Hello there. I’m posting rather unexpectedly, from the local regional government offices. It’s strange, this town…they call me a dissident, they try to drive me away with a White Lives Matter rally, they insert assassination operatives in my property, they have me stalked, tracked and harassed by psychological torturers, yet at the same time they give me food vouchers and let me use their computers to keep me in touch with my legions of fans (my goal is to be big in Japan). A social worker even dropped by yesterday to see if I needed anything from the British Heart Foundation. The BHF is a local charity warehouse which caters for the under privileged. If you like two seater sofas, blingy bedside cabinets, second-hand mattresses and decorative pillows, then you’ll love their storage space. I accepted a boxful of some cutlery with pink plastic handles from the van driver’s mate, who apologised about having no decent SMART tellies in at the moment. It’s fine, I replied, I don’t watch telly. I stopped when I got lost in Lost, the series.
Remember Lost? The complete series contains 38 discs. I’d have more fun throwing them into a bird box than sticking them into my DVD player. You may not be aware, but I lost a novel I completed when I downsized my property several years ago. Well, I didn’t exactly downsize, I decluttered. An original manuscript named Hitman was ‘lost’. It was a curious old story of mine, as it fell under the genre of crime fiction. I won’t bore the pants off you by head-hopping unconstrained into it, but the ending was rather special, if I do so readily testify to myself. The hitman had a dual identity: He pulled a hit on himself. A suicidal bump, so to speak. I tried to write it well, by using a paperback thesaurus all the way throughout, making the language florid and embellished, how I like to do sometimes, to prove a private point that I cared particularly about this baby.
He was named Mythos. They brought out a lager in B&M stores called Mythos shortly afterward. I often enjoyed supping it while watching the junior soccer games situated in the club adjacent to my mental hospital at that time. I’d sneak out of the hospital to go and watch the kids playing while getting fuelled on a beer named after my fav character. The freedom of observing young’uns in skilful action after a night getting my ears burned by screaming patients was a much welcomed contrast. One moment I was holed up with lunatics taking turns to defecate on each other’s beds, they called it ‘Hiding the Malteasers’, the next I was under the ruffled sky, witness to nutmegs, shin deflections, goalmouth scrambles, and humorous attempted scissor kicks. Grassroots football, with beautiful children, is even more soul-lifting that the Premier League.
If a header goes wrong, and things do tend to go wrong in grassroots, we say that the culprit has a head like a Sherrif’s badge. Or a Starfish. Or a 50p coin. What’s your preference there? I can’t think of anymore.
Any[old ]way, the point I’m eventually getting around to making is that Mythos’ split personality, or fractured ego, had a terrible habit of making his victims watch all of Lost, the boxset. It was his MO of inflicting misery on them, after burdening them with house arrest. Apologies, I thought it sounded funny at the time. He also did some ghastly things like microwave budgies and nail-gun cats to trees. This is part of the reason why I don’t miss this dude. I do miss his beverage though. It was a tasty lager.
That’s me done here with you for now any[old]how. I’ve enjoyed spending a small section of time with you. It takes me away from the BS in my life for an hour or so. I like to get away from things. Here in the glass-walled governmental offices, I’m facing a marketplace, a cinema and a university centre. It really is a hotspot in town. I might come here to chill with you more often. Wish me luck through the long evening until we regroup tomorrow, gracious God willing.
Okay, that’s it. Good Bye for now. Keep fighting, hang in there, make me proud.
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