The games we play

Today is a pleasantly cool and cloudy day. I’ve been given to wearing peaked-caps indoors of late, due to the strange brightness of the sun. I’ve lived in this flat for 15 years, but I’ve never had to do this. Has there been a major solar even or something?! I do search the internet for news reports of this, but I cannot find anything.

I’ve begun fasting again, albeit this time keeping myself hydrated. Unfortunately, I’m not doing it to shift a health problem this time, but instead for morbid reasons. You eat food so you don’t die, but I no longer wish to live. It was a very clinical and rational decision, rather than a wildly emotional one. I’m disabled, mentally ill, and diabetic. I live in an awful area that is a living nightmare for people like me, who desperately need solitude. Friends and family are either all dead or no longer speak to me, thanks to my provocative mental illness. My visual impairment is now at the point where I’m too scared to go anywhere outside. A diabetic complication means I am in constant pain. Things around my home keep breaking. I simply can no longer see a future before me.

I’m done.

With any luck, I will mercifully slip into a diabetic coma sooner rather than later. As I write this, I’ve not eaten anything in 60 hours. I can take the pain of hunger, having been anorexic throughout the most of my 20s, so the discomfort is nothing new. Life and my own body hurt me, so I’m hurting them back. Let’s do this. Nothing wants me in this world, so I’m doing the best I can to leave on my own terms. I’m too squeamish to harm myself violently, so this passive-aggressive way is the best I can do.

Sigh, even now somebody in the building is sawing something. They’ve been sawing all day. What the fuck are they sawing and why?! What can a human being find to saw in a one-bedroom flat that takes all day to saw?! It’s maddening and terrifying. And annoying. This madhouse just keeps finding new and bizarre and random ways to shatter the silence. What happened to people just sitting quietly watching television?!

I’ve managed to write, what may very well be, my final erotic short story. I consider it to be my kinky magnum opus. It feels like the longest of the ten I’ve completed (there are a few still festering in writer’s block), and just the most wonderfully filthy thing you’ll ever read. You can find it here. I’m sure your average conservative prude would have to stop me describing it to them 3 seconds in. Ha! There loss.

I believe I will be known after I’m gone for two things:

Being hated by 99% of the human race

Sexually arousing 99% of the human race

So be it.

I’m just watching some MST3K to keep my spirits buoyed the best I can. As with the last time I fasted, I shall endeavour to keep away from my beloved Keith Floyd cooking shows, for obvious reasons. Although he does cheer me up, so it will be very tempting.

If this be the last time, then good luck in this miserable world of hatred.

Fuck and suck each other with pride, as that’s all that really matters.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Current Mood

These days, at my age, I usually only take one selfie a decade.

So, here it is, folks.

Medical staff will be on call to deal with your passionate seizures.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Purpura

I was hospitalised as a 7-year-old for a week with this rare health condition, which has always baffled me. I had not heard of it before, and I have not heard of it since. I’m sure a doctor could provide me with meaningless “word salad” about it, but, using modern information technology, apparently purpura can be caused by extreme malnutrition.

During this affliction, I remember sharing a ward with two lovely older boys, whom I cluelessly had a crush on, and a coldhearted nurse whom a found unpleasant.

Crazy, huh?!

As an adult, I’m a fat cunt. Don’t get me wrong. But I grew up with my two skinny older brothers unfairly bullying me for being a fat cunt. Society rejects me for being a fat cunt. I get it. But I wasn’t a “fat cunt” back when I was a cute little 7-year-old.

If you look at pictures of me back them, I was pretty average.

Really.

7-year-old me wasn’t fat. I wasn’t skinny. But I wasn’t fat. So, what was going on around me, back in 1987, that would have been totally out of my control as a child, that led me to be hospitalised for a week with severe malnutrition?! I lived much like my brothers. I was pushed from door to door like them. I ate the same meals they ate. In fact, I would say that I was much livelier and had more friends than they did.

I was, and still am, a big tart, after all.

I know my military father was sent off to the Falkland Islands for the best part of a year around that time, which created tension between him and my mother, but surely that would not filter down to their most vulnerable child.

Or would it?

Mother certainly became annoyingly protectively after that period, leading me to always believe that a doctor, or somebody from social services, had had a word with her about my declining physical health. And children, throughout history, have always been lucky to live beyond the age of 10.

I consider myself to be a nice person, who wishes never to do harm to others, either physically or mentally, so I find it curiously odd that stuff like this keeps happening to me.

