting allegations fly out at them, so I kind of simply sit back calmly and try and pick my moments and just get on with it. It just lets me know for certain that my input is valuable. You never know who might be down in the dumps one weeknight evening and in need of lifting up spiritually. I’m not saying that I’m the best mood bender in the west, but we never do truly see or understand our own power, do we? Maybe other people do see and understand it, and take great lengths trying to stop it.

As if I haven’t got enough problems, without Harry trying his damnedest to prevent me from speaking to Sally. It’s a peculiar sensation, when you first become aware that this strange phenomenon may be happening to you: People keeping you from people. It’s hard to gage the correctly measured response. It’s also hard to accept. Why the hell would Harry suddenly appear in the high street and start rabbiting on about codswallop for five minutes, practically holding me hostage, knowing I am far too polite to wave him away. Well, because I was about to bump into Sally, that’s why. Nah, you think, stuff like that doesn’t happen, surely…

What bad can occur from two people simply ‘meeting’ each other? Well, I’m fairly certain I’ve cracked the answer to this one. Do you want to know what it is? It’s JOY, between those two people. Nothing more, nothing less. They merely like being with each other. Hard to believe, I know, that others would wish to spoil this, but I have it on first-hand experience that this is indeed the case.

The Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies and all the low-level perps who follow me around on foot all day have my JOY on their wish list. Their mind control operations create a negative reaction for every happy thought I have. Only since becoming aware of the WAR ON JOY have I began to feel it so abundantly for the first few times in my life, and also really been aware and present of it, like you know. I’ve been sat there p*ssing myself to daft YouTube videos, more noticeably the Rocky fights, lol! They try and tell me differently, saying it’s not real joy, but they’d urinate on my head and tell me it was raining if they could get away with it. But enough about them already, because they’re too depressing!

I’d just like to give thanks for having the opportunity to spill my guts here. The way my life is at the moment, it’s over and back on from one minute to the next. I’m either totally down and out or raging to go. I’m prepared to mount a challenge for my joy, and keep it very precious and valued and close to my heart. I’m aware that once you lose your ability to feel joy, life is almost not worth living. I’ve been very close to it on occasion more than once over the period of the last few months. Finding it, giving it up, being entrusted with it once more…this time I hope and pray that I will never throw anything so cherished away ever again.

They call me ‘The Angel Maker’ in certain circles. This is because, when, in times of great crisis and despair, I always make a little girl or two to symbolize my holy aspirations for fairness and justice. I just need a real human face to embody the sentiment of my love, is all. I take these faces from some very remarkable places, including flyers and posters from years and years ago. I enflesh them in my mind and embody them in my psyche until wouldn’t you know it they become almost semi-real in my subconscious.

Would you believe me if I told you that the terrorists and spies clone these girls from their appearance in my mind into physical bodies and have them fight me on the streets of England, as sworn enemies? That is the level of degeneracy which I am up against. They take my allies, and make them hate me too. From my mind to the world. But every now and again, like last night for example, I get a nice message in a dream. From my angels. Who tell me to keep going…AND NEVER GIVE UP!

Last House On The Left

When I’m not flying, when I’m not soaring, when I’m not buzzing…which can’t be all the time, obviously…life is just about hanging in. I wish I was constantly a barrel of laughs. I wish I could get dosed off pregabalin 24/7, and drink until the cows come home. But that would be perpetual drug misuse. Not only is that illegal, it’s wrong too. At the moment, soberness is like a natural high. I’m sat in the boozer as is per usual but I’m supping blackcurrant and soda water with ice instead of alcohol. Do I fancy a pint? Erm, kind of…4 or 5 maybe, with a couple of smokes. But once the first one is in then its open flood gates, and in the morning I’ll be huffing and puffing having an asthma attack in an A&E doorway. Who knows? I might enter ‘blackout’ mode and start climbing into other people’s houses uninvited. Hey, it’s all happened before.

