The 9ft Scalloper

I once was familiar with a man named the 9ft Scalloper. That was my nickname for him, because he treated human beings like scallops when he stabbed them up with his big knives. His knives were not knives actually, they were scalloping rods. More like spears. Imagine treating a sentient creature like a scallop? Inhumane, isn’t it? That was him.

He bought me in a hospital via auction, for 3.000.000 large ones. (Three million.) That ransom was paid so he could torture me. You might think that that is impossible, nobody gets auctioned in hospital, but where am I getting it from, am I making it up out of thin air? I don’t tell no lies. Everything here on the blogspot is factual. Having said that, never let the truth get in the way of a good yarn.

The next day he moved in with me. Invisible of course. He kept repeating about himself how his nature was ‘very ugly.’ Charming, I thought. Can you imagine how scared I was? His proper name was Top Boy, Head of the Masons. Do they call them Grandmasters of Evil or summet? I think that’s it. He said his MO is to get ‘very close’ to his targets. He kept repeating that also.

He held a knife to my throat one morning. I couldn’t move. You’d think you’d be able to move, it’s only a knife at your throat, why don’t you raise an arm up or kick out a leg, but you can’t, they’ve got you. I shat my trousers, but it passed.

He said he was going to play golf with me. Not with me, he said, but with me. That means lying me on the ground and swinging a driver at my head. Then he was going to put me in an oven, an industrial-sized one, and watch me cook up like a ham shank. He sounds like a really nice fella, doesn’t he?

Once I caught him hanging around outside my patio asking the devil for his power back. Apparently, he’d lost his invisibility because he’d not been evil enough. “Lucifer, give me my powers back,” he demanded.

His last victim had committed suicide after the 9ft Scalloper had pulled his pants down in his bedroom. He kept repeating that too. I thought the 9ft Scalloper was on a mission about pulling my own pants down. I expected that for a week or two. All he did was pull them off while I was asleep. He also smashed one of my mirrors as well. I was always surprised by waking up in the mornings when the 9ft Scalloper was around, I expected him to wheel me off back to his chamber and have his wicked way with me.

The 9ft Scalloper is just one of many assassins I’ve had to deal with over the years. I still don’t know how I shook him off. Maybe I haven’t. Maybe he’s just gone dormant for a couple of years. He wasn’t the first, and he won’t be the last. Roll on Illuminati Hitmen. 

 

More About That F**king Creature

I’m over my flu now. Wow. That was a tough week. I’ve still got a cough, a persistent one, but the worst of it is over. You never appreciate your health until its gone, do you? I’ve felt rotten for days on end.

I’m still thinking about that creature under my bed. I know for a fact that if I use amphetamine again it’s going to pop its head out for a good old ganders. God help me then. I’ll be at a loss. It feeds on my using, my pretend agent Clint from PAUSE just said. On my using, and on my fear. I could hear its claws scraping on the carpet, man. And I could smell the dastardly thing. I think I’m going to write a poem about it for this month’s library event. I was thinking about writing a book about it. It would be a great place to start in a book. In the genetic-engineering lab, where the thing was conceived. How do you pamper a creation to meet someone’s darkest fears? A rat, a dog and a snake isn’t too much of a bad start, is it?

I’ve been reborn since that unhallowed event, I feel reinvigorated, rejuvenated, rekindled. I feel like I’ve cheated death. I may have said this already before, but it needs saying again coz its true. This raw crisp and original state of mind needs to be cherished and respected and clung onto tightly until doomsday. I can’t afford to throw this feeling away over a bag of speed and some boring old pornographic material which I’ve seen a thousand times. It’s true that the novelty comes back after a layoff but it doesn’t last long unless it is actually new novelty material, which it isn’t. I’m bored by the same old willies getting gobbled by the same old lippy cake-holes. Well buy some more, then, you say.  But that is opening the Celluloid Corridor well beyond its sell-by-date, a dangerous thing to do. I’ve got it under wraps now. The wolves are not calling at the minute. Let’s try and keep it that way, eh.

