While you were out

I got a new job.

I haven't started it yet, and I don't think I will be until at least January, but snakes alive I'm coming back to the south west, and that is just dandy as all get out.

Aside from that, I've not been up to much to be honest. Walking, mainly, which sounds incredibly boring, but it isn't; it can be pretty interesting. I enjoy listening to music a great deal, and I listen to it all the time; however if I'm doing something else with music on, I don't really hear it go in, a comforting buzz in the background. But when out walking you can let what you're listening to wash out all the thoughts from your brain and let it fill your world, and it's bloody incredible as you eat up the miles.

My back is ruined, in other news. The futon that has so kindly been donated to me to sleep has decided to revolt, pushing an offensive on the strongholds nestled between my vertebrae, bathing them in fire. I tried to appease the attackers though diplomacy and the exchange of free ideas, but my shouts and yelps for mercy fall onto deaf ears. It neither frowns nor smiles at my cries, and that is worse. It's efforts to turn my spine into something resembling a pile of tiny, wafer-thin china plates are not borne of anger or spite, but complete and frigid indifference. I sit on it now, the gravel-filled green fabric sits on the blue carpet like a haunted island. Taking a cursory glance around the room, my bloodshot eyes falling on an empty Kopparberg bottle, across the monitor to the fridge, upon it several bottles of cod liver oil capsules and vitamins and a Ryvita packet, to the huge and terrifying unused television (reminding so much of the Albatross, the cursed television that my erstwhile flatmate owned; weighing several tons, it's obsidian heart bent on our slow demise, it skulked in the corner of the room for a year, reading our thoughts.), which has a thick black and white blanket on it, which seems to be used as a cover for the futon. Almost as if it's been there all this time and I hadn't noticed. All the time just sat there whilst I fidgeted in agony. The blanket, there all the time, me only just noticing as I type this.

All the time.

Oh, God dammit.

Bitter are the fluids of one P. D. Greenaway

Lord have mercy on this weary soul, for I have had a rough week. That's right, sympathy should be laid directly at my feet and scores of red roses showered upon me, because I've been feeling a little blue and self-pitying whilst living in what is one of the richest and most provident countries in the totality of history.

Cherish my face; cherish it, and cradle my fertile pain.

I'd like to bring up something that has affected me a great deal these past few years, because it's only really become relevant again recently, and that is Depression. I've had it, I believe it's more or less resolved now, however I still find myself slipping into bad habits. To combat these bad habits, such as moping, weeping, and tearfully clutching a picture of a sad clown in a run-down former victorian linen mill wearing a leather trenchcoat, the nice doctor I spoke to gave me something called Citalopram to take.

Only a little dose, once per day, nothing to worry about. I declined them the first time, and that was probably my biggest mistake; I was, and still am, a fervent believer in the fact that I should not have to rely (that looks like it's spelt wrong, but it isn't.) on medication to be happy. This said, I have always found the idea of conciousness having a chemical componant facinating, and after the second trip to the doctors, thought it would be an idea to give it a shot and make a note of how I was feeling as I took them (thought I must admit, the choice of taking them was not mine at all; doctors can be very direct if you resist for too long). One of the main symptoms of my burgeoning psychosis was that of extremely vivid nightmares about nothing in particular, followed by long periods of sleeplessness, which in turn made me ineffective (well, less effective) at work, which caused worry, which caused nightmares, which caused and on and on and on.

I have the notes here with me, and I found reading through them very interesting. Take a look; I've abridged it slightly, but you get the idea.

Day 1: Taken at night. I didn't want the effects of the drug to be in full swing whilst I am at work. I felt no different from normal, which was pretty rough. The nightmares still happen.


Day 4: I have had a brain-splitting headache for 2 days now. The world seems slightly out of focus; like if the lense of the camera hasn't been screwed on properly, and walking seems to make my eyeballs shake. Very annoying. Dreams are not so much bad now but weird: I remember being laughed at by a fireman for not having my radio with me. A lady in a dress walked by and I thought I knew her, but when I turned to look there was just a flock of seagulls. Everything was also on fire. Very vivid. 


Day 12: I have not pooped in 12 days. I am in no discomfort at all, but regardless, it's worrys me. Shouldn't I be rolling about in agony? Will buy something to help. The headache is still there. Dreams are vivid at the time, but I do not remember them. I just remember bright colours and the sense of movement.

Day 20: I will now take a quick inventory of what I am taking daily:
1 Citalopram - The Mother of the Beast
8 Paracetemol (2 every 4 hours) - Headaches
1-2 Senokot tablets - Constipation
2 Herbal Nytol - Sleeplessness caused by random bursts of energy: Didn't work, because herbal sleeping pills are snake-oil peddled by greasy carteers.
2 Zopiclone: Knockout pills - These things have not so much as brushed past a natural ingredient. 
1 Multivitimin: dietry supplement as all I am eating are Tesco's own Onion Rings and whatever bumper-sized chocolate is on offer.