It was one starless and blurry evening when I got my sister’s house mixed up. I went round the back, like I normally did, let myself in through the patio, like I normally did, and sat on the sofa watching the TV, like I normally did. Except nobody welcomed me, because it wasn’t my family, and it wasn’t my family’s house.

They were all next door. I’d entered the wrong house. This was the Phillips residence, and they swiftly informed the law. I was so out of it that I didn’t know who I was with or what I was doing or saying. The scene, in retrospective, feels like a weird Mad Hatter’s tea party aboard an alien spacecraft. There were no drugs involved on that occasion – and that would be odd, wouldn’t it, a time when yours truly had decided NOT to blast his own brains out? Who needs drugs with whisky anyway? That wouldn’t have been fair to anyone concerned.

Fortunately, I didn’t get arrested, proceeding rather back on next door into the correct family household, where my sister was being prostituted in her bedroom by a meth abuser. I could hear them groaning and moaning in sensual pleasure. The kids were out. Everywhere was a mess. The television was broken and lying on its side on the floor. No wonder I had wandered into the wrong house, because the wrong house was a far sight better than this dumpster.

I could hardly interrupt them, but I thought it was likely they had heard me come in. After all, the stiff jamb on the back door had cracked loudly like usual. I plopped down on the springless settee and inhaled a large breath of funky stale cannabis air. There was half a doobie in the ashtray so I lit it up, unlike me, and started to toke away. When in Rome, I thought. My spirits had been ambushed by too much booze so I gathered that a little relaxation with weed wouldn’t hurt me too much. I was just feeling at my wit’s end. Something in me knew it shouldn’t be drinking neat spirits and I was paying for it. Probably now, with a tad of psychoactive influence, I would start mildly hallucinating as well. My sister’s house wasn’t the place for that. It was covered in an ultraprecise flimsy layer of dusty grime.

My phone rang then. It was my probation worker. He wanted to know if I was available on Tuesday to complete a safety assessment with a lady called Helen Flanagan. Of course I’d be there, I told him. That is, if my bubbling excitement could hold out.

I tried the hi-fi player, one of only several things unbusted in the house. It would probably be porned down Cash Generators within the week, for more meth, by one of those horny gangbangers upstairs beneath the sheets. A decent tune cackled into focus through the static. It reminded me of the millennium at Wigan Pier, when life was all about ecstasy tablets, pulling girls, and computer bugs. A simpler time, methinks of it. Bit of few quid in the back burner, bellyful of Hooch, and a fondle behind the bins at three am. What could be easier? One weekend after the other. Ticking them off the calendar. Until we arrive here…

In a kinda of limbo land really, because the need still exists to get high. And strangely, it doesn’t. I don’t know what I want actually. Just a pub lunch and a good book to read perhaps. I’m thankful I was able to write something today, and give praise upon high that I am able to keep active and motivated and my float above water.

From here on in I just want to keep going without feeling desperate or fed up. I keep trusting In Christ. I maintain an attitude of ignoring negativity. I pray to God for a bolt of humour to raise my spirits and give me a right good ole giggle up, if possible. The other day I was storming around laffing at practically anything. Everything looked funny to me. I know it will again if I drink. But I don’t want to drink. Hopefully I won’t. but hey, it’s not the end of the world if I do.

Lefty Loosey: Righty Tighty

There is a fairly ominous omen intent on wining me off from my battle station, which is this blog. I fear, that if I take my eye off the ball, I may be permanently isolated away from social encounters and unable to be capable of willing the brave guts and efforts it sometimes takes to make strides forward by going public and typing posts like this. I face a lot of antagonism when I try to express myself lately. The best nugget of advice I received recently was, ‘Never Let The Bast*rds See You Down.’ I believe it. Always try and cheer yourself up with something funny. Humour is a blessing, one of our greatest strengths.

This is remarkably easy to do for me if I say ‘Sod it’ and start to get drunk. Then I just tip back can after can into my gob and start singing half-naked on the lawn. Job’s a Damned Good’un and there’s not a lot of anything in particular anyone can ever do about it. Apart from police riot vans, that is, and doctors on the doorstep at barmy o’clock. The problem is, there are always consequences, like aching hangovers full of shame and regret. It’s a escape route, but it’s not thee escape route.