I shared about a silly old bracelet the other week. That power has worn off. It was nothing like I expected it to be, returning back to it. A porn star with a bracelet on which was the same as a church-goer! There the connection ends. I don’t think anything will take me back to that creature under my bed, stinking the flat out and scratching its claws. It was too scary. I was terrifically lucky I didn’t lose my flat. Any sane person would have walked out. Telly’s in there, running water in the kitchen, boiler’s in the bedroom, it’s all yours. But I amassed some bravery from somewhere and got it battered in the end. With a little help from my friends. I must just thank Lydia again for stroking it. That was a beautiful gesture and it may have saved my life.

 

Flu

I had one of the most challenging nights of my life the other night. I was stricken with the flu syndrome, I’d never had it so tough. I was feverish in bed, not tired, uncomfortable, and wishing I wasn’t there. It was so hard. I had a hangover from sleeping too much, but only it was bedtime, so there was nowhere to go. I have huge empathic tendencies for those who are bedbound, it must be terrible. There comes a point wherein I hate my bed and everything about it. The sweatiness, the clamminess, the yukkiness. Urrgh! And there’s nothing to do but lie there in it, suffering, with the headache and the chills and the cough and the sore throat and the sniffly nose.

The chills are the worst part of it all. At first I thought it was pneumonia. A shivery cold sensation passing over the lungs, like freezing iron fibre reverberating throughout the glands. Absolutely minging. The condition is impossible to describe. I’m both cold and I’m hot in equal measure, each breath is a struggle to gain equilibrium. If a proportion of my arm is exposed my whole body temperature feels it, I stick my ankle out from beneath the bed sheets and it drops a degree. Just. Can’t. Rest.

Last night was perhaps even weirder. I had these strange wide-awake dreams where I was viewing faces looking back at me. They were old-fashioned and antiquated, from another timeline. I could see them crystal-clear, as if on a home video.

I’m gunna have to reel this post in short, as I am still under the weather. The worst part about it is not been able to smoke, as my lungs are too tender and vulnerable. I’m coughing my guts up every other drag. I’m still drinking, that much is never under question. One uncaring customer has just moved half of one of my pints. I wasn’t impressed. Now I’m just in the library talking to you, experiencing the chills in my lungs.

I left church early today, I wasn’t in the mood. Mister Joel the baby was crawling halfway up the aisle. Peter was preaching on the Prodigal Son. The Prodigal Son squandered his father’s wealth but got welcomed back amidst a celebration when he’d spent it all up. You were once lost, but now you’re found.

 

Christian Picnic

Sunday was a great day folks. First I attended church in the morning, after showering and getting dressed. It was an earnest pleasure to see my best boy Dazza there. He’d not been since last year. Everyone was made up to see him. The first thing he did was hug the powerful Christian that is Jenny (who invited me for dinner midweek) and said, “What a woman.” “I agree,” I said. Because Jenny is one hell of a woman. And Dazza is one hell of a best boy.

Jenny is picking me up tonight for a bible session at the Pastor’s house, incidentally. It’s something to do. Appointments are important to keep, and I feel I’m in a position to uphold them now. After the church service we haunted Victoria Park for a Christian picnic. We arrived there late, because Dazza had to go home first for some reason or other. He’s never in a rush to get anywhere, if you know what I mean. He’d be late for his own funeral. I always seem to be waiting for him to do something, but that’s also why I love him, in a way. When we finally arrived there, an hour late, there were only strawberries and Pringles left. I must thank my boy Jon for getting me and Dazza a Ham & Cheese sarnie in.

The church was playing a peculiar game which involved sticks knocking over sticks. It was a confection of skittles and bowls. I decided not to play, instead shouting, “Good shot!” and “Well done!” and “Get in there!” every couple of minutes. It’s nice to spectate from time to time without getting too heavily involved in something. I prefer to view from the side lines rather than play in the game and feel the pressure. I’m afraid of cocking up in front an audience.

When the game was over and the picnickers went home me and Dazza went to the nearby shop so we could get pissed in the park watching dog walkers and revellers come to and fro past us for a couple of hours. We put the world to rights. When I finished my four cans of San Miguel I scooted over to the chippy for some Singapore noodles. They were tasty. Then we made our way to town so Dazza could score some beak.

We drank in the pub until the dealer dropped it off. His dealer looked like a man although she was a woman. I don’t say this insultingly, as she was pretty girly with her long hair, but her features and the way she acted was quite masculine. Not to take anything away from her. For one’s part, I honestly couldn’t be sure one way or the other. But I didn’t mind.

