When Stuck Home Twenty Four Seven

When stuck home twenty four seven you get sore, fat, depressed and a bunch of other really unhealthy sounding things. Things the powers that be probably neglect to take into account when judging you. They expect you to enter this limbo state and appear to the world that you are happy, stable in doing something with your life. What’s the point? You aren’t. You may as well just be getting really fucked up. No one is around to care. Makes no difference to anyone how you spend a few months on your own.

Surely.

textWas a little surprised when my tattooist mate contacted me earlier today. Have signed up to NETFLIX and was up until 3am watching latest series of MAD MEN and a new discovery, HOUSOS, which is bloody funny if you happen to be from New Zealand and spent a little time in Australia. Which, funnily enough, quite a few people in the near vicinity have. We were cracking up.

As it happens, getting the bottom of your foot tattoo’d is a bloody sore thing…. Who would’ve thought?

Making the world a better place, one step at a time.

fixing_back_5July2015Am feeling reasonably good right at this moment. Having started to see growth around the stomach region am considering

They didn’t warn me about that when signing the papers for Electronic Monitored Bail. Any idiot in the world would realise being trapped at home for months on end will lead to comfort eating and many many many extra hours in bed watching complete TV series or films.

Really am in a limbo.

A serious one at that.

Waiting until SEPTEMBER for next meaningful court appearance which may result in freedom from ankle ball and chain.

And that is it.

Waiting. In limbo. For god knows what.

Since Thursday I have been looking forward to tomorrow excitedly. For tomorrow is a big day… Am out the door at 10:45 to attend a Probation Service meeting at 11am.

They wanted to come here. NO FUCKEN WAY!

Jeeeeeeeezus. You are not going to come here and prevent me from having a fifteen minute walk outside the confines of this cell.

REALLY!

Just give me a little break. Just an incy wincy one.

Am sure that giving a little bit of happiness and a little chance of helping me to help myself is not that far removed from a positive thing.

How the hell the CORRECTION DEPARTMENT claim to be “reducing re-offending” with this sort of attitude is beyond any logical argument.

Love to you all.

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Why on earth is life like this?

Life is not of this earth. Scientology has a point, if they are a couple of Boeing 727’s and an H Bomb short of a real off world picnic.

The real people whom are not of this planet are politicians denying people a quality of life.

People like Clarissa Broderick and the CCDHB Addict Disservices whom seem to make things worse for those at the bottom. I have had time to think recently. Twenty hours a day locked in a 2.5 x 4m concrete box does that to a guy with half a brain.

All the annoyance, all the unjust treatments. All the people whom have died with needless pain. Some have been my friends. Some have not.

I wish #LecretiaSeales had been. I wish we could all be as capable in putting forward our little beefs and ideas for our planet spaceship. It is all about evolution. To be a true Darwin follower you need a decent revolution.

Lecretia Seales, 1973-2015

http://lecretia.org/the-kindness-of-strangers/

I am saddened doubly to say I am stuck at home on 24/7 G.P.S monitored ankle bracelet and cannot attend funeral today. I would have been at the back. I would have done nothing. I would have known no one.

I just really want to show my respect.

I respect her greatly. 

Being outspoken and attempting to change old (ancient) attitudes towards the rights of the individual to have a say in their own quality of life is a noble thing.

So, for today, this is the only post I make. Even though there is so much to share after having just been released from jail to live at home 24/7 with a G.P.S ankle bracelet. 

For today is Lecretia’s day.

Even if the law makers and judges don’t give a fuck, I wanted to show that I do.

Gap or no gap.

Lecretia would have seen this ferry (in the video) everyday by looking out from Island Bay too. I grew up here. We are almost exactly the same age. The background photo of this silly graphic was shot by me roughly seven years ago when my kid was taken away from me and I went to jail. Life is a happiness deficit full of co-incidence.

http://www.ves.org.nz

Football makes me proud. And broke.

givealittle_football_addict

Did not pay rent for a week or two in my Housing NZ 1940’s concrete box so my kid could pay her fee’s to play football this season.

Had a hell of a bad day with the stupid psych’ person from Sweden….