I enjoy the challenge of saying sober because once I start it’ll speedily become an entrenched long-lasting life behaviour. I must stop drinking non-alcoholic beverages too, because the five I had yesterday gave me chronic gas reflex bordering on projectile vomiting. Someone talk me out of writing a letter of complaint to the stinking rotten brewery responsible because I’m already half-inclined to verbalizing my disgust, as if they don’t know already what they’re lining up in the fridges behind the bars inside the pubs and clubs of this country. Tastes like carbonated liposuction.

And of course, with a bevvy, in then steps the common old house fag, 40 on a bad day, which simply adores any old drink in the right hand to burn down alongside with. I can’t be fully ‘In Christ’ if I am dying in a hospice with lung cancer, can I? Well maybe I can be, but it won’t be for long. First things first, just stay the hell alive chum. Keep breathing, for one, and we’ll sort out everything else later. Got it? Okay.

Today was a day I could quite have easily remained in Cloud Nine of The Cosy Corner and weighed up my sorrows in two heavy hands, if not slightly wetted by a tear or two. I would have been there all day though, and where would it have led? Imagine weeping with the prospect of facing the morning, unable to stand to two feet and go out into the sweeping breeze to surmise any challenges, not even an easy one for starters such as purchasing a pint of milk for coffee? The world is sometimes itching to treat you like a doormat.

One day, unholy of unholies, this possibility might not be far off. Wow! Whatever would I do then, without this small breadth of text styling to extoll my higher virtues? Whatever happens, come snow rain or shine, I should be here. I didn’t know how magnificent life could be, you know, until I thought that magnificent was normal. Then I was threatened with having no platform, and much worse besides, in which to vent my wraths, furies, heartaches, joys, successes and thrills. It’s not just this blog up for grabs, it’s my ability to write in its entirety. Every couple of months my head keeps falling off, and I lose the plot. At the moment I’m currently re-screwing it back on. Hopefully a lot more tightly than ever before. 

Weird Encounter

I remember a good old tussle I had with a woman in an erotic psychic realm some years back. It took place within the repetitive footage of a pornographic DVD. We were fighting over my ejaculate. She said she was my dead mother who I had Oedipus complex over, and had made the tape to enslave my love over eternity before committing suicide. It was all a weird experience. I didn’t know what was going on. The ‘star’ kept talking to me as if it were Facebook live, giving me instructions on which part of her body to look at. She insisted on maintaining eye contact a lot. Whenever I did so I felt myself growing more and more excited, and she knew this. She looked nothing like my mother, but because of the drugs I was on, and the state I was in, I kind of half-believed everything she was saying. She was high as a kite herself, rambling on about reincarnation and shape-shifting and intimate ideologies from the womb.

I felt very drawn into something occultish and supernatural. I only hasten to mention this because I feel like I have just met her again at an AA meeting, in a different person. How can porn stars be family members from different timelines reappearing in various embodiments, you ask? Dunno the answer to that one is my best guess.

I was unable to stop what I was doing because I was ‘off my chops’ and deeply involved within the sensuality of the woman. It was a terrifically strong-contented DVD, not extreme or deviant but better than what I was used to, so my socks were sort of blown away a bit by the novelty of it, and especially with the pseudo-motherly connexion. I couldn’t quite seem to wrench my eyes away from the screen, even though what the so-called ‘actress’ was saying was hurtful and shocking. She was opening up holes of disbelief and numbness all over me. This footage had planted a portal in my head and swept me to a different dominion. She was screaming for my ejaculate.

This woman in the meeting earlier wasn’t exactly doing that, but she looked super sexy like that broad in the video. I was peering at her from the corner of my eye and in the sunlight-affected periphery she could have passed for any glamorous star of the silver screen on Earth. I wouldn’t fancy another tussle with her. That’s why I gave up the porn, and hopefully will never return to it. It’s because of my conditioning since being a young boy: The women are too hot to handle. Especially when they usurp the powerful bonding of a parental influence. Their sexual advantage over a young passionate gentleman can be vastly unfair. And vice versa, I imagine. I can only speak from experience.

