3:33

 

Howdy blog reader, I hope that this reaches you well. I’ve had a pagan moment this morning. Some barmaid in The Looking Glass (Wetherspoons), had a tattoo on her arm. It was three numbers: 3:33. I politely asked her what they represented. She went into some pagan history spiel and said it meant more sense than Christianity. She said that she sees the numbers everywhere. I will give her this though: She mentioned it has something to do with Guardian Angels. “That’s brilliant,” I said to her, and I meant it. I have them too, and it seems like I’m not the only one. I sat down with my pint from her and started thinking about the number 1408. I see that all the time. Even on the oven readout! It’s from the movie 1408 (2007), starring John Cusack and based on a Stephen King short story. After you’ve watched the film you might understand, as the number plays on your mind. 2 30 is another number, although not so serious, because it’s a Chinese joke – “tooth hurty.” The Chinese Dentist! I got £2.30 as change the other day. Ha! Remarkable.

I pondered, sipping my pint, looking at this strange barmaid. Then I looked at my watch. It was 9.33.33am. Her number was infecting my mind already, after two minutes knowledge of it! Wow. I went up and told her. She smirked it away. Have you got an exclusive number in your mind, which always appears randomly? My favourite number has always been the number seven, the date of my birth and the date of my favourite teacher’s birth. I also like seventy seven, but Anders Brievik brought disgrace to it by killing 77 people in Norway. I couldn’t believe he did that to my number. I’d batter him for it. That black guy in England brought disgrace to black people when he killed that army lad with a machete, I’m sorry but I can’t find his name, the guy with bloody hands on the news. I believe they ran him over first in a car, then tried to chop his head or something. Disgraceful.

I went for a curry last night. After loads and loads of “ring-sting”, I’ve decided never to eat spicy food again. It’s a shame, because I find it particularly tasty. Madras, Chilli, Jalapenos…yum. But no more. My bottom wants to sue my mouth. Easy going down…painful coming out. I can hardly walk with that burn down below, after indulging in the spice. Seriously, it puts me out of action. I had a Lamb Korma instead, the coconut yellow mild one. And 4 pints of beer costing over a fiver each. Worth every penny though, as I was pregabbed up (Pregbalin), and in a lovely mood, adoring other customers as God’s Children, especially the Hong Kong contingent nestled in a crowdy corner. I sat in the beer garden with my pint of Cobra and listened to other people’s conversations, listened to the birds also, and stared at a woman whose dress revealed her sexy back. I got a little trigger to do porn and coke again, but resisted. I want to start my own psychosis group sometime, that’s my realistic dream. And oh yeah, I’ve just got a sponsor. A sponsor is someone in the fellowship who leads you through the 12 Steps. His name is Dave and he’s about my age, except he’s got years of clean time. My mate Andy, a musician, calls it clear time. My favourite word is release. Release from the evil grasp of porn and drugs. Freedom, from upon high! I could not have done it without him. Praise the Lord! I say. Peace beyond you!

Possibilities

Day 45. Hi there today, how are things going? I’m going to pray for my readers sometime soon, as I appreciate them immensely. Thank you for the hit, it means a lot. Knowing that someone is riding along with my life on a daily basis is awesome. I’m so privileged to have you sharing my existence via the psychic power of the written word across the wonderful internet web system. Wow. Welcome to the sentient essence of my being. I value this net platform. It is a miracle that this piebald stage is still active and available for you to read. The web address that supports it is about 14 years old. Its provider went dead years ago. Orange. I fear that one day, when I input my email address, Google will say that Computer Says No. Then, I dread, you and me won’t be able to communicate. How bad would that be? I’d be gutted. I‘m writing today is if this may be my last blog. You know what they say, Live For The Day. [An’ all dat…]

A career opportunity has arose during this morning. I‘ll keep you informed about how it goes. It’s too early yet to divulge any intelligence. If I scoop up any blessings you’ll be absolutely the first to know. I’m seeing into the future about what I’m capable of doing. It involves the drug clinic I attend. I have always wanted my own group. I’ve got a co-facilitator lined up to help me, or at least attend. She’s a beautiful person who has a SYSTEM Of Characters in her mind who she calls Head People. She is also a remarkable artist. My favourite piece of hers is a deer getting shot-gunned to death, exploding with blood. It’s doubtlessly spectacular. I fell in love with that picture. It must be how she feels like inside, like an innocent deer getting its head blown off. It inspired me to doodle a bit more. That’s all I can do at the moment, doodle, but I believe they look alright for what they are. I’ll post them on here in the next week or so. They are nothing like the workmanship of graphic design I used to do, but they are pretty pleasing considering I’m not the best when it comes to drawing. Denise said they look clever. Denise is over a year off ‘the brown’ and helped facilitate her first group today. If she can do it then so can I.