More on that another time. Needless to say our appontment was for 10am and she didn’t even come out her office until 10.40. At 11.40 she was busily trying to push me out her office and said “Although you display virtually all the characteristics of ADHD, I cannot give you an ADHD diagnosis as you will not let me talk to anyone from your childhood.” ..

But, I had said “there is no one I can think of for you to talk to.” My adopted Mum is 80 and has had her only child die and lives in a world of a little bubble. Anything upsetting or in conflict with her “perfect” memories of me as a perfect kid are not worth exploring with her. She is 80. She grows roses. She is… Well… Just leave her be for fucksake!

After a hell of a day there, I went got some crap tattoo’s on my back worked on a little. It was COLD and SORE. Really sore. Like… OUCH. Damn it. Wanted more done, but (secretly) was kind of happy when Sarge said “enough“.

chick_1

So, after all of that I meet the guy who runs the football clubs junior section.

He is a C.E.O of something reasonably important to Wellington and New Zealand. He is taller than me, fitter than me and fits into society more than me. Despite all this, whenever we see each other we manage to have a very good chat. About subjects which are contained in this blog, and others, such as perceived pedestrian safety on the new Arras bridge and War Memorial precinct. He has been part of this process to a small extent and explained his thoughts that the road would bring the odd vehicle through which would help prevent the place becoming a bad spot for young university chicky babes wondering home drunk every night. A quick discussion on safety, peoples underlying grouping issues… I have researched these sort of things. Even produced a product to help with this sorts of things. They have missed a few options that should have been included in this precinct. I would really try to help with this.

But no one will listen and I am unemployable. 

Therefore….

With all forms of self respect thrown into the nearest CCDHB Consultants asshole…

http://givealittle.co.nz/cause/jetscoachneedsboots#

AND HERE IS SOME OTHER NEW FOOTBALL STUFF.

Thanks to RUSSELL BRAND for sharing this…

F.C. UNITED OF MANCHESTER

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/football/teams/manchester-united/11540185/How-FC-United-rose-to-the-brink-of-the-big-time.html

PCL-R PSYCHOPATH TEST. This post proves I am totally insane and should qualify for all sorts of state funding.

I was looking at this sites statistics, and ten people looked at fifty pages in one hour. That does my head in. Would I be labelled totally paranoid if I thought nine of those people looked at two pages and the other one person viewed 48, downloaded all of them and is contemplating some sort of court case?

Anyway, one of the pages clicked on and downloaded was the above test –

http://arkancide.com/psychopathy.htm

Since I was using my cellphone at the time, I clicked on the link having long ago forgotten what it was.

I did the test again. Today. 1st April 2015.

I gave myself a ZERO for a couple of things.

But – FUCKIT – I still scored 31. 

What is silly is that I have the stupidity and balls to tell you about it.