It was all a mad melee of sex, drugs and schizo stuff gone awry. Now, before dipping into the pleasure dome, I have to check that my sanity will still remain intact before arising back out from it. Odds are it won’t, and I’ll be a depressed nervous wreck. The good old days were decent, I could spend all weekend steeped in debauchery and exit the other side with nothing more than a wee dose of insomnia, fixable with a handful of sleepers from an under the counter chemist. Now, jeez, I’m running round the woods half-naked, chased by terrorists and spies. It’s always about this time when the doctor shows up with his pink Section papers.

High Beams Visible

It’s one of those days when the words are proving hard to come by. I’ve no shortage of ideas when it comes to writing, just a question of where those ideas belong. I’m not sure about putting everything here on the blogspot. One look around this ill manor and I feel you know me well enough. I’m merely another bohemian with problems. Who isn’t? I’m unashamed to call myself a free thinking creative. Indeed, this is why I have issues looming in from exterior parties. Don’t worry, I’m capable of looking after myself. Just. As long as I stay In Christ. I’m becoming steeped in wisdom with every passing season, it seems, with my hairline and my belly and my beard. I’m trying to smarten up my lifestyle a bit. One eye on the diet, one eye on the future. Futures are not guaranteed. Futures are amazing, priceless, and, for us struggling/recovering addicts, rare.

There’s only so much I can write about this state of being. I’m thinking of a private volume of fiction at home, unpublished online. This is for me only, as it’s important that one is one’s own biggest fan. I get a lot of mental strength from my own literary efforts. Some folk might call this power. It breeds more toil. I’ll be calling this oncoming body of work The Museless, if it ever appears, as I believed I lost my muse late last summer. Fortunately, gladly, luckily, it has returned. Not so long ago, even the thought of this I’m doing at the moment, being sat here typing about not much at all, seemed farfetched. Writing about ‘anything’ is an accomplishment, either when facing the block or losing the muse. Seriously. That’s why I’m currently quite proud of myself.

What’s the alternative, being sat back in the council box climbing the walls? Without booze or smokes, that possibility sounds like a chilling prospect. Nah. None of it. Get yourself before the keyboard and share your feelings with the world, methinks. Others disagree. One friend told me I was ‘off my chops’ to share anything personal with a stranger on the web. Strangely enough, he was a stranger on the web himself.

In a way, this blog has been based on falsehood, as I’ve written about relationships which were fake in the past. Now I’m all strung out alone with nothing but a handful of hugs and kisses in my heart. The hard macho image is over. I mistakenly presupposed that I was walking with a convoy of Angels. These so-called loving beings turned out to be Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies. Such a con is easy to fall for if you’ve been targeted since birth. I’m a nice regular stand-up guy who sees the best in everyone. But now the gloves are off. Each night I now sweep the flat of negative energies by going around and whacking empty air with a broomstick. This lets the invisible black-ops know that I’m not falling for their love bombs anymore. Sometimes I spray fire their way, from a homemade blowtorch. To the layman/observer, this behaviour looks totally nuts. And you wonder why I’m in and out of hospital every five minutes. But I swear, Your Honour, I can FEEL someone with me. Who else floods the sink and robs my odd socks!?

I know another victim/target/sufferer (I identify as victor) who said that everyone thought she was making up the story about her harassers, until one evening a brick came through the window and clocked her on the forehead. Then they still didn’t believe her. They thought the brick was in her imagination. So too the smashed window pane and resulting concussion in hospital. An imagination like that, and yet still no insight. Only stranger things happen at sea. And also, of course, on the hit series, Stranger Things. I only saw the first season of that Netflix caper. Something about sensory deprivation and aliens behind wallpaper. Bit strange to say the least. Winona Ryder kept me captivated. What a babe. Just my type. Wondering…has she ever let a sex tape leak? Quite a fair few of these raunchy celebrities have, haven’t they? Would I break my abstinence from self-induced pleasure to view it? Oh go on, I think we’ll make an exception. Bollox. I wouldn’t break my no-fap spree for an orgy with Little Mix.