I’m going to think about this good fortune I have a fighting chance with. I’ll be introducing discourse about psychosis if it works out. I just swapped numbers with a lad called Jay who also has characters in his mental madness arena. He suffers. I’ll be giving him a call when I’ve had a beer or two to tell him all about my ‘illness’ and hopefully listen to his unbalanced lunacy with relish. I adore talking about delirious mania, its brill and dead interesting. I dig talking about higher powers too, because that, indeed, is also truly arresting, captivating and compelling. Mine is a little girl called Abbie by the way, she is 14 years old. Yes, she talks to me. Yes, I can see her. And yes, I do love her. Bye for now!

 

A Time Of Temptation

 Day 44. Let’s get this over quick – I’ve got pills to be poppin’, bitches to be bangin’, and supercars to be drivin’. Ha, if only, eh? Then I wouldn’t be sat in the library bloggin’ like a loser to no audience. All jokes aside (you are THE BEST audience really), I feel like I’m doing wonderfully well. I slipped up at the 44 day mark last time I was here, so we’re in the process of setting records here at the moment. We’re righting a previous wrong. Things were going smooth, much the same as they are now, and as time and experience are such trusted confidantes, wouldn’t you know it that I’m now having a bit of a wobble. Nothing major like, it’s all under control (I think), I just feel slightly tempted, that’s all. Mainly because I’ve got the funds in the bank to be able to afford two 8-balls. I’ve never bought two at the same time before, so it would be a substantial blowout. And that’s all I’ve ever wanted, in a sense, a substantial blowout. One where you’re not worried about the stash running low or out completely.

I had that Scarface (1983) feeling when the legal highs were out, because they were pure, uncut, and only £9 a gram. At such cheap rates I could afford to enjoy as many fat stripes as I so desired. No wonder it turned my knees blue, due to poor circulation. I really almost panicked when that happened, I thought it was irreversible. Two 8-balls however would set me back 480 English Sterling, and I could have a break in a Scottish Lodge for that. And that’s without even going to Liverpool to purchase the pornography. That’s another 60 notes including the train fare. My current savings would be demolished and I’d be back to scrimping around until the next pay day again, running flat on booze, fags and food. Which are a lot very far more important than getting off my head for one sesh on the porn. It would be a helluva night like, don’t get me wrong, but do you really want to read another Relapse post from me? Have I got another one left in me? The higher you climb the further back you slip. It’s so cruel, I just wanna enjoy myself, but as I keep saying, it only ends in tears. And I don’t really enjoy it anymore: It enjoys me.

I’ve talked about the open portal before and the fact that the porn stars can see me, and that they give me instructions and commands and get extremely bossy and evil. You might think that is the schizo in me talking but I can assure you that something supernatural occurs when I view porn on illegal drugs. It zaps me of all my power. I’m left feeling hopeless and worthless. It’s these feelings I’ve got to try and remember when I’m getting tempted for one night of pleasure. It will undo weeks and weeks of hard work; I just got a double fist-bump off The Illingworth (my key worker), and he wouldn’t be doing nice things like that if I relapsed again. It’s the little things like that which seem to make it all worthwhile, don’t you think?