It goes on. After about 2 months of taking them I began to feel better. I slept more, I could wake up when I did sleep and everything became a lot easier. I spoke to several kind people holding clip boards whilst I sat on a comfortable chair and I felt great. After just under a year of taking Citalopram I felt I was ready to come off them; after the cravings, mood swings, headaches, periods of mind bending confusion and forgetfulness, I felt awesome.

I bring this all up now because I have been off Citalopram for four months. What concerns me now is that I appear to be suffering from bouts of irritibility, sleeplessness and all of the above. It could just be a result from a bad week but I also feel that this lack of control has been it's cause. I don't want to admit that perhaps I really do need a little white pill to feel normal, but maybe. I will have to see how the next week turns out.

No luke-warm humour and trite, blinkered observations tonight I'm afraid, my heart is laid bare.

G'night.

I live in a box.

I have returned to the house today and worryingly, nothing has attacked me. I shall bolt my door in case they are saving up for a night ambush in which I will be left dangling, skinless ala Predator from the porch.

I have opened the box to type into, and yet I type something and end up deleting it, which is becoming quite annoying; throughout my entire life I have been fairly good at talking utter trash but when it comes to writing it down it seems to fall apart. Perhaps this is a part of my mind that simply doesn't want any evidence of how my brain works to appear outside of my head for anyone to read. In my mind I imagine a 50 year old man sat at his ebony desk, the reflection of the monitor scrolling up across his Pince-nez glasses. A well worked hand grasps his chin as he frowns. He has seen this before. A phone somewhere is picked up by a black-gloved hand, the answerer glances out of shot and nods.
Ten minutes later I lay stripped bare in the street, a heavy boot clamped on my throat and a 9 millimeter pistol pressed to my forehead.
The camera flicks between us.
The balaclava'd eyes.
A bead of sweat dripping down my temple.
The pistol pointing at my terrified face.
The eyes.
My eyes.
The pistol.
The sweat.
The man closes his eyes and looks away.
Cut to a tree, all the birds therein exploding from it in fright.

A funeral. Noone is there. Heavy rain falls onto the lid of a coffin, an empty can of strongbow resting on it. A clod of earth is thrown down. The camera pans up and meets some pince-nex glasses looking down.
He smiles.

Or does he?

Furries and Nytol.

I have taken two Nytol. It says it takes effect in twenty minutes, so we'll see how coherant I get toward the end.

I've been pretty busy these past few days, driving to two corners of the country to see certain people and filling my time at work with patrolling to the furthest-flung storm blasted wastelands that Surrey can offer.

Hang on a second, I need to brush my teeth, back in a sec.

There we are, much better. You know that furry feeling you get sometimes? I had that, rough as all hell. Anyway. On the way to the downstairs bathroom, which is seven feet door to door, the following things happened:

• I was accosted by a small patterdale terrier called Hollie, who only wants me for the beef jerky I keep in my room
• I fell over a Tortoise called Harry, who wasn't after jerky but was causing tailbacks as far as the front door
• Mr. Whiskers, thankfully, was not around, otherwise I don't know what would have happened

This is more or less business as usual for this house, any normal, mundane activity is 'enhanced' by a small animal diving under your legs in a desperate bid to make you paraplegic.

It's been twenty five minutes and the Nytol has seemed to have brought up strange memories and thoughts about Furries. Now, to those people who don't know about them (for example, normal people) I will explain: A person whom the idea of an anthropomorphic animal, be it wolf, fox, cheetah, panda, fish, dragon, earthworm, whatever, is part of an alter-ego or 'true form' that they identify themselves with, like the native america spirit animal idea, except that it wears jeans and sandals, and is more likely than not called Stormreach, Lunarknight, or Lighteninghorsefoxbestfighter. Those guys seem harmless enough, but worry begins to take route when combined with outlandish fetishes, expansion/inflation, vore and nappies. Or some, or all.

I guess it's like ice cream and pizza: on their own, you can see why some people enjoy the stranger flavours more than others, but combine them and you've made a huge revolting mess and you're getting shocked looks from the people seated acoss from you at the restaurant.

I think I've brought this up (It has become quite difficult to type; so bear with me) because every time I browse DeviantArt I find at least two pictures of either A: A wolf/fox/cheetah with a japanese hair style and massive jugs or B: A dragon/lizard/pokemon with a japanese haircut with massive jugs shows up, bits dangling everywhere and generally raising questions on ethics, deviancy and the future of genetic technology. I'm onto you genome scientists, you rascally devils. Could we one day have a winged hermaphrodite tundra wolf with blue hair? Who are we to play God?

I wish this was exaggerating, but a small part of me wonder why I look at DeviantArt; is it for the art..

Or is it for the cow girl with a staff?.
Shine on, you crazy diamonds, if it wasn't for these pioneers, we would surely not have experienced the Cadbury Bunny. You know the one I mean.

It seems that Nytol has destroyed my brain.I am off to bed before I type even more strange things, such as the practicality of making phone cases from walnut, you know, like what they have on the dashboards in old Jaguars. That would be as classy as heck.

School and Sleep: Hell's Reach

Hello blog, I am tired.