I’ve just met a guy in group who is 134 days clean. He was supported by his mum, who was ever-so proud of him. There were smiles all-round from people doing well, including myself. The world is so much more bearable with everyone wearing beaming grins. When you live above a dungeon of blood drinkers for a living, you appreciate little spectacles like this. Such as a room of people laughing. As usually it’s just me, climbing those chilling council four walls, smoking and supping, viens and arteries snagged with the remnants of cocaine, hanging over tipping point beyond the comedown, wishing ever so politely that I were brown bread. I warned the 134 day man about this, should he relapse. DON’T DO IT!

There was even some happy-clappy brunette fresh meat there who identified with herself as, aside from a reasonable narcotics apologist, a ‘Dark Empath’. No, she didn’t have vampiric makeup on, before you ask. She had Uggs, scars and a Farmer Giles accent. If not for the off-putting dialect, I might have had to smuggle her away behind the bins and insert my breadstick into her cookie jar. If you know what I mean. I think you know exactly what I mean. Just my kind of lass. But better with the makeup on.

I had quite a puff of an anxiety attack yesterday, I get them often because of constant scrutiny from my mentally handicapped harassers, and I would have done anything for a caring mother to call and speak to for comfort on the blower. I had a peculiar sensibility that there was God, no Heavenly Provider, no Safety in Faith, no Holy Spirit…and I felt quite desolate, to stipulate it in lesser terms. Thankfully I get over these distressing bouts of conscientiousness in several hours or so and emerge the other side feeling relieved and stronger. I could be getting attacked by a mind weapon for all I know, from a drone or something, for Chris’sakes it wouldn’t be the first time. Who knows where all our doomsday emotions come from? Not from the Lord, that’s for damn sure.

I’ll be fine, so long as that pesky FEAR keeps away. Last time I felt real fear I was running round the woods semi-naked holding an armload of clothing pegs, for some mad reason. I was trying to blag my pursuers into thinking that I had an imaginary assortment of semtex on me. Made sense to me at the time.

I just feel so alone when these pockets of negativity strike, I don’t know who to turn to or think of. I tend to look inside myself. I see a lot of swirling conflictions within. My addictions are ugly and hard to swallow. I find it difficult to accept what floats my boat. Any kind of sunny path ahead is equally tough to visualise with schizophrenic voices hissing their usual hatred. I’m trying to focus on that handful of hugs and kisses I mentioned, that which separates me from ogre. The hard macho man goes out the window. I just want to be a likeable dude with a dollop of love in the marrow of his bones. A big softie, like, ya know. The gates are open: I simply have to walk through. 

Remaining In Christ

The battle against the flesh is going very satisfactorily. Despite other long-lasting horrors going on in my life, this is perhaps the most important issue I have. I’m realising what is important and what isn’t. Shocking mental health traumas, although unpleasant, are not the most crucial perils I endure. I can get through it all, so long as I remain In Christ, our merciful and mighty saviour. I’m always talking about Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies here at the blogspot, but even their persistent harassment is nothing compared to the absence of God. When I pick up the substances, I feel slightly distant from all things holy. So it’s vital I remain In Christ, His one and only son, for as long as possible, preferably for the rest of all time. It’s an eternal deal, making a pact with the Lord, and not one to be swapped for cheap counterfeit sexual pleasure.

Before dabbling with wicked women, I fear I might pick up the cigarettes and alcohol, or, if I don’t beforehand, I definitely will afterwards. For the last ten years solid, ever since I nearly jumped off a high bridge to my death, a fag and a can have never been far from my hand. I derived immense comfort from gurgling lager and toking on smokes. I thought of myself as Cracker, the famous TV detective, who was always at it while solving his cases. He had a ‘burning self-destruct’ button which I both shared and admired. Towards the end though, I started to enjoy it less and less. I was regularly throwing up and wheezing. Not only was it blowing a hole in my pocket, it was also killing me.

