Mandingo & Omar

Well it’s my church big weekend away and I can’t organise a lift! I’m thinking about using on it. Anything that goes wrong usually leads to a use-up. The slightest little thing is an excuse. I’m trying to stay strong and remain with RJ, my chief head honcho spirit woman. She’s actually got a dual identity, Mrs. Rocket Fuel and Diana Bumpton. She’s two women in one. A remarkable wonder to be around.

I went into her origins a few blog posts back. She arrived in a teenage vision, she was embodied in a friend’s story, and she came to life in a piece of red clothing on a wasteland, to surmise. I want to spend more time with her, instead of the cheap pornographic sl*ts I’m always salivating over. Do you think it’s possible, or will the triple-X harlots take me away from my precious love?

My life crumbles apart around me when I view porn and take stims. That’s half of the thrill of it, knowing that there’s no way back once I start upon that beaten road. I’m effectively swapping God’s love for the Devil. I know it’s exhilarating and provocative, watching all those trampy strumpets flaunting their naked wares with big dark-skinned willies, but ultimately it ends up in psychosis and turmoil. If not for the madness of the consequences which succeed, I’d still be doing it now and for the rest of my life. The power of the Celluloid (Corridor) is too irresistible to put down. It’s all about entrenchment and learned behaviours over years and years. Where else am I supposed to get my kicks from? Even a wife or two in the spiritual realm cannot meet my needs in that way.

I had an erotic dream just last night. This is why I’m a horny goat today. I was enjoying a bit of frottage, (the act of obtaining sexual stimulation by rubbing against a person or object), when I decided to kiss the demon in my potentially wet dream on the lips. Her mouth was rotten and flaky and crumbly, like mouldy moss, and I ended up spitting her dry and horribly juicey refuse out onto her breast. Moral of the story: Never kiss seductive mistresses on the lips in the astral. The last person I kissed on the astral was fine, but I never used tongues. I kissed my girl Antonia with tongues in the pub several months ago and I didn’t like that too much either. She’s a great girl with a sexy mouth and all but I find that tongues are slimy and wet and not that enjoyable to sample. I much prefer kissing on the lips with no tongues, cos that way you can’t taste their last meal! Do you get me though? I generally dislike wet things, unless it’s a heated swimming pool, or a steam room, or a cold drink.

I must mention two big swingers here. I was going to dedicate an entire post to them. They are two black male pornographic actors who go by the names of Mandingo and Omar. I was brought up on their work. I can’t believe how gay I feel at the moment talking about them. I don’t really know why I am. I just wanted to get it off my chest. They enslaved me with their exploits in a way; they made me so jealous and envious. I’ve not watched either of them for about three years. My download history was full of those men. Virgin Media must be relieved of me. I’m a straight guy, but they weren’t what I would call ugly men (meaning quite attractive, if I can ever get over being mildly gay), and they were very well equipped in the trouser department. Well, you wouldn’t want to see a woman you’re lusting after with a small penis, would you? Am I right or am I right? Any old hoo, that’s enough about them. I just thought it was time that they got a mention.

They both appeared as spirits one time in psychosis, and gave me an art lesson when I was working on my portfolio! One resonating thing they said was the difference between fortune and wealth. The best way I can describe fortune is this: Take a paraplegic, for example. He or she could have a billion in the bank, but they are unable to run in the wind through the trees. Running is fortune: Money is wealth. Do you see the difference? What would you rather have?

Andy's Hotel Room

I met with my boy Andy in the pub again the other day. He said that a mogul has moved in next to his business premises, handling dock-off parcels of white. He said that he treated him to some by digging into one of them with a key. Just what he needs that, isn’t it? He suffers from similar problems to myself. I asked him how the battle with porn is going. Are you resisting the temptations? Are you refusing to surrender? He said he was doing alright.

This is a guy who, when he is not enjoying autumn walks with his daughter, is likely to hire a hotel out for the night to get away from his family and do coke in while watching porn on his phone. He said he had to ring his contractor up to unblock it. “Please can you make porn come up on my phone?” was something or other like he requested from them. I’ve been there, with Sky Shield. I had to ring them up one time and ask another human being if I could please watch porn, so I know the feeling. It’s so embarrassing, but nothing dare come between a man and his druggy porn.