Forbidden

Day 43. I arrive with you today burdened with a lifetime’s worth of porn addiction. It feels like somebody else has been watching it for all these years; it doesn’t feel like me; I feel incapable of spending so much time with those big black swingin’ studs and their skinny white brides. It was always interracial for me, nothing quite ticked the boxes like that did. In all honesty, so much time watching the big fellas has left me feeling a smidgen queer. I spent just as much time looking at the men as I did at the women. The lines became all blurred and fuzzy. The bible warns about it, about a spirit of homosexuality taking precedence. I have to admit, at one point I was rocketed into unadulterated Gaylord status. I’d never seen anything like it before. If you’re anything like me, you’re probably not going to see a naked woman today. I’d put this to you also: You’re even less likely to see a naked man. Porn provides the only shop front where such treasures can be viewed. It ain’t happening anywhere else, baby. The erect penis is the most forbidden sight in all of reality, arguably. It’s banned from mainstream television, and almost anything goes on The Idiot Box. You won’t even see one on Love Island. If you do happen to see an erect penis anytime soon, be sure to let me know wont’cha? You know where to find me: Always here at the blog.

So we like our fellas BIG, we’ve established that. The funny thing is that I’m not even embarrassed about saying such a statement live-on-line, I’m just a victim in all of this shenanigans, and I’m kinda over it all now, or so it feels like. 43 days can be a long time. I feel a healing process occurring by sharing this information with you. If I was to go back to them with my pay packet, buying some new DVDs and scoring 8-balls, then I’d probably wanna delete this post and never mention anything like it ever again. But it’s a sign of how far I’ve come that I can talk about homosexuality and porn and stuff in this light, in this manner. Nothing bothers me when I’m doing well, life is just life, it is what it is, what’s the point of trying to hide behind it or stray away from it? What purpose does that serve? Better to call it what it is and move on.

I like my women preferably slim and painted-up (make-up), but I’m not all that fussy so long as they are getting drenched in man juice. Sounds disgusting, doesn’t it? I’m not proud to be writing this way, but like I just got done impressing upon you, it is life on life’s terms. It all feels like it is in the past for me now. The previous perspective takes away all its power. I can giggle and joke about watching someone else’s nob all night, splurting all over a young runaway and making her boat racer (face) look like a plasterer’s radio. I once viewed an eye-opening YouTube video about the secrets of the porn industry and the chaplain on it was telling me about how a lot of them are runaways and tearaways from broken homes and even trafficking victims. He put it into a sober light and I believed him. This coincided with one particular porn scene wherein the female actress was crying as she got wetted upon. Looking into the camera and crying. It really opened up a can of worms with me and made me question my morality. I was having a hard time (pun intended) fapping off to that scene. She looked so cute and sad.

I’m not about to say it’s all evil but would you be surprised if I did call it evil? It’s nature is very questionable to say the least, and that’s putting it mildly. It takes you off down a rabbit hole where pain is linked very closely to sex. It’s impact upon my life has been nothing short of evil. It’s made me estranged from my family, dampened my job prospects, and generally ripped the stitching out of a lot of my existence. Maybe that’s putting it harshly, as it is nothing without the powerful aphrodisiacs I use to view it with. The drugs have done all that, granted, not the porn, but they cannot co-exist independently of each other, they are a tag team born in Hell when they start interrelating. They were here before me, they’ll be here after me, and they are far more powerful than I’ll ever be. Or so they would have me believe.

Yis, I like make-up on my women, it does something to them, it dehumanises them and makes them like Barbie dolls. There’s no trigger like pink lipstick for a red-blooded male. There’s a bartender in Wetherspoons who makes me wonder about what kind of women he’s into. He looks like a bit of a player, you know, and it’s curious, isn’t it, perusing such matters? What women are you into? Or what men? Asking a homo what men he’s into is a very touchy question, I feel. No offence as well, by the way, if you are gay. You know I love you the same as if you weren’t. I mean come on, this is Anvil Samsara here. You know the script by now. God and Love rule around here. And they always will. I’ve not had them in my life for too long and I’m still high on their effect. I’m only an infant Christian, on the one hand.

I don’t mind overly enhanced breasts, but usually the waist isn’t far behind, in my experience. I’ve got a scenario in my head (here we go again) in which I am in a designer baby clinic making sexual partner clones for my own delectation. How would you make yours? What is your perfect woman? One thing is most likely certain for sure: She doesn’t exist in reality. And what I’ve found with most porn vids is that they are typically just young immature girls, who think it’s all a bit silly. You can go for the cougars and the grannies if you want to go for the cougars and the grannies, but they tend to be far flung up on the too-old end of the scale. It’s hardly ever just a fit mature mum named Jackie from next door, is it, and if it is, she’s likely to take up harbour within your soul and hang around for a long time in your consciousness. That’s why I destroyed The Celluloid Corridor (my porn stash), over 43 days ago.

