Wow, everything means something. Under 20 rugby on Maori TV right now. Classic, one of our big ass NZ forwards just snapped this huge English forward in half. What a tackle. Smashed. The Maori TV commentator says enthusiastically “Hey English fella, pass it a bit earlier next time son. Hahahaha” You’re only allowed to tackle the person with the ball.
Save your ass, and work out when to pass on the drugs too. See what I mean?
The brain in me is, more than likely, making synapse connections between A and F bypassing B, C, D and E along the way.
Hahahahah. I am me, I am fucked and I love it. Pity it presents as being retarded to the rest of the world.
(Soundtrack is “Bullet” by Flesh D-Vice 1983 or some crap)
Decided I wouldn’t take any sleepers last night. Gave up on that plan about 2am. Woke at 8am feeling like a stoned McMuffin. Yuk. Tried rolling over as back was sore. Just lay there hardly breathing for a ten minute spell instead. Rolled off side of bed, into trousers and remembered to take a pill for the stomach ulcer I have managed to create over the last month or two… So, now half an hour has past I guess I am allowed to eat. Yay. I used to love eating.
Eating can be a gauge of mental health or drug addiction. No food, no hunger, food seems pointless ==== You’re completely fucked, do not pass go, do not collect $200.
My dexterity is returning. I can write a little with a pen again. I did a couple of crazy little lines on my mountain bike in the dark rain last night. Powered up a hill faster than I think anyone has powered up that hill. My legs aren’t out of shape that much, but they had energy. God knows where it came from, it was like ten years worth of energy burnt out in the few seconds it took to sprint up Stoke St. Then Hall Ave. Fuck me, I reckon I was catching cars going up those damn streets. Probably not, but something was going on. A bunch of young homies stopped and just kind of paused and watched. Fuck knows what they thought. They probably thought the pigs were around and melted off into a doorway….
This is going to be good.
I made rules – Keep mind open, say “no” to nothing without researching or taking proper advice.
Like I said, I never engaged with prison or probation counselling or psych people. I just said what they needed for their forms, they let me go, everyone is happy. Another happy outcome for a recidivist offender. Wow – he hasn’t re-offended for eight months. Pat on back to everyone.
So hey, what they fuck. Bring on the psych people.
As long as I don’t need to use the official information act to find out what they think of me afterwards. As long as they don’t show me a picture of an emotion… “What emotion is this Fiend?” I don’t know, but it looks awfully similar to the face people make just between the point where the blood goes in the syringe and the syringe goes into the blood…..
I am a lucky person. Sometimes I’d prefer not to be.