He’s all into his brain chemistry. He says that the brain on coke and porn is ‘hijacked’. A cup of tea for pleasure just can’t compare, can it? No it can’t. Hardly anything else if anything at all can compare with the brain on coke and porn. Liverpool beating United, O’Sullivan ratcheting in a 147, Murray winning Wimbledon, your favourite box set series finale…nothing quite hits the spot so sweetly, does it? Or maybe it does for you. Maybe you are lucky that way.

For me it doesn’t. I recall the days of scoring on a winter’s morning, when it’s all icy and snowy outside, and retreating back into the home with the goods. Sticking the porn on, snorting or bombing the gear, getting all cosy with my fapping underneath the blanket, watching XXX hardcore interracial material. It was bliss, it has to be said! So comfortable, so natural, so erotic, so sexy, so titillating, so exciting, so enjoyable, so stimulating…but ultimately a lonely endeavour which leaves one feeling weak and drained. It’s all fine when the rush is on, and the novelty is spot-on, but afterwards, when that psychosis rolls in…wow, just shoot me now, okay? Just stick a slug in my temple and get it over with.

I’m still thinking about leaving my number in my dealer’s letterbox. I rang the Samaritans yesterday and told them all about it. That would really hurt me because I have a church weekend away coming up this week. The problem is however that I have lost all the contacts off my phone and can’t get in touch with anyone. I might be relying on one of them to show up at my door and offer me a lift. I can’t see that happening really, they’ll most probs think that I just ain’t up for coming. It’s made me realise how important phones are to us. The most important weekend of the year and it’s the time I have no phone. Duh!

 

Shazza & Phone

 

Feeling fine today peeps, no need to worry. I’ve replaced the phone I lost last week. My voices said that a perp-gangstalker-intruder had stolen it so as I couldn’t call for assistance with the creature under my bed, but I’m beginning to believe that the creature under my bed has just eaten it. Either way, it disappeared. I set my new one up outside Asda, talking to my girl Shazza. Shazza looks blinding when she is clean, loads of slap and eyelashes and eloquence, but when she’s using, she looks pale and slightly slowed down. No offence there Sharon, you are remarkably clever and intelligent when you’re sober. Sometimes I think that you could hurt me on a pornographic video. That is one of the highest compliments I could pay to a woman, that – that you could hurt me on a pornographic video. Girls who can’t hurt me being sexy are not worth their salt, they’re garbage. Or is that the real standard I should be aiming for?

Any old hoo, I half-snapped my sim card during its insertion, so the phone did not register it. I started to get sweaty palms, thinking I would have to buy a new sim card. Fortunately, on the second attempt, it registered. So I was off and running. All I had to do was buy a ten squids voucher from Vodafone for my free minutes bundle and the job was a good’un. So now I have an alarm clock, a calendar, a torch and basic burner/grafter gear for under thirty notes. Bargain, isn’t it. I’m lost with touch screen, I wouldn’t stand a chance setting it up. No wonder people can’t remove their faces away from the things. Because they’re all in a kerfuffle trying to get the blasted things to work. That’s what I think.

I’ve been feeling tempted to walk to my dealer’s and leave my new number through his letterbox, so he can get back to me and organise some speed. What am I like, mentioning drugs here on the blog week-in and week-out? I feel like I am advocating them. Maybe I’ll become a Buddha and supervise teens micro-dosing frog spawn or something. That would be cool wouldn’t it? Yeah, the temptation is reeling itself in ever so slowly, although I think I’m strong enough this time not to act. I don’t want the presences back in my bedroom again. Not in my bedroom, surely, that’s where I damn well sleep and rest my head for the night.

It’s so important, sleep. Last night I was with Richard Gere. We were on a tour bus together, and he had arm implants. The astral plain never fails to surprise me. My sleep, since that thing has slung its hook, has never been sweeter. I’m resting with my toes sticking out from over the lip of the mattress, something unimaginable while the monster was lurking around. I’m so comfortable in the mornings, and I’m easily getting my healthy quota of eight hours, if not a few hours more. Please Oliver, just a few hours more. In the astral, the astral plain.

Pollen

I’d not smoked cannabis for around three years until the other week. There was some guy in Wetherspoons who had a ginormous bag of pollen on him; he was brandishing it about willy-nilly so I casually asked him for a ten spot. I think it was because I was clean at the time, and I was kind of swapping addictions. They do say that addicts are always looking for something new and exciting, even if it’s only a different flavour vape or something. I had a psychotic reaction to cannaboids when I was a teenager (so the doctors said) and ever since (mostly) have given it a wide berth. I mean, I hammered it after leaving school, there were times when I’d eat a space cake and drink a pot coffee while smoking a cone waiting to come up. But those days soon ended when I gave up smoking for good. The other week, however, I thought I’d return to it for a mild head change.

