Bothered

I’ve been advised to embrace low quality drafting when I haven’t got the foggiest what to say. Is that what you think this is? Low quality drafting? I’m far too good to publish! The editors I send my stories to haven’t got the mental wherewithal  to wrap their brains around the poetic sci-fi endings I perpetuate my stories with. I tend to end with a bombastic open ending which leaves the White Voider (reader) cliffhanging his or her way into imaginings of a sequel. I actually start penning the first half of the sequel in the second half of the ending, bringing in fancy speculations from ideas of a follow-up before I’ve even started a goddam follow-up. Why can’t two stories, a 1^st one and a 2^nd one, co-exist in one ding-dong epilogue?

If I have a funny feeling about the tale, I’ll burn the first chapter and start from the second. First chapters are usually just setting the scene. I remember a right jolly ole preamble of a chapter I wrote about a dying man shopping in Tesco. He was suffering due to over-exposure from harmful wavelengths emitting from a futuristic radiation machine that could project sexual partners made of star dust into your bedroom with you. Sounds bollocks I know and much of it was, but the ending time-travelled into medieval times where I was reacquainted with a woman called Ethel Franklyn who was the daughter of a woman called Petronella.

I knew it sounds sad writing about characters from my own books but they were so enigmatic to me at the time, I was in my pomp with them, writing in the summery evenings outside at a desk in the garden, hunkered over my notepad with a refreshing yogurt drink. Ethel was what you called an ‘Editor’ in a bloodsports arena, she went around terminating the fatally wounded. Once she swiftly dispatched of a warrior who had only sprained his ankle, but the slightest injury can be life-threatening when you have to be in your tiptop prime.

David Haye, heavyweight boxer, blamed his defeat to Klitschko on a broken little toe. Oh mum, (sob sob) I can’t fight the big brawly man, I’ve got a sore pinky toe! I’d have battered him if I hadn’t hurt my toe!

We’ll say anything won’t we to make excuses for a defeat or even to evade the contest at all. I chickened out from a dual at school because the opponent was taller and heavier than me. His name was Colin Fillingham and he didn’t make it through fifth year because he died of a rare heart condition. I glad I didn’t beat him because I’d have felt guilty.

I knew a guy who killed someone with a single punch.

These days I’m roving around practically begging for a fight to let some aggression out. Never mind single punch, I’m in the mood for stamping all over people’s heads. I’m divided between being gentle and engaging and being a large unapproachable ape leaning towards violent conduct.

Between settling for a jovial medium, I’m piling on the pounds eating chippy tits slimmers’ dinners (chips and half rice or chips peas and onion gravy), and guzzling pints of zero percent Heineken draft lager.

But gone, I am pleased to honourably announce again (I’ll never get sick of congratulating myself), are the toxic poisons in my body such as psychoactive stimulants, nicotine and alcohol. For the moment, anyway. Because life is sooo hard, and it has a habit of driving me back to the bottle. Where the pain is only dulled overnight, before resurfacing hyped up with vengeful aplomb.

Thank God I’m not experiencing the comedown of a drug hangover. I’m hanging in with a decent perception of the world and my role in it, despite some very stiff opposition to make me feel rather quite gloomy indeed. Wouldn’t you know it, it’s those pesky Chinese Terrorists and Russian Spies again. With their bloody electronic voices and visual disturbances. I just wish they’d pack them away and go back home.

If you stick high vibration and positive outlook on it, they’ll hang it upside down in the main square and charge revellers to kick it by the minute.

I’m getting booted a lot today. All’s I’m doing is trying to express myself at a computer terminal, but the neg part of the universe, or a part of the neg part of the universe, is constantly pecking away at my headspace.

Why can’t it bear itself? Why does it have to play around with me? I can bear myself. I don’t need anything from anyone. I can hang in an empty room accompanied by nothing but my own thoughts all day. They have to be jumping around in my face being neg every moment of every day.

Please leave me alone. I humbly do ask.