Perhaps I am just awful, and everyone around me is simply suffering my existence.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

War of the Colossal Wheelie Bins

So I finally snapped and stood up to “Crazy Bin Lady”. Basically, I took some recycling downstairs and placed it in, what I could best discern, was the correct wheelie bin. I’m visually impaired, so it’s becoming more and more difficult to work out which is which. I also slightly overfilled it, but that point is really neither here nor there. Within 5 minutes of me returning to my flat, in perfect comedic timing, “Crazy Bin Lady” was out there routing through what I had just discarded. This means she is officially sat in her property, 24 hours a day 7 days a week, monitoring who takes what out to the wheelie bins.

Yikes. There are way more nutritious hobbies out there for a person.

I didn’t confront her in person, as I’m not an aggressive prick, instead simply calling down to her, in a polite but authoritarian voice, for her to stop going through her neighbours’ garbage and that the council will deal with such a thing. Silence. Then she started beavering away again at my flattened beer cans. I called down again, never using strong language or calling her names. More routing. One final polite demand. She stopped and scurried back indoors. I half expected to hear a cat-style hiss as she went, but nothing.

I’ve either gotten through to her, or I’ve just started a petty war with a lunatic who’s main hobby is going through garbage.

It could also be the start to the greatest offbeat rom-com ever: “A man terrified of people going through his garbage. A woman obsessed with going through people’s garbage. Now they’re neighbours!”. The box office receipts speak for themselves.

Good grief.

Regardless, not only is what she’s doing unnecessary, but it’s unhygienic, potentially harmful to her, and an invasion of her neighbours’ privacy. What I throw out is a matter between me and the bin collectors. Sometimes she just goes out there to smooth the garbage out by running her hand over it. Again… yikes! I have recycling piling up in my home due to her, as I know she’s going to scurry out, like a rat, and rummage through it and dump what she doesn’t approve of outside my door.

The latter is illegal and a fire hazard and puts me in an awkward position, as it looks like I’ve dumped it out there.

So, yes, the moral of this story is that, if you live in communal council housing with assigned environmental wardens and find yourself unnecessarily routing through your neighbours’ garbage for absolutely no reason whatsoever, please chat to your doctor. I’m sure there are many, many, many forms of antipsychotic medication they can prescribe you.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Existing in fantasy

The days continue to roll by. The sun remains too bright and the temperature too high for an October, but I’m sure some are enjoying it. Sadly, this means my eyes keep getting hurt by the neon panels that are my curtained-windows, and the noise volume from my scally neighbours is piercing. Only mad dogs and Englishmen, as they say.

And Englishwomen, of course.

I’ve mostly been in an alcoholic daze for the past week, not being able to find a reason to sober up. Once I do, I ask myself: “Uh, so now what?!”. Which I never have an answer to, so I just go back to drinking. Support groups ask too much work from me, which they don’t seem to realise is why I’m contacting them. I’m a low-functioning drunk who can’t deal with life, so please don’t ask me to deal with life. It’s almost like they don’t understand the mind of a boozer.

At least I can open up here, without having to honour an appointment across town.

The recycling continues to pile up around my flat, so I’ll need to find a handyperson to dispose of it for me. The council does seem to be trying out a bulk collection scheme though, so I’ll look into that too. I’m visually impaired with low mobility, so I can’t do much to move crap around. I certainly can’t be seen to be moving crap around. Juggling a white cane whilst hauling garbage is very tricky, even at the best of times.

Through it all though, I mange to write the odd blog article for here and The Whittling Post. I wrote and posted another erotic short story, which you can find here. It’s a heterosexual tale this time, although some may argue it’s actually bisexual. Basically, there’s not enough sex directly involving women for men to enjoy, but it’s possibly too graphic for women to enjoy. I dunno, I haven’t read any other erotica written for women, I just know what men enjoy. My stories are usually quite emotional, after which the reader should be crying out of their eyes, as well as from between their legs.

I never get feedback, so I am unable to tell for sure.

It was nice and cloudy earlier, with a bit of glorious rain, but the sun appears to be fighting back. I’m having to peg-up bin liners to shut it out. Yes, folks, my home looks like the creepy den of a serial killer. Sigh. Dignity. Always dignity!

My cooking adventures have fallen by the wayside, due to my heavy drinking. I exist on prosciutto and olives and cheese. Truly a Mediterranean diet indeed! It’s just a shame I can’t recline in the garden of a French villa to enjoy them. I’m also regularly consuming microwave cheeseburgers, which is pretty tragic. For some reason, even the fanciest fresh patties, made from premium cuts of meat, leave me cold. Crappy ready meal and takeaway ones are just divine. Why is that?! It’s often the simple things in life, I guess.