I’m aware now that if I return to the booze and ciggies, I may never get over them again. It will be too late. They might usher me to the grave. That’s a scary thought. And it starts with the first one. I’ll never forget it. It’ll stick in my head worse than any voice or hallucination. Many bad things happen to us Children of God outside of our control and they can’t be helped, but what we can limit, like smoking and drinking, shouldn’t be given licence to assist in shackling us. Not by our own hand, surely. We should be looking after the Holy Temple of our body, not filling it with pollutants.

It’s tough though isn’t it, on a daily basis? Personally, I sometimes long to give up the struggle and kick back doing what I’m used to. Part of me says so what, Christ has paid the price, I can do what I want apart from massive sin, there’s no great harm being done, we are submissive in the flesh. As long as I am buggering off to Heaven at the end of it all to escape my oppressors, I don’t really care about a fag or a beer. They’re just fags and beers. They don’t make me a bad person. You know?

The women however come with substance abuse and that’s even worse than smokes and alcohol. Should all three occur I’ll be in a potent relapse and that’s when the demons come out to play with me. They’re completely obsessed about every fibre of my psyche. I’m not sure how many chances I have left. I have another relapse left in my fleshy members, but not another recovery left in my spiritual parts. I’ve always pulled myself back in the past, but this time I don’t want to insult Christ, and knowingly walk out of his presence.

So I’m going to try and remain with him, in Brotherhood. YEAH!

The Surreal Special Makeup Canteen

There is one morning from the days I was employed which stands out in my diaries. I was getting ferried along in a car pool to a makeup factory across the district. The chauffeur was Mike, he was a recruitment consultant who’d drop us off at the job site. He was a chirpy no nonsense kinda guy who would take his daily wash in the toilet sink. He called this a ‘quick swill’. I call it ‘blessing up’. Hygiene is so important. You realise this when your life capsizes suddenly and the wheels fall off, due to whatever reason. A quick swill or a bless up is better than nothing at all.

I remember the leaves on the trees as they blurred by at high speed. They were golden and sun-dappled and dropping randomly, as if plucked and blown by unseen palms. Eminen’s latest offering was blasting from the stereo. I approved of his music back then, it was ballsy and inspiring and motivating I believed. He was singing about his celebrity all or nothing high life being ‘close to post-mortem’. I felt the same, because of the drugs I was consuming. Despite the differences in our public status, I felt like I shared a common bond with him. He was rich, I was poor, but I felt that, like him, I was talented, and, like him, I burned the candle at both ends when I leaned heavily on that self-destruct button. We were both having a similar reaction to society. A dangerous one.

It was a bit of a life marker, that journey. Early in the morning, back in on the job front, comedown, getting chaperoned at speed, autumn in full fall, cool music blaring…close to post-mortem.

The makeup factory, as you’d expect, was mostly full of girls and women. At that age, it was hard to tell the difference what separated girls from women. Now I know that one of the main things that does so is makeup. And piercings. And tattoos. And, of course, fashion. Not to mention hairstyling. The list goes on and on, doesn’t it? Losing of the virginity is a big one. So too childbirth.

Girls are young women who have not had sex yet. This is what I told myself. And Women are old girls who are experienced in sexual matters. That was the main contrariness.

They segregated me alone on a workstation and had me packing box after box of makeup. It was a brightly-lit factory full of colour and other visual stimulus and I just got along with it listening to the radio. Then I emptied a truck with a team leader who said that my farts (from protein shakes) smelled like actual crap. His actual wording was, “Go and f**k off round the corner and die, with that sh*tty arse of yours, you f**king minging tw*t.”

Later I mucked in with all the other general females on the assembly line. But what I’m here to write about is my dinner one afternoon.

It was with a Chinese girl, and a South African woman. It was just the three of us in a weirdly mediocre canteen. I had the assumption I was on a TV show. Something felt staged and surreal, as if forces had being operative in the background, trying to prevent us from meeting each other, yet had failed in doing so. Our encountering of one another should have taken place on a blazing mountaintop, or on the summit of a volcano, rather than in a quaint little nondescript cafeteria. Everything was so unglamorous. But their infectious smiles were monumental.  