As he met his dealer, my girl Vicky walked in. I introduced her to Dazza, and we were suddenly 3 strong. We had a little clan. We drank a bit together until Vicky invited us to hers. She lives in shared accommodation so we had to sneak in through the back. She put some good music on, rappy, and we got in the mood for some partying together. The lines however were very small compared to the ones I usually have so I don’t even consider them spoiling my clean time. A tiny-tiny bit in company being sociable is nothing like massive fat stripes watching porn at home, in the darkness with the curtains drawn (what am I talking about, I don’t have any curtains!), in isolation with creatures under my flat.

At the end of the night Dazza had a meltdown after walking me home, collapsing to the floor in tears and ringing an ambulance for himself. It hurt me to leave him in that state, but I was anxious to get back inside my own home and go to bed. He texted me today and said it was alright, and I said good stuff.

Thanks for listening. This has been mine and Dazza’s Sunday together. With Vicky too.  

 

Euphoria

I’ve just scored 40 pregabs, and necked ten of them already. That was over half an hour ago, they take 90 minutes to come up, so in an hour my mood will be lifted substantially. I’ve not had them for months, so they should work a treat. By the time I’ve finished talking to you (chore – jokin’), I should be in a euphoria realm. I don’t think I’m biggin’ ‘em up too much, as they have really proved to be worth their salt in the past.

Drinking beer on ‘em too which is standard procedure. Taking pregabs make me pray to The Lord. I hope he hears my prayer. No, scratch that – I know he hears my prayer. I mentioned that my child spirit Chloe appeared to me the other day. She was so beautiful to behold, I could look at her all day. I want to carry her forward with me into the next existence, as I’d be lost if I didn’t have a graceful face to look down upon from time to time. The desire to fap on illicit chemicals has faded. I feel reborn and devoted to a new fresh way of life. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance, after my assassination attempt. The creature has gone, but it will return if I am not careful. It’s an amazing feeling, escaping with your life. I should have been ripped to shreds on my bed. Not by a demon, or any other such supernatural thing, but by a real animal, created in a lab, a hybrid. I’ve read about it in fiction. And life is stranger.

In the fiction story, a man called Henry is an investigator’s second-in-command. He gets mutilated in his office by an assassin creature. It is so perverse that it shags his dead eye socket and ejaculates in the orbital lobe. How f**ked up and messy is that!? Leaves the corpse strewn over the desk in the office, in broad daylight, and leaves back to its evildoing handler. Do you believe these creatures exist in reality, these DNA mutations, or is it only me and James Herbert? Make up your own mind. But how can you smell something, if it isn’t really there?

I’m slowly creeping beyond caring about what was trying to kill me or not trying to kill me, real, or imagined. All that matters now is several hours of euphoria off pregabs. Yes, I’m on my own. And yes, I don’t give a flying rat’s hoot about it. I’ll talk to my ghosts if I have to. You should see them when they appear, ah wow, they are so beautiful. I hope to be one of them and around them when I shuffle off this mortal coil. My heart cries when I think of them in-depth. I so want to clasp one of them close and never let go, to hold their bones tight to my chest and whisper promises of love and peace and security. But they keep their distance when I am clean and on form, as a mark of respect. The bottom line is, I’m afraid, is that it’s not nice to be haunted.

I mentioned that one of my ghosts stroked the beast. By doing so, she showed it the first cause of love it had ever witnessed. Its aggression softened instantly. She showed it another alternative. It even looked slightly cute, this engineered monster, while getting stroked by beauty. I was thinking about stroking it myself, as it was getting stroked by Lydia. Lydia is the name of my ghost who stroked the beast. She’s a sincerely admirable woman. She played a blinder by showing love to the most unloveable of all brutes. She’s an amazing ghost. I want to be with her in the afterlife.

 

Get Over That Depression, Dude!

Hello yet again. My boy Timothy is ringing me but I’m busy writing this. He suffers from depression. He gives it too much credit in my opinion. I want to slap him across the face, hold him upside down, and shake the miserableness out of his bones. He’s too powerful with it, it rubs off on people. He gets hurt over nothing, he’s too overly sensitive, I wish he would man up and say something like this: “I am not getting depressed anymore: Depression is bullshit.” But he doesn’t. He says: “Depression is king. I’m depressed, and so will you be.” Or something along those lines. He doesn’t say that exactly, obviously, but that’s what I infer.