The estate sounds like a building site today. There’s jackhammers and all sorts beavering away at… something. It’s not the place to live if you value peace and quiet.

No contact from anyone, as usual. I have scared the world off, it seems. I made an appointment for my belated diabetes review, but that isn’t for a month and a half. Again, the waiting room is usually empty when I’m in there, with nurses skipping about the place or idly chatting, seemingly with nothing to do. Where are all the appointments?! Something weird is going on, for sure. Perhaps the surgery is covertly being run just to pay the admin and healthcare staff, rather than to treat patients.

We are no longer the customer. We are the product.

Well, on that paranoid note, I shall let you get along. I haven’t bathed in two days, so I need to go scrub off the filth. Not that I’ve gone anywhere in order to generate sweat and pick up dirt.

I’ve just been existing.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Still alive

I greet you as I await a shopping delivery, which is apparently 3 stop away. It’s a boozy order, as I have little to no interest in being sober at the moment. I’m not feeling self-destructive, per se, I’m just, erm, not not feeling self-destructive. If that makes any sense.

I’m not inclined to look after myself, basically.

Saying that, I did fight a hangover in order to write one of my erotic short stories in the middle of the night. I’m quite proud of it, which you can find here. It took me about 5 hours to get done, including proof reading it. I do tend to lose track of time when I’m horny and creative!

My fasting didn’t get rid of my mysterious ailment, so I’m gonna go ahead and assume going back on my diabetes medication will sort it out. I just need to get my arse into gear and go see the nurse for my check-up.

1 stop away. I best put on some pants.

Autumn is trying to take hold, but the sun keeps fighting back. Bah! I can’t wait until it properly sets in. Still, the street has gotten a lot quieter, although the much-hated local off-road biker is still doing his noisy rounds. I assume it’s a “he”, as women are usually more conscientious than that.

I don’t have much else to report. There’s not been much contact from people. I get the odd text from my friend “Lesbo Lisa”, although she’s suddenly gone quiet again. I really should write about her life, as it’s clearly far more interesting than mine.

Right, I best go stand ready at the door. I think I can hear the delivery person unpacking their van.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

Snap

Well, after 2 days 20 hours of fasting, in a misguided attempt to starve a suspected bacterial infection, I’ve finally snapped and started feeding and watering myself again. The weather didn’t help, with the summer coming back for one last day of torment a day before the official start of autumn.

Sweet, cold, beautiful autumn!

I believe I was made for a colder climate. Quite literally, actually, as I’m genuinely thick-skinned. Not emotionally, of course. My dad tends to overheat easily too, so perhaps it has something to do with my Canadian heritage. If I wasn’t so visually impaired, and if I was more practical and confident, I think I would have made a good farmer. I’m a real morning person too, so that would have been an advantage. Plus I don’t get along with people very well, so a life of isolation amongst cattle would suit me perfectly.

Maybe in the next life, huh?

I’m actually planning a short story about a lonely young farmer who finds platonic companionship in the form of a wayward boy from the nearby town. I feel as though I should at least read one book on farming for research though, but the below RiffTrax video is a light-hearted start. I still need to crack on with researching botany for one of my serialised stories, but that one’s stalled at the moment.

Inspiration is just lacking.

I keep amending tomorrow’s supermarket delivery. Sometimes it’s mostly food. Sometimes it’s mostly booze. It depends on what mood I’m in, which tends to bounce around thanks to my cyclothymia. It’s currently mostly booze, since the food-heavy version was meant to coincide with ending my fasting period. I’ve already done that now, so fuck it. Booze it is! I’ve frigging earned it.

My new neighbour was drilling into our adjoining wall earlier, which freaked me out. I hope he’s not putting up speakers to turn his flat into a nightclub. That would be just my luck! He’s probably just putting up pictures or shelving though. Or chains to turn his bedroom into a sex dungeon. Nothing would surprise me around here! He’s still kicking in the building’s main door downstairs, so maybe I’ll slip my spare entry fob through his letterbox. I just can’t see how that won’t come across as passive-aggressive though, like “Crazy Bin Lady” creepily returning stuff I throw out.

Golly, it’s weird having caffeine in my system again after nearly 3 days! I do not function well without it.

Righty-ho, I best go figure out how to make food again. I’ve got a Chinese takeaway curry defrosting on the counter, so I’ve got that to look forward to. I’ll probably serve it with some brown rice, which goes well with Chinese entrees.

Do stay in touch, city folk.

Toodles!