Sports Bar

Hi again. I didn’t make church for the third time straight this morning, but it wasn’t because I was with Laura Dark. I’ve just walked past her shop then, but I wasn’t tempted to go in and rebuy her. I’ve seen enough of her getting spread-eagled on the bed by a buff dude, and reversing her rear onto his baby-maker on an A-B loop. The strange thing about porn is, that I’m developing love for the blokes as well. Now that is some scary-assed homosexual nonsense. It’s almost impossible to look at one without the other (man and woman, that is).

I did a new thing with my girl Antonia yesterday afternoon. We went to a new sports bar in town. I felt really awkward, and she knew it. I didn’t want to explore it, but rather just hang out at the bar. It was up two sets of stairs. What am I letting myself in for? I asked myself on the way up. Eventually we made it over towards the pool table and starting relaxing a little. The bar soon emptied. I often think that about myself, you know: That, no matter where I go, the crowds there soon dissipate. It’s like I’m a walking vacuum, dispersing the masses in my wake. It makes me slightly paranoid. People tend to get out of my way. It could be my colour in a predominantly white town.

After the sports bar I walked home and bought two cans of super-strength lager on the way, as I usually do. Then I went to bed early, as I usually do, and woke early, as I also usually do – when I’m not spaced out overnight on a diet of amphetamine and porn. It’s weird when I stay up for one or two nights without sleep. Reality becomes gossamer thin. Semi-transparent invisible people start appearing in my flat. They walk through walls and take refuge in cupboards. Creepy crawlies appear under the bed and sofas. I see them scuttle right around me like cavemen around a dinosaur. But they are so big, some of them! Really chunky and fat, like.

Did I tell you that I brought my boy Simon back to assist me checking under the bed and sofas? I’ve been relaxed in my confines since then, mind put at ease. I checked, with him present, and there was nothing there, when for so many days I had been certain that there was. Simon is in prison now because he broke a restraining order with Antonia in the pub. I was there at the time, drinking along with each of them merrily. The bartender got whiff of what was happening and rang the police just as I left. They came and nicked him. He’s a good friend, but Antonia told me that he exposed himself to children. Would you still be a friend to a guy who done that? I don’t know the whole story, so I’m reserving judgement. I also know another woman who has had one of my friends put behind bars, this time for domestic abuse. How can you do that, I think, to my friend, no matter what he’s done?

 

Why Am I Here?

Back again folks. I’ve been thinking about why I’m doing this. It originates from the show Californication (2007). It starred David Duchovny as Hank Moody, who played a blogger. I just liked the idea of a failed writer who had nothing else left to say speaking to the internet, in a public library, of all places. What does he write about? What comes out of his mind? What is there to say, about anything, that already hasn’t been said?

I’m getting bored of talking about recovery, addiction, and psychosis. I’m getting bored of everything. Nothing excites me anymore; I’m a failing mess. All I want to do is enjoy hedonism, via the usual empty ways. That means drugs and porn. I’m ever so bored of drugs and porn though.

Ever so bored, but still attracted to it. I suppose I always will be. I pray that the desire is removed from me. That’s one of my most popular prayers. I hate the way I am and I hate the things I do. My nature disturbs me. I hope I can change before it’s too late. As my boy Chico just said in a group: “I want to die sober.”

I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know why you’re reading this, or where you found it, or whatever, but I want to tell you that being me isn’t easy. It’s very difficult. I get beat up every time I turn around. There are dudes out there who want the very worst for me. They brought me into an awareness of gangstalking and remote neural monitoring and other devious goings on. But I prevail over it all, somehow, with the Most High Godly Creator of All Things. It’s tough to keep going, and it’s tough to keep hanging tough.

If I can keep going with an idea of beauty, beyond the physical form, then I’ll be happy with that. A polish girl on a nature retreat several years ago told me to never let go of the good stuff. Hold fast to which is good, the Bible says. I don’t mean to be corny or sentimental, like Ricky Gervais, who always ramps that teary stuff up in his shows, I’m just saying. No offence against him, I love it when the telly makes me cry. So far, I’ve never had the written word make me cry. Apart from the Bible.

I opened it one time and started crying straightaway. My tears made the words blend and bleed into each other. Underneath the smeary ink I could make out children’s images. They belonged to some of the first pictures my nephew ever drew for his mum. Strange, huh? I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t know why I’m here.

The devil tells me I’m here to suffer, and nothing more. Would you believe a dark spirit, if nothing they ever told you didn’t align with that? Nah, I don’t either. I believe I’m destined for something that has nothing to do with suffering. Something, or someplace, placid and peaceful. That’s where I’m headed too. Plus you, hopefully x

 

Death Rattle

Orite mate. Let’s get this over with. I used on Sunday morning. It was a random hook up. My speed dealer is in prison, but I found another one. Can you imagine how notoriously difficult it is to locate another phet dealer in a small town? I met him on a park bench when I should have been in church. He gave me the proper stuff like, you know? It was beltin’. I observed black men with white women on the CeLLuloid CoRRidor. Their rhythm was hypnotic, it was totally hedonistic; I was having the time of my life. Yes, it was Laura Dark again. The way she bounces her hips upon those big schlongs! I could watch her, drugged up, for a lifetime. If it wasn’t wrong and perverse that is.

It was getting disturbing, my passion for Laura Dark. I blame her suspenders. Are they called stockings or suspenders? What’s the difference? That’s why I only write women occasionally, because I know nothing about them. The man wasn’t up to much, he wasn’t even rock hard. I’d be rock hard fantastico if I was with Laura Dark. That’s the issue. But I got bored eventually. And Precious (the girl underneath my floorboards), started begging me to stop. So I did. And I threatened to snap Laura Dark the hell up. Her DVD, I mean.

You should have seen Laura Dark’s death rattle. She appeared in my room, I swear, and said I would never ever snap her DVD up. That was when the deal was signed, sealed and delivered. How the frig does Laura Dark know what I’m going or not going to do? So confident and sure and all that when she’s nothing but a cheap slag. I snapped her up, along with several other DVDs which had been hanging around for months on end. And that’s the end of the most recent CeLLuloid CoRRidor. It has been forsaken along with dust, into the ether, into nothing. It’s going to be hard without it, but not as hard as purposely hurting Precious is. I can’t do that anymore. I just can’t.

I am starting to think about Laura Dark already again though. Her long white legs, held up in the air, as a well-endowed black man penetrates her daft! Wow. On the good drugs as well. My endorphins are flying off outside of my brain like a cheaply paid-for firework show. But it’s painful. It’s ever so painful once it’s over. When the psychosis comes in. And my perps take control. They control my motor functions, telling me when to blink and cough. The strangest thing is that I do, when told. This leads me to believe that I have been implanted. Ah well. Whatever Trevor. Try and make me stand on one leg!

One thing I’ve learned during the last bout of psychosis is that my perps take sexual pleasure from harassing me. They think I sound sexy when I’m talking to myself, and that’s why they keep tearing my mind apart by prompting me with voices. The voices are to keep me talking, and my inner voice is so alluring to them that they masturbate over it. Don’t ask me how I’ve figured this out, but I know it to be true. Hello Sexy Guy…