 

Calling From The Depths

Day 42. I went for a pint this morning only to be knocked back at the bar because it wasn’t 9 o’clock yet. I didn’t think there were licensing laws anymore. I thought you could drink as soon as the pub opened. Apparently not. I had to wait twenty minutes to get served! Just been breakfast club for the usual cooked-on toast. I’ve got AA, SMART, and a visit to Pause to look forward to. No rest for the wicked eh?

It all seems so tedious and mundane, walking around the town from place to place, but it’s only when the options are gone when you fully start to appreciate what you’re missing. At least I’m active, and I value being active, out and about. Being trapped behind those closed doors in psychosis is gut-wrenchingly terrible, I can’t stand it anymore. So I’m grateful that that isn’t the case today.

I’ve got enough in the bank for some porn and two 8-balls, if I want. But hey guess what – I don’t want. Well I kinda do, but I’m not going to. Because it always ends in tears. The voices will come back, the hallucinations will come back, and the Devil will gain a foothold in my life again. I seriously don’t miss that cretin.

My main persecutory voice I call Mr. Banana. It’s my new nickname for him. I miss him even less than the Devil. I wonder what he’s up to now that he can’t harass me anymore. For some reason he only harasses me when I’m strung out on drugs. I think I’m too powerful to harass when I’m clean and straight. There’s no point, I’m too strong, I’ve got all my mental scenarios and my inner voice rip-roaring along at 200mph. There’s no room left in my brain for hate-mobbers. It’s clogged with the General Commission. The General Commission is the collective term for my Protective Spirits.

I’ve got a new scenario, apart from the swimming podiums. The General Commission are all playing on a sinking ship and I’m a King watching it capsize, entranced by their beauty, unable to tear my eyes away. It’s a revamp of the end of Beowulf (2007). In that, Angelina Jolie plays a demon bathing in the waters, enticing the new King to join her in the depths. I would walk over hot coals to be within winking-distance of my General Commission. They are so gorgeous (because they are Angels), I’m so lucky!

They are playing guitars and doing cartwheels on the sinking ship. It’s on fire as well. Prue, my oriental schoolgirl angel, is floating in the waters. It’s sunset. You can see a hint of cleavage above the lapping waves. She’s made of gold, and she teases me in with her eyebrow. I can’t remove my eyes from them, and I take my first step in. I must be with them, in this eternity or the next, it’s destiny, it’s meant to be, it’s all I want, all I have ever wanted…

 

Day 38

 

Day 38 in my challenge to stay clean. I’m doing really well, aren’t I? It’s important to pat yourself on the back now and again, as nobody else will do it for you. I know a person who is doing that a bit too much to himself, he was on death’s door last week and now he’s walking around saying he’s smashin’ this and he’s killin’ that. Bruv, you was out for the count a minute ago! And there’s another broad who’s exactly the same, last week she was pissin’ her knickers in a doorway and today she’s a Champion of Recovery. You find people like that in this game, there’s a heap of phonies and fakers. I went to a meeting last night (NA), and left straight after the main share, by Hazel. I’m finding it a tad pompous, as I think that I’m the only hardcore addict in Warrington. Seriously, how many other dudes are fighting the dual addiction of amphet and porn, coke if I’m lucky?