I also have a theory that IDENTIFICATION and EMPATHY could be used more effectively in this sort of test. Being VERY good with mental people, kids with autism, teaching people things with learning issues, it COULD be that I identify with them. I see myself in them. At night time I can’t sleep much. I chose not to dream as I kept seeing my daughter die. So dreams are rare now, but they are good and useful when they are allowed. I cannot switch of my brain. I think about the kids and how to get them playing football. It is hard when you have a lot of kids and some have real issues to deal with. A few ADHD, a DEPRESSION case, definitely more than one diagnosis for a bunch of them lacking in any form of self confidence. Teaching them they CAN kick with both feet. Taking the total AUTISTIC kid by the arm and SHOWING him where to run. Trying to get the kids who are good at something to show the others. NEVER GIVING UP until kids, parents and ME are happy. When the kid finally gets something right, he or she may not see me react straight away but they will see me proud as punch congratulating them and then telling their parents loudly how they have done something special (unless you’re autistic or really lacking in self confidence – ten year old girls have some real things going on!!) … When kids who are too young to understand a guy covered with tattoo’s, acne and missing teeth is a bad person, they all look at me. I look back. Today there was a kid crying. She had fallen over. She puts her arms out to her Mum, whom lifts her up, comforting. I wish I had that. I look at the Mum, and the kid, and I identify with them as a whole. The Mum and kid pass me. The Mum doesn’t notice but I had winked and poked my tongue out at the kid. I glanced at the kids knee. The kid saw me and stared into my eyes, half way through letting out another scream of hurt. I glanced at the knee. Pointed at it even. I looked back into the kids eyes and smiled. I had turned and was walking backwards. The kid was looking at me over Mums shoulder. Her other kid was older and saying “she should be more careful, she’s useless Mum.” The other kid has issues of her own. But, right now, I was trying to sort out a crying kid before she made a problematic scene in the shoppe they were about to enter. The kid was looking at me, non blinking. Just fascinated. I know, I know, this whole thing is narcissistic. But, if you think that, you can piss off right now. Go on, piss in a bottle and drink it. For you have not understood a word of me, or whom I am. The kid is three, at a guess. Possibly two. She is staring at me. I am staring at her. I give her knee a glance, I look back into her eyes. I give her a thumbs up, a huge genuine smile and, although kids may not understand “thumbs up” she got the message that everything would be okay. I waved at her. She waved back. I waved with both hands and smiled again. She had stopped crying and was grinning as her mum patted her back and held her close. All in the space of four or five seconds. Maybe eight. Counting the time it took to get into Mums arms, maybe ten. I may be completely mental, I may need little white jackets with no arms. I may have to stop being so open and honest with my writing. There are a number of things I could fill my days with that would not end with people wanting to practise their guillotine skills on my pimply neck. I may be totally imagining things. My ears may be prone to audible hallucinations. Synesthesia anyone? But no. Fairly sure I heard the Mums exasperation at her child for yelling so loudly and stopping instantly. The kid must have been faking it for attention. The kid is two or three. The kid deserves your attention. The kid may even deserve your identifying with its plight.

More than one parent of the football teams I coach has said “my kid is impossible to teach, yet for some reason, she has latched onto you and …..”

More than one parent has expressed their disappointment when their child is no longer in my team.

Other teams coaches and parents let me be referee for the whole game as I seem to do a good job of helping coach, teach and encourage the kids from both teams.

In the crowd the kids parents are mostly professionally employed.

I see doctors, lawyers, a judge, the odd person I know from school, and even the odd POLICE MAN / WOMAN. Some high ranking. They are all pretty impressed. I say this not from narcissistic tendencies, but from simple observation.

NZ POLICE
I also note, with interest, that when in the police cells, a couple of the kids parents will come down, in police uniform, and give me a little wink and I nod in recognition before ignoring and forgetting them.

I also note the lawyer whom stopped in his tracks when he was applauding the referee and laughing with his wife as I asked his daughter “how many fingers am I holding up?”

But, it’s my ankle, not my head” she says

Oh, bugger. Well, if I pick you up by your ankles.. ” I pick the kid up by the ankles… “now I can pretend it’s your head. So, how many fingers?

Two… Two… Two. Put me down…” laughing and fighting and embarrassment.

See, you’re fine. Off you go…

 Turns out I am clever. Embarrassment is a ten year old girls magic cure for all pain.