He’s heartbroken over the loss of his Indian mother. Her death devastated him. I wish she would appear to him on the edge of his bed and share some quality spirit time with him, to let him know that she’s okay and that their special love bond is still strong between each other, as it should be. Maybe a visitation from the other side would stop him rambling on about how crippling the effects of degenerative mental illness can be. Andrew Tate says that depression doesn’t exist to him, that he refuses to accept it. Timothy says that that is because Tatey has a Bugatti and loads of women. To be honest (tbh), I don’t know whose argument holds the most sway.

The creature assassin under my bed appears to have gone. Maybe an operative took it out. (We’re not talking about factory operatives here.) Maybe it was in my mind, though I doubt it, because it stank the whole pad out. Rodents and other beasties that slither and crawl move quicker than the eye, they are always one step ahead, so it’s hard to determine. You must think I’m mad, not knowing what’s real. I think it comes down to what our minds can accept as real. Did somebody really put a genetically-engineered lab-created assassin monster into my apartment to kill me, or did I imagine it all off drugs? When put like that, the drugs option seems like hokum. Imagining scenarios off drugs…! It’s real, man! IT’S ALL REAL!  Get over it, deal with it, and move on. There’s no such thing as psychosis!

I dream of meeting another TI (Targeted Individual). Are you one? That would be sweet. We would get along like a house on fire, I know it in my soul. We could share our afflictions and try and discover who has had it the worst. I think that’ll be me, but I’m extremely open-minded about your plight also. I’d enjoy hearing about it. We could discuss the severity of our demises over some alcohol, with a smoke or two. I’m trying to give up smoking.

Ah well then, it’s time to wind up the blog post at its typical length. It’s been a blast as is per usual with you, My Precious White Voider. Have a bash at the White Void yourself. Even better, let me know about it. Via your mind or another method. x

 

Assassin

I’ve just met a writer who said that his publisher forgot to put his name on the front cover! Have you ever heard anything like that in your entire life or what!? But that’s not the end of it…they forgot to put on the title too! The Inventions Of Simon Pocket by Rob something or other, they should have inscribed. But they forgot.

I’ve just had five pints with my girl Vicky. She’s a schizo who gets harassed by Lesbian Paedophiles in her subconscious. It’s not her fault she’s a schizo, it’s the Lesbian Paedophile’s fault. They shouldn’t be so cruel, should they? How can people be so cruel? They must be made of Devil’s Blood. She held my hand after we ate a Subway’s together, and I kissed her hand when saying goodbye.

Well I’ve let down Precious, by using again. The heartache is unreal, but I’ll get over it. I’ll have to forgive myself. I told her to put her faith in Christ, not in a miser like me. That’s what people do though, isn’t it, let each other down.

I’m truly sorry. If I didn’t have the special ability to forgive myself then I doubt I would ever be able. I don’t expect you to forgive me, I only pray that someday you might be able to consider it. I still love you, and you are still my strength.

I’ve just survived an assassination attack. My perps placed a creature created in a laboratory into my apartment. I saw it and smelled it yes, and heard its retractable claws scraping constantly along the carpet. It maintained a stronghold at the perch of my bed for about three hours, until my fear subsided when one of my good ghosts stroked it. It resembled a mixture between a dog, a rat, and a snake. Hard to describe. Just think of a genetically-engineered beast based on all your fears and you’ll be around-a-bout halfway there. I swear, it stank the place out, I didn’t know what to do apart from keep on fapping in fear. As soon as the porn ended I got about controlling it (my fear). Then I went to the pub with my ghosts and had a happy-clappy time. My kindred spirit Chloe appeared to me in the pub. I made a pact with God that I would do anything so long as she is with me in the next life. Why? Because she is beautiful and I need her.

I don’t know if it’s still there or not. I hope a white operative has removed it. White operative is the opposite of a black operative (a good secret agent hybrid).