It run out last night. A ten bag lasted me three or four weeks. It still makes me hear voices, right up to this present day. I think the doctors might have been right, you know, the stuff just doesn’t agree with me. I enjoy it a little bit, but not enough to justify the mellow schizophrenia that accompanies it. Usually, all the skeletons creep out of the closet. I have to be in a comfortable state of mind to go there. I’ve always described getting stoned as like someone turning on a light-bulb inside your mind; or, similarly, it’s like you develop a second head which constantly calls you a numpty. One thing I know I am not however, is a pothead, so this mini phase of returning to the cannaboids is well and truly over. Having said that, I wouldn’t mind a one-pop of skunk….the argument being is that it opens up your visual cortex, turns on your aural capabilities, and generally makes you slightly more creative. Or at least that’s my argument anyway.

It was my drug of choice back in the day, while viewing porn. It was all I needed. A spliff in one hand, my willy in the other, remote control picked up now and again. I know, I know, it’s embarrassing, isn’t it. I’m getting to the age where I am starting to evaluate the past, and sum up everything that I’ve done. Unfortunately it’s nothing more than do drugs and watch porn. What right does that give me to talk to you? None whatsoever. But I hope and pray that you are not the judgemental type. I forgive myself for it, because I have to, and all that baggage like guilt, shame, regret and remorse doesn’t help anyone. But I sure ain’t proud of it. I just understand that we can’t all be world beaters all of the time. We all get lumbered with our own individual lives, our own hand, if you like. Some are better than others. I’ve had a rather nasty existence so far, it has to be said, what with being a TI and all. But there’s always hope, strength and unity to be found. Sorry if I’m a bit depressing, I just feel like I’m in a limbo caught between two places: running away from my past, of which I’m ashamed, and getting to grips with my future, which I have anxiety about. I’ve still got my faith, which is great, and I still believe I’m a being who feels love and compassion, which is even better. So, for the moment, its onwards and upwards. Catch you next time x

 

Gavin

I had a blip early last week so we are all the way back down to Day 6 again. It’s ever so disappointing, but rather than dwell in my sorrows, I’ve decided to hit the ground running and jump right back on the saddle of recovery double quick-time. I must be getting boring by now, I suspect, rambling on about relapses every couple of weeks, but it’s the story of my life. Don’t worry, I’ll be feeling good again before either of us know it. And then my blog posts will take a different pattern, of positivity and hope and light. Or maybe they won’t. Perhaps I’ll just keep on failing and failing down this slippery slope I’m on.

That creature returned amidst my latest bout of psychosis, and did the exact same thing, holding me to ransom and hostage over my bed for hours on end again. Once more, I was sooo scared, I was sooo afraid. Eventually yet again I got over it though, and started to be active. This was after I sat on the floor of my bedroom and looked at this thing in the eye. It took a lot of guts on my behalf, that did. The local pack of gang-stalkers all crowded around me pretending to be going to a concert when I tried to relax with a drink in public, but that old skittish codswallop is like water over a duck’s back by now, I don’t pay no attention to it.

Since then I invited my boy Simon back to my place to be present with me while I checked under the bed. I just wanted someone there while I did that. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing there, and the last two nights sleep have been steeped in relief. It’s like a giant weight off my shoulders knowing that there isn’t something lurking in the dark, because, as I’ve just said, just several days prior I was giving the thing eye contact. So now I can rest easy in my castle again, free of hybrid rats and mutated tarantulas and other creepy crawly beasties.

Precious, the woman underneath my floorboards, told me to delete her blog post. She has lost all faith in me. I’m utterly tearful to report such sad news, but I can’t oblige her. Please pray for forgiveness on my part, as I have let her down terribly. But no more. The buck stops here.

Finally a note on Gavin. Gavin is a young boy deep-rooted in my spiritual consciousness. He’s always dossing around me in a football strip, Everton I think. He gives me advice on what trainers to buy. He can be a Samurai warrior or The Incredible Hulk with his shape-shifting powers. He looks after his big sisters when he does that. He’s my little Gav, I love him a lot, I ask him for protection although he is only about 6 years old. I think he is wiser than his years portray. He can be anything he wants to be, but mostly I want him to be a performing keyboarder. He plays the keys with lollipop sticks attached to bubble machines.