The kids Dad, the well known and prominent lawyer, saw me at court the other day. He stopped in mid sentence and just stood. A little like the kid in the story opening this post. He just stood. In Court, surrounded by Police, prosecutors and criminals. He stopped, stood and tried to get my attention. I was trying not to recognise him, or anyone else. I am not interested in court, criminals or lawyers. I want IN and OUT. In the end, although it was only a couple of seconds that most people would have thought was just him having a thought or clearing his vocal chords, I gave in and made eye contact. He then knew I recognised him, had recognised him at football, his kid had said at the end of the game “that coach is cool Dad” and the soccer mums from his team had all come and chatted after previous game days. A split second look gave away the simple fact he knew a lot about me from paperwork, criminal proceedings and sitting in court whilst I represented myself and attempted to turned the court into a jesters stage. He has seen judges, astoundingly to most, look me up and down, blink and re-align their thought patterns as to the ability of the criminal in front of them. This lawyer has seen me with his kid and other kids. He has seen me deal with the official football delegates with no regard for them, or their rules, but with the kids best interests at heart. For I, seeing the kids could all kick very far, moved the portable goal posts and took the corner flags out about ten metres making the field bigger. The kids had a more open game where they could pass and have space to make decisions for themselves. The OFFICIALS CAME WITH THEIR NOTEBOOKS AND CAMERAS AND REPORTED ME TO THE NZ FOOTBALL (FIFA) PEOPLE. The lawyers, the doctors, the pretty trophy wives who wear skin tight pants and look slightly annoyed when ignored by the dodgy tattoo’d ref with a drug habit and no money. At least I don’t smell that bad. They do want to be looked at. They want attention. Even the two other things they want – affection and appreciation – are really just code words for ATTENTION. They are all so perfect, so showing off their assets, so oddly intrigued by the stupid ref who will swear at officials in front of the kids and simply put the goals back when the officials try moving them. This guy then stands in the middle of the field and says quietly, to no one in particular, “the kids are loving it, the game is brilliant, the girls are learning to play in positions, there have been some good goals, some good defence, the other coach and spectators have all backed the idea and yet some bald old man with a notebook and a carrot in his bum is upsetting kids and seems happy to cause disruption and problems. He couldn’t even wait until half time. He had to do it now. This guy is psychopathic. Luckily, I know a bit about this. I will take his psychopathic and raise him a hundred criminal convictions.“… Another lawyer heard this and absolutely burst out laughing. He had to hold his hand over his mouth. And even then there was spit coming out. The official guy turned, looks me in the eye, and left promptly offering only mutterings as to his reasoning. Coming back and complaining to the mother of my daughter when noticing the fields for other games had started becoming larger. She told him “the other team did it this time, and everyone is happy, including the kids – Look for yourself”. I have not seen him since. Nor his notebook. Nor have I heard from the club I coach for, nor FIFA or anyone else. Although supposedly being a volunteer at the YOUTH WORLD CUP, they have not contacted me. But, fuck them. The kids in my team, and some others, had a great game in the sun that day. And no one watching said one word against it. Everyone whom spoke to me supported the concept, if not the confrontation the ensued. One parent of my team is a well known psychiatrist character. He commented I was correct in some ways, but could choose “not to engage”. I said “yes, thank you sir.”… In my head I thought “fuck mate. I don’t mind making a total cock of myself and getting an undeserved reputation as a problem as long as the kids have learnt something new and had a bloody good time doing it.” Really, that sums up my sort of personality.

I can pour beer all over a strangers girlfriend, and then clean her white mini dress almost entirely with my mouth. If you have issues with this, or don’t believe me, read this….  