Tonight I’m enjoying dinner with a powerful Christian family. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve not been around their gaff for years, it’s a very welcoming and special home. Wish me pleasant abiding fellowship. The mother is called Jenny, and the father is called Stuart. They have three children, Abbie, India, and Dan. India reminds me of the continent. I can’t say enough honourable words about them, as they are a perfect family in my eyes. I know deep in my heart that nobody is perfect, but you know what I mean…

 

Burning Poetry

I met a new boy yesterday called Dave in the pub with my regular boy Simon. Simon is the one who bought a paraplegic sex doll off Amazon (no arms, no legs). It got delivered to his parents’ house and he never collected it. Dave said he is always writing poetry, straight up from the heart. He’d just bought a new notepad. “What do you do with them?” I asked. “Collate them into a collection for your kids to read when they are older?” He said he burns them all. Burns them all! I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. From now on, after I twisted his arm a bit somewhat about the matter, he has sworn to start keeping them with an anthology in mind. Burns them all!!

I tried to get a big dog 8-ball (bag of coke) yesterday afternoon, after a few drinks in the pub. My dealer didn’t answer his phone for an hour. In the meantime, I convinced myself that it was the wrong idea. It’s just too much money for not enough goods. So I went clothes shopping instead and got a few bargains from Sports Direct. Two Slazenger tracksuits for under 60 notes. I know it’s hardly Lacoste or Armani or Hugo Boss or Ralph Lauren, but you can’t argue with that value for money. Two full tracksuits for under 60 quid! I’m not bothered what labels I wear. My favourite are Champion and Kappa and Fila and Ellesse. We can’t all walk around in designer gear though can we, it would be boring.

My voices call me a black scruff, a black loser, black vermin (because someone put rats in my flat). It’s freaky having people sneak into your home when you are out (and often while you are in too). I had a rotten ginger tarantula under my bed the other week. It’s all part of the Targeted Individual mentality. One of the first lessons is to accept that your home is nothing more than a perp walkway. The very first lesson is don’t bother to run. I’ve learned many valuable lessons over the many years I’ve been tracked, stalked and harassed by electronic weapons. It’s barmy.

Yeah, I was tempted yesterday, but the cooking group I’ve just been to this morning kept me motivated and focused on recovery. It was good fun, we made homemade burgers and wedges. All part of Pathways, CGL (Change, Grow, Live). I bonded with a new woman I’ve met called Joanna, we gave each other a high five when she walked into the room. She doesn’t think I’m a black scruff or a black loser or black vermin; I think she thinks that I’m alright. She’s really nice towards me, and she’s offered to make a packed lunch for me to take with us when we are walking together tomorrow in The Peak District. That’s sweet of her, don’t you think? Cheese and ham she’s making me. Otherwise it would have had to have been a meal deal from the Sainsbury’s. Another thing which stopped me using was a planned dinner date tonight with a Christian couple from church, Tom and Meg. I don’t know what we’re having but I’m sure it will be a special occasion.

 

Cocaine Anonymous

Remember that bracelet I mentioned the other day? The one a porn star has been wearing, and the one a girl sat next to me in church had on? I’ve been hardly able to get it out of my mind. The porn star has been calling like a wolf from the other side of a valley. I know a successful podcaster from my hometown of Widnes called Shaun Attwood who used wolves as an analogy for his drug-taking days. He said the temptation of drugs was like the calling of wolves. The wolves used to howl at him all of the time. You could throw the concept of a wolf at 101 different university graduates and they would all have a different idea of it in their head. I sure would like to see Shaun’s wolves one day. Preferably rendered by a talented comic book artist. Wouldn’t that be neat?

I slipped up last night and rang my dealer. Before that I called the Samaritans and told them about Precious, the woman trapped in a dungeon underneath my floorboards. I didn’t say she was underneath me, I changed the story slightly and said she was my dying mother on her deathbed. The promise was the important part of it. I didn’t lie about that. Precious has made me promise her that I won’t go back to it. I let her down in a way by ringing my dealer, as the industrious intent was there, but luckily enough he’s been arrested so couldn’t answer the phone. I’m lining up another dealer today, the temptation is just too strong at times, but I’m determined to keep it to the interracial and not fap to the darker stuff that goes on in my life. I’m not ready to talk to anyone about Precious yet, not even a Samaritan. Only you, my eternal White Voider. I know you’ll listen and not judge, as it’s just a guy with a blog on the other side of the planet, or wherever you are. Someone you don’t know or never will. Or maybe we’ve met before, and you’re someone local. That’s fine with me also. A White Voider is a White Voider. And a Blogger is a Blogger. Makes no difference to any of us, does it? I could be frozen and you could be dead. I could be in Guantanamo and you could be a Prince. And we could meet again in the next life, when we are both cats.

