Uneventful

WARNING: The following blog contains pointless information. Please be advised about lack of stimuli while reading. Google recommends Toxic Junction for shits and giggles. Any resemblances to living people are strictly coincidental. That's if the author knows any living people, as he is a recluse who sees less sunlight than a potholer. Coping mechanisms have been tried and tested, but when faced with the challenge of a fully grown mountain lion in your neighbourhood, you are advised to seek technical assistance. Armed guard if necessary. If you are suicidal and here for desperate measures (like most readers), admin recommends you drown your sorrows in a bottle of rum with an affordable escort to get you over the thick of it. If you still feel lousy in the morning leave a comment in the relevant section and one of the team will cheerily respond to the particulars of your ailment. The ideas in this weblog arise from daydreaming in front of the local brook smoking hash. Please speak to an experienced fisherman who can lead you thru the process of understanding exactly what is entailed in the act of doing classic f**k all, and thriving from it. The whole of this site is now available in print. Please request from Emerging Futures. There is large print and braille available upon demand, not to mention illustrated hardbacks and audiobook. Negotiations permitted. This site was written for soul mates, the oppressed, deep thinkers, goth chicks, and mulattoes.

Things are getting dire around here now. There are no life events going on in the existence of Yours Truly. I’m plodding from one uneventful day to the next. Today I’ve been out and about functioning in public, but with no real chance to speak openly and meaningfully in SMART class, or what I call apology. The facilitator does all of the talking, we don’t get a sniff in. It should be the other way round.

Last night my skeletons were creeping up for a private sneaky-peep showing. It’s been quiet in my head for a week. I silenced them by thinking creatively. I think about what I’m going to write during my next blog spot outing. It’ll be big, I tell myself. It’ll be mental. Except when I get here at the station crap like this comes out.

My pretend Agent Clint gave me an idea earlier, to raise me up from the stagnancy. He told me to write about someone who has the whole world in his hands but it isn’t enough. I thought of power and eternity and corruption and where that leads to. In my head, Royals sacrificing children. I’m not dwelling on that for a living. My neighbour sacrifices children, for God’s sake. Or that’s at least what it sounds like at daft o’clock in the morn. Then he has the cheek to bang on the wall over my music and shout thru the plasterboard.

I post mental health leaflets thru his letterbox, but what I really feel like doing is storming in there with a weapon and wasting everyone in sight. There’ll be blood on the windows and walls. Enough about them already though. I have bigger issues going on. Like how to remain creative. When the anxiety transforms into panic attacks, focusing on inventive endeavours is all I have to sustain me thru it.

I’m drawing a bit at home. I wish I could sketch dragons perched on castles and water skis rolling in white water rapids but I’m limited to abstract doodles which depict only a neurotic mind. Although they appear as a whole load of nothing to the casual eye, I must admit that I do enjoy the way I perceive them, once having been rendered. I see all manner of possibilities within their inky detail. I can’t do 3-D or perspective. Yet I still enjoy the process of being a basic scribbler. I like my pens and my colours, they’re simple pleasures. One day I might try something brave, like a robot.