This is not a random thing. This is a split second of looking at her, her legs, her dress and him. This is a conscious decision to liven up the night club. This is fully understanding that things could go very badly. My breathing does not speed up. My heart doesn’t either. I go calm. I take someone elses beer (why waste mine) and look her in the eyes. Totally ignoring him, sitting slightly behind and to her left, I walk slowly over after telling the girls I am with (blonde sisters, wearing tight mini skirts as well) to “watch this”. I put one leg on each side of her crossed legs, looking down into her eyes. I don’t look at her legs, crotch or breasts. The jug of cold beer is poured slowly onto her up turned chin. She opens her mouth. Allowing one single drop to hit her mouth, the beer moves down her exposed neck, is poured over half a jug onto her chest. It runs down, covering her tights white dress with liquid. Everyone can see everything about her, if it wasnt for me standing over her blocking their view. The guy who was with me and the girls yelled “fuck mate, jeezus”. I ignored him. Had to maintain eye contact with the beer soaked young lass in front of me. Otherwise her boyfriend might actually realise he wasn’t dreaming and this odd looking red headed prick was actually standing over his girlfriend covering her with someones beer. And the someone was a little annoyed with his beer going missing. About thirty seconds of this ensued before the music is no longer worthy of my attention, the barman is shouting for the bouncer and I consider the options… The last third of the jug was just dumped into her lap, where it formed a beautiful looking pool in her crossed legs (crotch). Without removing eye contact, I hand her boyfriend the jug, who just reaches out and blandly takes the jug from my hands. I drop to my knees, and quickly lick her bare chest, she instantly shakes (trembles even?!!!) and I drop my stomach onto her knees and my face into her crotch, I drink beer by the mouthful until I have to reach around her legs, put my hands between the back of her knees and pull them apart whilst my mouth and tongue attempts to prevent any beer from being wasted by running down her and landing on the seat. I AM NOT GOING TO SUCK BEER OUT A SEAT CUSHION AT A NIGHTCLUB. You must think I am stupid! Although losing a little bit to the seat, the seal between my cheeks and her inner thighs, my chin and her perineum, my bottom lip and her libia majora… My nose was not part of the seal allowing the consumption of beer, but it was not entirely left out of the action. Not at all… So, all too quickly, the puddle and flow of beer had stopped. I started thinking the boyfriend needs to pour his beer on her. We could all take turns. The other girls could be convinced to participate in some way… But the bouncer was approaching rapidly. Her clit was starting to appreciate my nose a little too much. And there was limited time before the boyfriend awoke and smashed the big glass beer jug over my exposed skull. I pulled her skirt bit out and up. She lifted her bum as one hand was under it and lifted her. Guess she did help with this, she wiggled. Allowing me to lift her soaked dress above her waist exposing the world to her small, bright yellow G-String which had amazingly returned to it’s proper position covering her modesty. As deemed not dry enough, it had to sucked of the beer before it got sticky and messy. I sucked that thing harder than anything sucked before. For about one second. I swallowed and got a half mouthful of beer and… What was that?.. Pheromones?!!! Heheheheh. The bouncer, although ready for a certain fun time of throwing a skinny white man down the steps of the second story nightclub, had slowed somewhat. This girl had an awesome body. The best in the club I would say. Her boyfriend was a big boy and could look after himself. Besides, he was holding the jug of beer, and the girl was covered with beer. And she was obviously really enjoying herself. Everyone in the club on that side was watching her before her boyfriend tipped beer on her and this ginga guy with pimples was, for some reason as yet unfathomable, entertaining him by turning his girlfriend into some sort of drink dispenser. The bouncer slowed down. The bar tender had jumped the bar, but had stopped at the edge of the dance floor. The girls I were with her squealing girly type squeals of delighted and fun. The guy I was with was just staring. Along with most of the club by now. Some girls on the dance floor had stopped and were looking over the frosted glass barrier – right down on her breasts and the back of my head. I knew all this as I moved tongue, lips, nose and reluctantly, my chin. Moved them up, not all that quickly, making sure to keep pressure on, keeping the seal intact, keeping almost all the beer of drinkable quality. After finished the cleaning of skin from clit to ribcage and putting her slightly misshapen clothing back over her waist (having removed hand from bum, it was not possible to return the bottom skirt part to correct and socially acceptable position without risking serious stretching to garments involved…)… Holding the material slightly away from her skin, the beer was sucked out of the skin tight white dress. I pulled the top down, exposing one breast to my beer cleaning mechanisms. About one second later it was the other breasts turn. A quick fully