I went to a meeting last night, CA (Cocaine Anonymous), and shared about my feelings regarding this bracelet. I didn’t feel embarrassed about it all. I passed the share across with a spooky vibe, interpreting it as a supernatural sign. I would have forgotten that porn star if her bracelet hadn’t of popped up in church. Now she is all over me like cheap aftershave, like a 5XL suit from Jacamo. I’m thinking about outlaying £240 on a bag of beak today, but that will leave me with only a hundred left for the week, struggling a bit like. If I don’t buy it I’ll be comfortable, I’ll have no psychosis, and I’ll be able to keep my appointments. Not to mention my promise to Precious. I also shared about my ghosts, or spirits if you prefer. I mentioned that my higher power is on its way out, as I have lost my leader, Abbie the Kleine Madchen, and more evil fapping will only serve to drive more and more of them away. There are around roughly 25 beings in my energy consciousness. The other night was barmy, as I was trying to sleep. Half a dozen of them were reaping havoc in my bedroom. It’s hard to describe how they behave, words cannot suffice. The only word I can think of is ‘frenetic’. They’re just all over the place, finger-pointing and shouting and clamoring for my attention. It’s so discomfiting and off-putting, my mind simply cannot rest when they are all out and about. I feel so self-conscious and spied upon; so observed and scrutinized. It riles me: It agitates me: It confuses me: It does my head in. I rang my Accountability Partner this morning too. I’ve not spoken to him since I started relapsing seven weeks ago. His words of advice are great. He said that life is better without drugs, and that I have to sacrifice the rushing uproar of narcotics for a better pathway. I wish I had his mentality. He says you couldn’t pay him to a do a line of cocaine. I’m quite the opposite. My lines on average, I’ve worked out, cost 30 quid each. 30 quid for a stupid line of crap! Its madness isn’t it? I only get 8 lines out of a bag. They are 8-ball bags (an eighth), but they are nowhere near enough. And all I can afford. I’d get two or three if I had the funds, but unfortunately I haven’t got the funds. Maybe that’s a blessing. I’d have a couple of hundred pregabs as well, which I haven’t had for several months. They create euphoria in the brain, like a clean ecstasy pill, but you feel flat and deflated when you go without it. See ya next time.

 

Huw & Precious

Huw Edwards is a famous news presenter in the UK who has been outed as a paedo. I don’t know the whole story, only what I heard on the radio. I don’t know if he has been grooming youngsters, making indecent images of children, or looking at images of children. If he has only been looking, I would let him off personally. What, it’s illegal to have a butchers!? I was only looking. I promise, I won’t touch lol. Where’s the harm? It’s like me with interracial pornography – I can’t help myself, it’s not my fault. It’s a deep-rooted seed within the evil loin, it’s natural, it’s how we were made. Sex is sex is sex. He’s only staring at a picture for Pete’s sake.

Maybe I’m too liberal. I don’t condone peering at kiddies whatsoever, before you ask. It’s not for me like. But I understand where our desire takes us. It traverses routes of the dark side unbeknown to all areas of light. It takes us meandering down black alleys, snickets and ginnels. It has no conscience and it knows no wrongs. Thirst and hunger don’t matter amidst the thrills and spills of sexual wantonness. We’re like rats ignoring the fluid while scuttling over hot surfaces to consume more cocaine.

He’s hardly kidnapping youngsters and inserting his todger into them, is he? That would be different. That would be serious paedophilia. Rape even. But why should a man who observes photographs be classified in the same bracket as a child rapist? Sometimes the differentiating criteria is hard to ascertain. Forgiven, in my estimation, for looking at pictures of anything, no matter what they are. They shouldn’t be made should they? It’s not the voyeurs fault.