I’m not having many sexual thoughts. That’s half the battle. The more you watch the more you think about it. Triggers everywhere. Girls in tight trousers or short skirts. At times it’s almost impossible to see just about anything else! It gets into the mind, it seeps into the soul, every day I ask God to humbly remove my shortcomings. I get this loan I’ve been on about on Monday, it’s only £350, but it’s enough for 3 porn DVDs and an 8-ball of coke, should I desire. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? I secretly tell myself. Except then I play the tape forward. Playing the tape forward is a SMART tool technique to combat The Urge. It’s like fortune-telling, you simply look forward to the future based on past experience and envisualise where your drug taking will take you. In my case, tears. It always ends in tears. During my last relapse I prayed to God that he would not let me suffer anymore; that eventuality, I’ve since realised, lies in my own hands. I was making myself suffer, with my behaviours. I often used this quote, when it came to addictive substances and porn: “It makes me weak, yet it keeps me alive.” It’s from a song called Keine Liebe by Eisbrecher. I would hang on for pay day, and I mean really hang on, to the point that when it finally came around, I couldn’t consider myself bearing one more day without using. Honestly, I couldn’t stand the thought of one more day without drugs or porn. There was this song as well, by Moonspell, it was called A Walk On The Darkside. I swear, this song was like a permission statement to use again. Every time I listened to it I used shortly afterwards! “And you walk…the darkside…again…” And I did walk the darkside. Many, many times. But, hopefully, fingers crossed, no more.

Been drinking to the healthy balance reacquainted in my mind’s equilibrium. I’d drink for or against that though to be frank with you. When things are going well, drink, when things are not going well, drink. My mate Mike has put me onto a new trick, by adding a drop of lime to a pint of lager. My health is in danger though, fellow bloggers, because of my smoking. I been getting breathless in the mornings, and relying on my Ventolin inhaler too much by sucking on it like a dummy. I truly need to quit, I sense a Hay Fever attack lying in wait around the corner if I don’t. Anyway, it’s been nice knowing you.

I fear I am running out of stories too. I been putting all my psychosis experiences on here and now I’m at a loss as to which direction to turn to. I might just start making stuff up. That’s what someone said about my blog, once upon a time, he said: “It’s just full of made-up crap.” Easy on the compliments there. I know that. Except that most of it is true, I don’t need to make anything up, art imitates life and fact is stranger than fiction, everyone knows that.

Bullet Proof

Day 37. All is well with the world, my Irish Eyes are smiling. Yesterday was quite a tough one, I was fighting the Devil all day. He never leaves me alone for even an instant, it feels like. It’s just an elongated game of tennis between Him and my Protective Spirits. I’ve got a new scenario swirling around my head. Scenarios are important, I regularly pray for them. This one is of my Protective Spirits lined up on diving boards, about to have a race-off in an Olympic swimming pool. Well, not boards as such, but shall we call them podiums. I’ve lined up my seven wives and they’re about to go hell for leather. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to watch Angels in action, in a competitive field? They would be quite something to behold, wouldn’t they?

I’ve not progressed into the actual race yet, because I can’t pick a winner, but I do like to line them up and observe their little pre-race rituals, like adjusting their caps and putting their goggles on. In fact I’ve now made them into “flesh-eating zombies” to boot, so they are gorging on human hearts and other organs on the starting block. All very angelic behaviour.

Red Jacket is my good demon. She’s the split personality, made up of two different women. One looks like the pop star Katy B and the other looks like someone I used to sleep with. She wears a size 50XL waist for humour, because the person she is based on went fat. Yesterday, up against the Devil, was a full day of humour. As Russell Crowe says in The Pope’s Exorcist (2023): “The Devil hates jokes.” I always thought that the Devil had a sense of humour, but apparently not.

I’ve started feeling a shred of compassion for him. This you would think would prove impossible considering he hounds me on a daily basis; but it’s true. It must suck to be the Devil, despite all his acclaimed power. Where does he choose to use it all the time? – on little old me! That’s what I don’t like about him. What is it with me? Why is it that my enemies get bloated on my suffering all the while? They’ve even given me a supernatural title. I’m not about to repeat it at this moment in time but one day I might tell you.

Many supernatural things have happened to me, but this is not because I am a supernatural being. I am simply surrounded by a hive of supernatural activity. I was thinking about becoming a psychic at one point. Perhaps the strangest and most wonderful thing to ever happen to me is the time when a bullet bounced off my head. It nearly knocked me off my feet but it didn’t floor me. Bullshit, you might be thinking, and I wouldn’t blame you for thinking that, but what I say to you is 100% true. It was an assassination attempt on my life in the local supermarket car park. What else could it have been, to knock me off my feet? God stuck out his arm and deflected it. 

White Orbs

I recall visiting the cemetery with my younger brother to pay our condolences to the dead. We took a few drinks (we always drink together), and spilled out a few slurps onto the hallowed ground to commemorate the deceased.