open mouth, a huge suck, and then pull your face away. Makes a large popping sound as suction is broken. A quick flick of lips and tongue on the nipple, just to show I was sexually interested, and, just in case she hadn’t noticed, that I could be capable of more than just cleaning her from some stupidly spilt beer. I look back into her eyes, she is totally “away with the fairies”. She is not communicating anything with her eyes. Having half stood up, I finished standing up. See a spot of beer on her forehead and gently brush it with a finger and lick my finger. I reach out, take the beer jug from her boyfriend and apologise for not cleaning the top of her clothing where her breasts are. He finally thinks about smashing my head into his knee and for a brief moment he was going to. Being bigger than me, and better placed as I was still supporting my weight by leaning on his girlfriends legs, the only thing to do was suggest he suck the beer out of her bra and top in that area as I didn’t want to offend them. He was probably more angry than he has ever been. He was now over his dormant shock and was close to ending in jail on a murder charge. Figuring this would happen sooner or later, I kissed the girl quite gently and her eyes focused on mine. I looked at the boyfriend, she looked at the boyfriend. The kiss was over instantly. Hands on each side of her head, I turned her head to him. Blinked and jumped. And walked slowly back across the open space between cubicles to my table with the sisters and the motorbike racer friend whom was now looking as though he wished it was him and probably has been trying stupid things of his own ever since. I don’t know, I got a lap time on the track the next day on a bike slower than his. I had over taken him. When we got back to home after the next fortnight spent with the girls and spa pools, motel rooms, running from bikers, doing some fucked up stunts… Well… He told people MY LAP TIME when asked his times by his sponsors at the bar we frequented. I overhead this. My girlfriend overhead it. Other people did. No one corrected him. My girlfriend (who was always pretty keen on the guy, he was awfully good looking, rich as fuck and had many nice motorbikes, V8 cars and small european sports cars to entertain her with. I entertained him by pulling her swimsuit right up places it was not intended and having prolonged contact of a sexual nature with her in front of him having told him that if he touched he would be in trouble. He loved it really. She liked turning him on and using his stuff. No one could work out why the hottest bodied blonde in the area was with me. Maybe it was the way she sanded and painted my bike for days on end. Maybe it was the way she baked me cakes. Or maybe it was the way she came, played with my only working thing, and gave me Jack Daniels bottles every day when I had smashed myself into a car at over a hundred kilometres an hour and could not walk for quite some time. Getting to the toilet after drinking myself to a pain free stupor was an issue. She even held the thing whilst it pissed into a bucket and emptied the bucket and hid everything from my mum. I was 16 at this point. I loved her. Just why the hell I thought it was okay to tour the south island with two horny as hell sisters (one of them was a virgin who had never even seen a guy in a g-string. She purchased a tight pink g-string for me, I put it on, wiggled and waggled and her eyes popped out her head as she ran from the room, down the hall and out the house. Although the g-string was a little small, it looked the part, so she was soon being chased by a badly tattoo’d teenage ginga male with a bit of an issue requiring one hand to slip bits back into package. We got about a hundred metres down the road before she couldn’t run, squeel, and breathe consistently any more. Don’t know why they say females can multi-task. Shit. Upon catching up, she was doubled over with shame, shock, fatigue, loss of breath, but not looking anywhere else.. Just at my waist…. The traffic had a green light, but everyone had not noticed and was still stopped at the red it once was. She was double over, and at waist height. To get her completely over her shame, the pink g-string hit her near enough to her mouth. The hands holding her hair and head may have helped her overcome her fear of the male anatomy and she rubbed her face back and forewards and then, between giggles, said “okay, okay”. Picking her up and slinging her over my shoulder I walked slowly back to the block of flats they stayed at. The slow walk prevented the need for package re-adjustment and maybe helped convince the local red neck population not to ring the police. Spa pools, shared camping cabins with all the mattresses thrown onto the floor and standing at the roadside over motorbikes with the sisters and the friend were just what a seventeen year old needed. But you know what? It wasn’t enough. I was also hiding a syringes filled with opium treated with “AA” and filtered down to a real nice opiate hit in the seat of my bike. There were majic mushrooms (saved in the freezer from mushroom season eight months prior) in the lining of my helmet. A sheet or two of LSD had been waterproofed and put into the end of a handlebar. I carried nitrous oxide and a system to dispense it of my own design. The motorbike, though, had no kick starter to save weight. Clever guy, me.