I was bang into the gym at that point so was loading up on meat and spuds. The Chinese girl was eating a turkey satay and the South African woman was eating some homemade fruit loaf. The day had being fraught with tension, as I had probably been up all night watching dirty videos as usual which are degrading to women across the board and distort a young man’s ideals about the opposite sex over time. To have them gathered all around me on the spur of the moment the next morning was awkward to say the least. I felt like a rapist in the dock. They were all just objects to me: Objectified, Dehumanized, Pornolized, Desensitized. Especially with makeup on.

Nothing but painted dolls to slobber over, and watch be abused on Restricted 18 certification labels, which I unashamedly adored. I didn’t have the internet back then, so all the content I watched, purchased legally from retail outlets for around 40 quid a disc, was kosher. The same couldn’t be said for downloads from The Pirate Bay, years later, when uncensored viewing led me down some very twitchy avenues. I couldn’t be sure that the girls weren’t boys, and I couldn’t be sure that the boys weren’t donkeys.

At the time of writing, it must be roughly some time like around an entire full year since I’ve consumed any kind of pornographic material whatsoever with my mince pies (eyes). I’m absolutely delighted about this fact. I now class myself as ‘off it’. You know, no longer an addict. But if I act stupidly and watch some, then all bets no longer apply, and I am a slovenly deviant all over again. It’s an incredibly fine line to tread, with one wrong step leading you at back at Ground Zero of Porn Addiction, Day 1, where all kinds of other mostly drug-induced problems wreak havoc as well. Think shame. Think remourse. Think psychosis.

Sat at that dinner table, with what felt like nobility, I was able to relate to these two working females with something unrelated to fleshy yearning for a change. I understood that they were beautiful without being flirtatious on a movie set. I realised that I preferred them not being carnal during fake performances. It was sweet relief to enjoy their company without perving over every inch of their naked flesh.

I perceived them as intelligent, independent individuals who ate their meals politely and could hold a conversation. You know, manners and personality. It was all very prim and proper. I hadn’t sat with two females since being back at school and it was a major cultural event for me. Plus, the girls I knew from school were all Caucasian: Being with other minorities set me at an instant natural ease and tinted everything in a jolly, gratifying light. It was a profoundly legendary dinner, in the simplest of circumstances. They might have been Angels from Heaven I got to thinking, so weighty was their influential gravitas on my aura. My brain chemicals soared. Like gaseous rice krispies crackling and popping between my ears. I didn’t feel horny at all, and neither of them would have gotten switched off if they’d have popped up in an explicit DVD scene at home behind the curtains in a weak halogen glow. I just felt accepted and welcome and honoured and privileged. We were all so chatty together. It was what I would call a calm blast. That canteen was like an oasis. I was like a genial host. I remember it to this day, all these years later.

Hope they’re still active, and doing okay. This is kinda how I see women now.

Beware That Succubus!

Another day to get through here. Not a problem with a true and pure attitude. I’m almost too busy not smoking to concentrate on my character defects. I’m trying to rectify myself one fault at a time. I’ve been distracted by the accusations of a false schizophrenic reality for far too long now to pay heed the real issues in my own personality. All that crazy psychotic jibber-jabber has origins in fear, whereas I now reside in a peaceful and stately mindset free of danger from creatures under the bed and suchlike. Truth be told, I threw my bed away into the communal garden. The neighbours complained about this and later accused me of setting fire to it, in order to have me sectioned, which worked. I have to be on my best behaviour at all times, and even then I take the brunt of someone’s blag every so often.