Our Stephen lost his best friend Callum just after I lost my dad and my brother. It’s said that the white cider killed him off. He was only in his early twenties. Since then our Ste has refrained from touching a drop of it. I’ve never been a fan myself, always opting for the powerful stimulants rather than Crack, Smack and Scrumpy Jacks.

I’d just like to say anyway that I witnessed thousands of tiny white orbs in the graveyard while we were there. They were floating in the sky, majestic and mesmeric against the backdrop of clear blue. I’d been seeing them often during that phase of my life but never quite so obvious as that time in the graveyard. I told myself it was the ghosts of everyone in the cemetery, but I can’t be sure. They definitely belong in the angelic realm, they’re captivating and entrancing. The way they move…they bob and weave and bounce and dart and shimmer and sparkle the way genuine orbs do. I learned to control them, to some degree, and when I did this I noticed that the very next day the planes started flying in pairs, almost within touching distance in the sky, as if scared to go it alone with My Orbs. Coincidence? You decide. My mind is already made up.

Just thought I’d put that out there. Another time I witnessed them they seemed to abound from the moon. It has to be daylight for them to show their hand, they can’t exist at night. They look like a gazillion pinpricks of sunshine, dancing around as if on a subatomic scale, utterly fascinating to watch.

The Devil (hate to mention him), almost convinced me that he’d stolen them from me, because their movement changed almost overnight. He lies a lot, doesn’t he?

I’ve been reading my bible today to help me defeat Him (I know, again). I’ve finally finished Isaiah, it’s taken me weeks to labour through it, and now I’m firmly motoring through Proverbs. Proverbs is easy to read compared to Isaiah, and it’s chock-full of inspirational advice and wisdom. Something to get my teeth into, you know?

I’m not counting the days but it is Day 36 in The Rarefied Atmosphere challenge. That’s 35 days of loneliness, because in Popsville the voices never shut up and I’m outnumbered for company, but soon after I’m left all alone again. I know a song called Toddespiel by the German band Heldmaschine; it has screams embedded within its soundtrack. In Popsville, those screams are apt. Popsville is the name for the mental state in my life which is governed by psychosis: The Rarefied Atmosphere is the opposite.

I sincerely hope that, whilst currently in the process of Being Rare, I can view My Orbs again in the not-too distant future. Amen to My Father, My Brother, and To Callum x

 

Mum On Fire

I remember making a shrine in my bedroom as a teenager. Things weren’t working out at college, I was falling behind on my grades, my personal hygiene was slacking, I didn’t have enough pocket money, the cannabis was doing my head in. It started when I was getting stoned for the first time in my bedroom with my mate. He was on the bottom bunk and I was on the top. We’d just smoked a powerful spliff each, and were talking in tongues to each other. My mum appeared at the door, shouting and cursing, saying I was never going to amount to anything and that she wanted me out of the house. She was proper freaking out like, as if I was injecting heroin or something. She was more off her head than we were. I thought I was hallucinating; I thought she wasn’t really there.

“Is my mum really stood there shouting at us?” I asked my mate. We erupted into fits of laughter, she was off on one. She revealed the home family photo album – only last week I’d erased my face out of all the pictures with Tippex, because I no longer wanted to be part of the family. Well, she’d just found them, and she wasn’t happy…

“What have you done that for you stupid imbecile!” she shouted. The polaroids tumbled through her fingers onto the floor. My mate thought that that was well funny.

“You’ve, like, totally eradicated your family history,” he said.

“Maybe I don’t belong here,” I replied, chonging on the remainder of the spliff.

That’s when my mum went full retard, and started destroying my special shrine. It was a little altar with poems and artefacts, nothing much like, a bunch of laminated bible passages and the like, but it was my most precious possession in the world. There was even a supernatural mask from the joke shop on there. I thought it was possessed by the love of my life. She scrunched it all up and left my room with the mask, so I shot up out of bed, followed her downstairs, battered her, and tried to tear the mask from her clutching hands. In our struggle it ripped an eye socket and this pissed me off royally, so I made a  beeline for the garage where I kept a jerry can full of petrol, came back, and poured it over her.