So damn tired. But it's okay; I've been tired before, and as tradition dictates, I will be again some day. The adjustment from going from my king-size divan in a room the size of a tennis court to a double futon in a home, that albeit lovely, is pretty tough. Having worked late shifts these past couple of days only to be woken up at 6am by the drum-kit-being-thrown-down-stairs routine of those guys getting ready for school, arguing with each other and generally rolling marble-filled barrels around outside my room door has had me weeping salty, salty tears of desperation.
This, you might say, is self-inflicted; to that I reply: screw off, chump, I can complain if I want to. I think what has been strangest of all is that when all this goes on around me, to my half sleeping mind I am once again in year 7, being harassed by my mother (who shouted) or my father (who just threw water over me) to get out of bed. It's been more than once the icy cold hand of dread gripped my heart at the thought of forgotten homework, that God-forsaken she-devil Spanish teacher Mrs. Lopez, and the crazy yo-yo-ing of my adolescent hormones and lusting after my school crush Kate, poor girl. Thankfully for me, pepper spray wasn't so easily sourced back then and my sight and general face area remains unaffected.

They say it's the best years of your life, and people are actually foolish enough to believe this flagrant lie. You exist in a state of constant fear of social reprisal, punishment and embarrassment with no legal access to alcohol, sex, nice restaurants, violent movies with real naked boobies in them, and cars that go really fast and make 'squeeee' noises on corners. So no. Just no. Never again.

The Morning After.

I have just moved house.

I am now in a room in a family home, living as the resident gremlin under the stairs; with a fridge next my PC. It was mildly depressing to think the sum total of every single thing I own managed to fit into one Toyota Aygo with room for the driver, however that doesn't count the divan bed I spent two hours angrily demolishing in front of the house before taking it's splintered and be-nailed corpse to the tip.

Everything was set up and the internet working (???) within two hours of my arrival, and today I plan on doing a little exploring for local supermarkets, as I am informed that I cannot live off Bulmers alone, and to find a local swimming pool. My rock and roll lifestyle just doesn't let up here, I'm not sure how I can survive with all this excitement in one day.

I'd like to have a shower at some point, but I don't actually know where the bathroom is in this house; I mean, I could just wander upstairs and start opening doors but for some reason a live-in stranger breaking into children's bedrooms in nothing but a towel won't look good, whatever way you swing it. In fact, 'whatever way you swing it' doesn't sound good either. In fact, I'm just going to stop typing in case I end up on some kind of register for the rest of my life.


Right, off I jolly well go.

Oh, my bum.

These past few posts have been written, nay, forged, from atop my scabby old desk and faux-leather office chair, a strongbow in one hand, another strongbow in the other; but no more. Luxury without doubt, you would think. I type this now from the floor of our former IT suite and recording studio, my monitor balanced precariously on top of the PC case, my aforementioned bum placed roughly on the short-pile and suspiciously brown carpet. It is so damn uncomfortable; why the hell did I sell my chair, destroy my desk and simultaneously sell/destroy my bed two days before I move house?
What the hell was I thinking? For the next two nights I've got to sleep on the floor amid coat hangers, empty bottles of L'Oreal it's-for-men-actually deodorant  sawdust and crumpled beer cans. I could clear this up, but there is pride at stake here people. My poor bum.

I shouldn't really be typing this, however an exploratory feel of the 'valley' as it were, yielded a sensation not unlike touching a dead person.

This, worryingly, reminds me of how this all came to be (not the bum part, thought that does feature prominently . When I lived in the west country, I used to travel on the weekends to the affluent south east to drink and be merry with my now-flatmate and his former flatmate. This erstwhile flatmate was facinating: if you imagine a white, bespectacled Dutch Shaq who owned a computer mouse that changed colour, you're nearly there. We would sit, myself in a position much like I am sat now, and play World of Warcraft until the wee hours, getting progressively more sozzled and generally yucking it up. When we awoke, bleary eyed at our desks (or in my case, the crimson carpet), tradition dictated we would attend the nearest off license for more booze, and about a hundred cans of cola to quell the shakes, which would prepare us for the trip to the nearest McDonalds for sustenance. Myself and my now-flatmate would clamber into my awesome but incredibly dangerous 1994 burgundy VW Golf and weave dreamily through mid-morning traffic to our destination; pick up said food, somehow manage to survive long enough back to the flat, and do the whole thing all over again.

Magic.

Sadly, come Sunday afternoon/early evening, my back and crack would be so sore I would have to walk like a hungover Tin-man for the next three days. "Never again" my brain would say in a scholarly tone, then the tiny, horrible part of my brain that wears a hoody with matching jogging trousers, busy scrawling crude penises on the skull walls, gives it the finger when Friday rolls around. You would think that my body would attempt to adapt, perhaps adding an extra six inches of flab to my already laden wag'n I'm drag'n, but no; I am forced to feel like my pelvis is slashing machete-like through my central mass.

Here's to you, bed; I hardly knew ye, and now someone else is sleeping on 3 years' worth of me farting like a navvy in my deep REM cycles.

One of these days, I am going to look at what I've written when I'm sober.

And then I'll throw myself of a motorway bridge.