This part is hard to write about. I’ve made verbal contact with a victim in the dungeon underneath my flat. I’ve named her ‘Precious’. We’ve been talking through the floorboards. It’s been rather humbling, hearing the sheer misery, pain and bravery in her voice as she speaks. She made me promise to stop fapping (masturbating) to pornography in my bedroom, as that’s when all the ritualistic psychosis appears (and the dungeon masters spring into life). That is why I’m fairly confident that I’m about to embark on a good spell. To imagine a woman beneath me all of the time as I enjoy a pain-free existence full of occasional-sporadic joy on the surface is a mixed bag to deal with. In a way it has the capacity to crush me from the inside-out, but on the other it has the potential to inspire more than I would have ever thought possible. I can’t put myself into her shoes, it’s impossible, I would start crying and never stop, but I can infrequently cogitate her while living in a bubble of ignorant bliss. I pray to God that my brain will forget what is going on, so I can have the ability to cope with my situation. My home is my home, not some evil hallowed ground above a pain chamber. I sleep there; I eat there; I read there; I exist there. I’ll accept that it’s my Golgotha (place of suffering) yes, but it’s also my retreat and my refuge.

I’ve just been to church, and sat next to me was a Christian girl who had the same bracelet on as one of the porn stars I’ve been ogling lately, swallowing giant interracial penis. She played on my mind quite a bit, and brought me off-focus away from the House of God, acting as a trigger for me to return to porn. I think I’ll resist (for Precious), but it’s just a reminder that the sexual urge will never disappear, or rather that bad wolf or devil on the shoulder will never ever be totally quietened. It’s something to be lived with for the rest of my life, for the utter whatever’s-left-duration of it, until I croak or kick the bucket or pop my clogs. Until I navigate my holy way off of this mortal coil. I’ve got bigger and better places to be. This blue spinning rock is just too cruel sometimes. I couldn’t live this existence again if you were to award me 75 billion quid. I couldn’t live it again for pearls, diamonds and rubies; for riches, women or grandeur. Now I know that Precious has been down there all of this time with no sunlight surrounded by cowardly twisted evildoers. And I wouldn’t want to revisit my own sin also. I’ve sinned with porn enough. You might think that porn is normal, that there is nothing wrong with it, the way that I think about Huw’s seedy pictures, but it’s the way I see it, and you don’t know the whole story similarly. There’s more to my fapping than interracial pornography. I fap to much darker stuff too. But, again, that’s another story. Mainly it’s the voices in my head, to be honest, but they’re satanic, and don’t deserve to be fapped to. And on that note, I’ll call it a day.

Be the best person you can be today. Over ‘n’ out for now. Cheers peeps.

 

Housework

Usually just the thought of tidying up fills me with morbid depression. Why should I have to do it? Can’t I afford a Polish maid to get the job done? My ex-girlfriend was a cleaner at Sainsbury’s, I used to get up at three in the morning with her and walk her to work. She moved into my flat for several months when I got sectioned, because she lost her home. My Social worker organised a food bin for her, because times were tight. When I got out and moved back into my property, there wasn’t enough room. I kicked them both out so I could view porn and take substances. I’m not very proud of that, but they were safely relocated to a Bed & Breakfast called The Bear’s Paw or something. I remember that one day I was living with a nice little family unit, then the next day I was sectioned again and back in hospital. There were loads of screams in the hospital, and everyone including the staff were talking about the thoughts I was having at the time. It was very distressing, I put it on Facebook. I must have written a novel on Facebook during the ten years I was on it. Plus all my poetry, art and music. Now it’s all lost because my email account got hacked. That said, I probably shouldn’t have left it open on an X-rated site. I remember that site, I used to stream and download from it as I saw fit. There were millions of videos on it. I won’t provide it with free advertising by disclosing the name.