“Give it me back or I’ll set your arse on fire!” I told her. Now I WAS hallucinating and my mum was looking like a real-life witch. I had thought she was a secret witch for years. My mate appeared next to me, pleading with me that I calm down. But I just wanted the symbolism of the love of my life back. How dare this witch desecrate my holy shrine!

Needless to say, I got done for attempted murder, even though no spark was lit, and sectioned off for a year or so. My mum embellished the story, saying that I tried to torch her with a Zippo lighter. It’s all in the past, and we get along fine these days.

 

Scoreboard

Hello there, I hope this is reaching you well. I am quite well myself. Each day in my life equals 3.5% on my score board. My score board is very private and personal to me. It’s those numbers in the sky again. Every day I don’t use I get three and a half percent. When I use it reduces to zero. I call that mental state Popsville. Popsville is a horrible place to live, full of voices and hallucinations, anguish and pain and regret and shame and remorse ad sinfulness. The Rarefied Atmosphere is much more pleasant. I’ve just been the pub before church for example, pregabbed up and loving every minute of it. I couldn’t dream of pubs and churches in Popsville. I’m at home with the rats for company in Popsville. I call it that because everybody has a pop at me, insulting my teeth, commanding me to do certain stuff I don’t want to do, and generally being ball-ache.

I call the collective name for all of my voices Katy. Katy is so powerful, she has all the voices covered in my Thought Prison. I once knew a golden soul of a person called Ricky. Once he asked me could he borrow six rollies. Not one, but six. That’s Ricky. But he also used to say this: “Andy, can you think of anything? Can I think of anything?” I said of course I can think of anything, I can think of a pink elephant with an Indian Princess riding it, throwing flowers out to a crowd of hungry beggars. And other stuff like that for example. But can I really? Why an elephant, way a dragon if I chose so? Is that all there is in the universe? I want to think of anything! Not stupid elephants and dragons, anything! In Popsville, with Zero Percent on the score board, I cannot think of a single thing, my mind goes blank, and that’s where the devil comes in, to bum me from the rear and empty my pockets when he reaches around. Lol.

In The Rarefied Atmosphere I can breathe and think. The vermin in my flat don’t bother me, I’m bigger and better than them. Walking into a predominantly white pub doesn’t annoy me, nothing gives me a headache; I’m fine all the time. No such thing as a bad day, because the Good Lord makes good days for his children. I truly believe that, and my faith sustains me. It is so uplifting to know Our Lord and Saviour, the loving Christ Jesus. I have just ate his flesh and drank his blood in communion. Oops! Sorry, Jesus. Don’t worry, it was just bread and cranberry juice. My protective spirit Apocto, sent from God, reminds me of eternal love, which she promised from the sky. I have two girls called Air Monroe guarding my score board. It’s a split soul, don’t ask me why there is two because that is another story. My number is currently 114%. I can live with that, it’s a candy-coated number to work with. Please say just a two-second prayer for me, so I can carry on. Thanks.

 

Big Numbers In The Sky

I’m seeing big numbers in the sky. My life is defined by them. As you know, my target has always been 28 Days. After 28 Days away from porn and drugs, my existence changes beyond compare. I feel fresher, brighter, more chatty, more social, more everything. I don’t have bad days. I have too much power to be combated by depression. I have God, the main dude, on my side. Life is great like this. It’s got nothing to do with PGs (pregabalin). I’m floating, maaan…

I scored the PGs late last night. My dealer dropped them off. I don’t even class them as a drug, they are more like a mood stabilizer. If the doctors were human, they would give me a big tub of them. They really help with the general mood and feeling. Instead the doctor injects me with an antipsychotic bullshit which hurt like mad the last time the nurse did it. She rammed that needle so hard into my arse bone I almost head-butted the wall. Bitch, learn how to do it properly.

I did a mountain walk yesterday. It was so tough, my lungs and my muscles were busting out of themselves. I was getting angry with bitter resentment at the leader, as he kept lying about how many steep hills there were. At one point on the hardest part I exclaimed, “F*cking Hell!” “It’s a gentle slope, you won’t feel it,” he replied. The sense of accomplishment once you reach the summit however is splendid, with a panoramic view. There was a small family at the top to greet us. It was a scouse fella with strong legs with a young baby and a very stocky XL Pitbull dog. His missus’ face was red with exhaustion. It was a terrible slope at the end!