But if I am to suffer on, then I insist I do so with righteous correction, instilled by a loving Father. I’ve realized today that I do not need a weapon to defend myself from constant psychic onslaught: I AM a weapon. I’ve cleaned up my diet (a work in progress), I’m doing a bit of exercise, I’ve dropped the substances, so on and so forth. Big deal, isn’t every one doing this in the New Year, you ask? Well, I’m proud of myself. Because just several weeks ago I was on the streets with only a single backpack to my name. My home had become an unbearable Golgotha which needed fleeing from. Public hatred of me had grown so intense that the local chippy poisoned me with hallucinogenic toxins. Secret society members were releasing lab rats around the places I was sleeping, to deter me from getting comfortable. When I came across an inviting doorway, a construction team would suddenly appear and insist I move on. Operatives were walking past me with growling attack dogs. Compared to the devastation waged against me my whole life, little hindrances like this are now a joke to me. But everything still hurts a bit, because I am a very sensitive individual. I have the skin of a Rhino, you require one to write, as one troll comment can dismantle you, but underneath I am as soft and gentle as memory foam Butterfly slippers. An old woman called me an Angel the other day. She was the nicest person I’ve met all year. It was probably a windup to cheer me up before a fall.

Yeah, I’m attempting to better myself. This is done in the face of The Power Of The Public House. I still frequent ale houses to watch the sports, but alcohol is currently off the menu. One pint of premium lager and then I’m smoking and taking drugs and womanising, in that order. Maybe it might stretch that far, maybe it might not, but that’s the embroidering nature of polysubstance misuse; they all cross-stitch into one another and form skilful interwoven strongholds to render you nuked and puked and down and out for the count. No, you won’t be washed, dressed and active tomorrow. You’ll be riddled with psychosis in bed, getting stabbed by invisible demons who are not really there. If they’re not really there, then why is it hurting? Oh forget it. Let’s go back to the pub. If we can drag our arse away from bed.

Except everyone in the pub is now talking about you, and the demons have followed you there. Not to mention the Chinese Terrorists. Don’t forget the Russian Spies. And the seductive painted harlots who wait with sharpened n varnished claws. Wouldn’t it be nice to F**k The Pain Away? Like Peaches Geldof. R.I.P by the way. Another drug-related death, while we’re on the subject, and a star extinguished too soon. That’ll be me if I’m not careful, straight up. My dealer has now started trying to kill me with product that is nothing like cocaine. Like a fool I still keep going back to him on occasion, because of my lingering death-wish from multiple suicide attempts. He’s a smiling assassin. If my destiny whimpers out without a battle cry, I’d prefer to be taken out of the game by him.

I think he secretly makes his murderous powder with a mixture of homemade products such as creatine/arginine/glutamine (that’s the safe stuff) plus extra more exotic and dangerous ingredients from the dark web, which come under the generic label of ‘Killer’. People say, “What effects doth killer wreak?’ I reply that it does what it says on the tin – totally wipes out all mental processes, so that you’re just a sexual ‘thing’ with a hard-on. Thoughts and sentience flood down the drain. You’re merely carnal instinct, like an animal. This could be why I attract strange-looking creatures! In the grip of an evil spirit masquerading as your most titillating fantasy, one has to be vigilant. Especially on payday, after a spate of bad luck, when one feels under the weather, and sharing intimate affinity with a she-devil seems like a snazzy idea. And this is a wizened G-Unit preaching. What chance have the up and coming insecure mummies boys got? Against cosmetically-enhanced witches in make up? Twice their age, doubly streetwise, and sly enough to wean them off the Narrow Path? With lust, with desire, with cunning, with charm, with the Dark One?

God’s Armour Needed.

Urgently. Seriously, Put It On Now.

Don’t Waste A Moment.

There are some Cruellas out there who will whisk away your children and then come back for their toys. More disturbing is the fact that you might condone their actions in the mad passionate spirit. It happens in a blink, cloaked by the thirst of the libido. A sneaky succubus will wipe the memory of your children before pleasuring you, and as soon as the passion is concluded you will hear the tears of your firstborn as it wails in the moonlight from the unguarded bedroom. Then the succubus will unfurl her wings (which she stole from an Angel) and fly away with your offspring to some creepy cavern closer than you think, for harmful deeds best remaining undisclosed.

Remain Vigilant Against Succubus!