It's Alright Mate

¹⁷²⁶409(.6)___₠₨₰₾⅍₭₪₪ﱟﯬ

{9fear.of.losing.so(me)one-

986.6522{44537826 (🎲)

Howdy Piebald Club, the weather is great here! Feeling a lot more energetic, considering my recent tiredness getting about from place to place. Just had an excellent session in the Green Room after today’s apology session. Lots of tea and coffee and free crisps. I love bonding with the other clients, even if they have been responsible for hurting me in the past. Because my mind is open access, a lot of the two-faced people in my public circle haunt my dreams and play head games in my sleep. I believe they use neuro weaponry, which is a real thing of the world, but they insist that what they are doing is perfectly natural. Regulating emotions, cognitions, and physical function, perfectly natural? And that is putting it lightly. I constantly feel drained, confused, baffled, belittled, undermined, haunted, and victimised. This is despite being stalked, tracked, and harassed for a living, throughout every hour of every day for years on end. They all pretend to be psychics on the A-ttack. I regularly meet with some of my persecutors under the Pathways roof, which just goes to show that there’s more than hate in space. I refuse to be undone by that biological poison, hatred, and I forgive those who are running amok with my brain and my soul. What am I supposed to do, stab them up? And tell them they’re been using science-fiction ray beam guns on my head thru the wall at night? Do you think the judge would go easy on me, if I said that?

That’s why I chat with them in the daytime, after they pulverise my psyche at night. Because none of it is barely believable by anyone, least of all myself. And of course I have no proof. Directed-energy mind-control is traceless. I’m surprised I’m not hearing your voice in my head! It seems that everyone I meet soon channels their vocals into my skull shortly following our first meet. This is standard procedure. There are voices and personalities lingering around my mind which are older than some of my most sentimental bobbled socks, and my most sentimental bobbly socks are accruing quite a fair old age between them if I’m honest.

I’m a lot more stringent with socks than I used to be. I find great pleasure in purchasing new ones, and love a change of undies in case I get hit by a bus. What must the mortician think if someone is lying on their slab with ratty underwear on? Not anything too impressive, that’s for sure. We still continue to get judged after death, don’t we? Even by the quality of our tomb and gravesite.

My younger brother had a cool headstone, it had a photograph of him on it. The vast majority of the other ones in the cemetery don’t. I’d like my author photograph on my head stone, one day. Fat chance of that though. I can’t afford to pay my bin men council tax; how am I going to afford a frilly headstone?

Plus, I repeatedly get threatened with being dragged to Hell on a daily basis anyway, underneath my own floorboards, in a makeshift pain laboratory with life extension capabilities, so I won’t be needing a plush burial site! Hoping I avoid that drama and scoot up to Heaven before the Chinese terrorists and Russian spies revive me for extra-judicial punishment in the afterlife. Sounds like a bowl of cherries, doesn’t it. Heaven, if you’re there, beam me up! And pronto.