Just been to the biggest SMART meeting I have ever witnessed. We were talking about grief a lot. I mentioned the time after I buried my father. I resorted to Lesbian dildoe sex on pure ecstasy. The pills delivered me into comfort, away from grief and disaster. It was so warm and welcoming and winning. It was all I had at the time. It helped me cope. I could hardly wait to get them down my neck. Ecstasy was my drug of choice in the beginning, before powerful stimulants came into the equation.

I’ll just wrap this up with a thank you for reading. Keep returning, as I’m here forever. I’ll always have a comforting word so long as The Lord is involved. I’m so glad I don’t worship the Devil, he’s a bad nob head. God is the one to be with, for ever in eternity with his Son. I’ve met his son several times, in a deep December psychosis, and his power was sweet and lovely. He helped me out when I really needed it. Jesus Christ is the Lord I serve, God’s only Begotten Son, Prince of Peace and Lord of Lords and King of Kings. Amen.

 

The Twilight Zone

The time I entered The Twilight Zone was perhaps the most unsettling time of my life. I simply had no whiff of an idea of what what was going on. I was Godless at the time, with no protective spirits. I had no Abbie or Victoria; no Chloe or Prue or Mathilda or BeeBee or young Gill; no Red Jacket, no Bennie, no Lydia, no Lucy, no Meredith, no Gonia or Apocto; no Gilbert, or The Father. I was completely alone in a world of hate mobbers, brain techers, supernatural spirits and schizophrenia. How did I survive?

I survived by keeping on my toes, and walking around in expansive circles, that’s how. It started in my flat, when creatures started appearing from out of goddamn nowhere. One of the worst was a big dock-off dog-sized brown rat with blood-stained square human teeth. That one really disturbed me. It still gives me the creeps a bit now. Another was a hybrid between a human and a scorpion looking at me from an upside down position on my tree. It gripped the tree like a squirrel. This one I believe was the Devil himself, making a personal visit to claim me. At one point my room was like a zoo; I was forcefully striding up and down in order to defend my territory. They had already taken my office space, and my sofa; now all I had was a slim walk space through the middle of the carpet. Of course, eventually, I left the apartment. I was overrun. This was the whole point, I can see now in 20/20 hindsight vision, to make me leave.

If inside was a zoo, then outside was a jungle. There were oxen in the park, and lions in the bushes. It took a lot of nerve to walk past one particular lion. I wouldn’t call it bravery, although others might. I’d just call it a total inability to do anything else; I couldn’t go backwards to where I’d just come from, and it was the only option available. The rats from my flat where leading me, always thirty or forty yards ahead, knowing where I was going. There were hefty ones chasing all the cars, as big as the cars, and keeping up with them quite easily too. When a 25 metre tapeworm arose along the kerbside and started wrapping its coils around me, I almost gave up.

In the distance on the horizon were tarantulas the size of skyscrapers. I took heed of the possibility that this might be like War Of The Worlds or something. I thought they were all biological weapons sent from the Russians, invented in laboratories and formed for war. I had no choice but to walk towards them. They moved and looked like spaceships. One of them followed me home. I was strolling between its legs. When I got back inside my flat, its porous legs were in there with me. Every time I passed through one I felt a tingly prickly vibe throughout my whole body. Very distressing were the pig-sized mole rats, as they kept repeatedly snapping at me with their large goofy gnashers.

Let’s just say that I’m glad it’s over, and praise be to The Good Lord that I’ll never have to go through anything like that ever again. Trials and tribulations make us stronger, they make us like steel. It wasn’t painful or anything, but it made me numb inside. The disbelief was staggering. I couldn’t compute the logic of what was happening and it has affected my day-to-day reasoning skills for ever. I still don’t know how to react to everyday potentially-dangerous situations because I don’t know if it is real, semi-real, or bullshit, to be ignored. The stuff to be ignored can feel like a 24-carat threat and the real stuff can feel like a dream. As Al Pacino so famously said in the movie Insomnia (2002): “I don’t know anymore.” What I am sure of however is God, and that’ll do me. Amen to all.