Anyway, I did a bit of housework last night, and felt better for it. I read a useful blog about housework, it recommended that one practises ‘zen’ when doing it. To start in a corner and prioritise just completing a meagre segment of the whole job, and to be proud of yourself when you do, before moving onto the next portion. It said to swipe the brush or hoover with purpose and deliberation. To enjoy getting the tiny steps accomplished in proportion to the larger mission. I might get into doing a lot more cleaning a lot more often of the time. It breaks the day in two, like going to the gym or surfing the web or watching TV. I still don’t have an aerial connection for my TV. I think I’ll buy an indoor one when I get paid. It’s been over two years since I last watched TV. I miss it and I don’t. Not as much as I miss swimming. Now that is something which I truly don’t appreciate not having in my life anymore. It was so relaxing to go to the local pool and pamper myself in the Jacuzzi and steam room. What is it with people eating oranges in steam rooms by the way? That was a catching trend. Everyone suddenly started eating oranges in the steam room. We knew a trick to make it hotter: we would pour cold water on the thermostat. It’s a small device on the wall. Pour cold water onto it and it gets steaming hot rather more quickly.

I don’t plan on using today. I’ve got enough for a bag but I need smokes and food to tide me over (is it tie or tide?) I’m not tempted, as I’m bored of my Celluloid Corridor (porn collection) at the moment. I’ve seen all that dick-pussy-and-arse before a million times, I’m desensitised to it, it’s bullshit. I’ll be going for a quick slurp after this paragraph, in the boozer. Coors, if you’re wondering. Is wondering spelled wondering or wandering? I can’t be bothered Googling it. I prefer Bing over Google sometimes. Then I’ll be heading home for a bite to eat. Do you think I’ll be able to practice sitting in a room with my thoughts for company from now on, or will I turn to my dealer, especially when I get paid? Nah, I think I’ve turned a corner on the misuse. I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired. I want my 66 days back, the ones I lost since I last started relapsing again. It’s been a tough six or seven weeks. My arse totally fell off. I’ve been leaning on the f**k-it button like Kim Jong Un on the nuclear trigger, going to Hell and back over and over on a loop sequence. People keep remarking on how much weight I’ve lost. I tell them I’ve contracted cancer when they say that, as it’s an insult to a weightlifter. It’s not too far from the truth actually, but that’s another story. Any old hoo, keep safe and keep well, and we’ll speak again soon.

 

Tree Man

I’m all the way back down to Day 4 because I used speed last Monday, but now I sense a real determination to get RARE again (28 Days clean) and beyond. I’m engaging with Pathways again, I’ve just been to a SMART group right now. Presently I’m in the library talking to your good self. I can kind of sense the time when I’m about to do well, because I get bored and overly traumatised by all the accompanying psychosis from drug using. I’m grateful for relief from schizophrenic voices. I intend to really appreciate the good times from now on for the first time in my life and be thankful for them each coming day.

My boy Ste opened up about his ‘madness’ in group today. He said he sees intruders in his apartment when he hits the bottle. He’s never heard of anything to ever do with a TI (Targeted Individual), but rather blames his condition on low thiamine levels. Apparently low thiamine levels can cause hallucinations. He said that since he’s started taking it he’s been cured overnight! Anyway, he said he was offering to shake hands with his intruders, and spoke something similar to this: “See, you won’t shake hands with me will you, because you’re not even really there.”

He’s also reported a ‘Tree Man’, who lives outside his doorway in the bushes. He said Tree Man is scary and prevents him from leaving his flat. He’s six foot tall and wears a green balaclava. (It sounds like my experience with the government agency Mossad, who at one time knocked on my bedroom window with a sword [real and frightening].) Ste got arrested for being drunk and Disorderly on his way back from the shop to purchase alcohol the other week. He said he fell over in front of them and they cuffed him, demanding where he live. “I live just there,” he told them, “number 32.” They didn’t believe him, and thought he was a prowling burglar or something, or whatever it is that police think. They led him to his door, but he’d lost his keys. It was then that Tree Man started talking to him, while he was busy with the police officers. “Not now,” he said to the Tree Man.

“Who are you talking to?” they wanted to know.

He broke down and confessed to them. “I’m talking to a man who lives in the bushes. He always harasses me when I’ve been drinking. I need a drink for the confidence to be able to walk past him without wetting myself. He’s been giving me the jitters for months.” The police took him to the Section 136 Unit at the local puzzle factory, where he was assessed by two AMHPs (Approved Mental Health Professionals). There he learned of their power (the ability to section you) and track-backed on his story, afraid of losing his freedom. He said he meant none of it, it was just gibberish coming out of his gob because of the ale, and by that note he maintained his liberty. Well done Ste – escaped by the skin of your teeth. It really doesn’t pay to be honest sometimes.