Today though, I’m stuffed. My life without using opiates all day, every day, is not turning out to be all that brilliant. Spent a few hours in a police cell being very uncomfortable and having trouble co-ordinating movements most would take for granted – walking, sitting, standing, leaning. They all required EFFORT and patience to achieve. And all became very annoyingly pain ridden quite promptly. Life like this is hard. People are very annoyed at me for leaving car parts, whole cars, beds… Stuff… All over their properties. I am annoyed at myself. I am spewing at myself.

For the first time since finishing the acute withdrawal process from methadone street addiction, I caught myself saying “I am going to kill myself now” as stepping out the shower saw someone looking back in the mirror whom I did not like and did not want to be. This person was stuck in a bad posture. His stomach looked like it was fat. He looked really stupid and lazy and out of shape and really really worn out and worthless.

The man in the mirror did not look like he could enjoy life. He looked twenty years older than me. Without thinking, I said out loud “I am going to kill myself now.” I heard me say it. Instantly I was concerned others had heard me.  What do I care if others heard me? I care because I don’t want them to think anything is wrong. I want my sore back and unhappiness to go without notice. I want to be known for giving a glue sniffing, broke and lonely lady a couch and seat for her bare flat. I have noticed she has a few visitors nowadays. She has somewhere for them to sit and act out a proper community pass time – stopping over for a cuppa or to watch a DVD. For she will only ever act out these things. These proper community and social things look good on tv. You do them to socialise and gossip. If you eventually find people annoying or unable to discuss the meaning of life with conviction and purpose… If you possibly just really want to spend your life wasted or sniffing glue… These silly humans sitting on your seats, consuming your coffee, are rather surplus and irritating. Possibly me and her identify with each other at some level. Although I love having people stay, I love it when she goes into town and spends time happily getting drunk or wasted with her mates whilst I sit on the computer, watching sport or shooting up drugs.

You see – Life without drugs is life changing. You have to change things. People. Places. I only have sitting on the computer or watching sport now. It leaves a huge hole.

Oh my god. This is story time again…….

My young friend, “Karma” from a recent post, moved out of Wellington as she was getting too much involved in a lifestyle and path that were obviously dangerous and not really all that good with long term prospects. I wish I could help her. I could if she bloody had told me and allowed me. I was and am confused as to this situation. We get along so well. She doesn’t want to tell me she’s in trouble. I don’t want to push her. I want her to stay here, eat some food, get up before 3pm and we can help eachother with so much. She makes lists. She understands my ADHD and only the second night here she saw me looking for something and said “keys, sink, bathroom” in a matter of fact, no nonsense tone. Fuck me. The girl has seen the mess in my house, my car and my life. She started making lists for her to help me do little tasks. She had started taking mental notes of where I put everything so she could find it for me. She is one of the prettiest females whom currently give me the time of day (that list is pathetically short…).. If I showed you a photo of her or the others whom there is some type of “wink wink, nudge nudge” possibilities you would ring the mental health team instantly, as I obviously am disillusional. There are so so many things I like about her. Her beauty is just something I have to deal with. For she is. When others see her with me they cannot work it out. They don’t believe it. Their brains do not allow them to compute this data. I should be with really ugly old chicks, whom are broke, smelly and have three large incontinent dogs that sleep on her bed. There is no way this beautiful young lady could spend time with the likes of me without free will being destroyed and a large amount of duct tape and chloroform. Somewhat ironically, the longest relationship I have ever had is with a slightly older lady than myself. I was never attracted to her looks, but then I consider myself ugly, so being put off by her looks would be entirely two faced, shallow and rude. What, arguably, is equally shallow and rude is that we met just for quick sex. I sometimes promise people that I will do something, or will not do something, before meeting them. I promised her a half decent massage and tease, and six or seven years later she kicks me out as she couldn’t trust my lies about other females any more. I am useless. I am an addict. But I have been learning to say no. Have even said no a few times. Although I love the challenge of giving orgasms, there lies a problem. 

My god, I really could do things with this lady. She is awesome and impresses me in ways she is not aware of. I have not told her either.  I, believe it or not, am reasonably astute sometimes. And I am impressed. She was not even the preferred option on any of  the lists such as “I need a regular, no drama, person in my life”, or “I need someone to hang off the ceiling and watch as she has multiple orgasms at my control.”  But she is the one whom has gone out of her way for me AND has not been overbearing. IN fact, the opposite. I’d love her to share her problems and difficulties. But she truly doesn’t want to burden me. And I don’t want to burden her with mine. When together, she does creative things. She impresses me. Left alone in my house she uses the tools available and creates positive things. Art and Humour. Music, and, Facebook. Well, she is a girl with a facebook account after all. Grrrrr….

SO WHAT IS THE PROBLEM?

She is less than half my age. Why on earth a beautiful 19 year old who everyone wants at their parties spends a single second of her life with me is open to interpretation. All I can say is that she trusts me, has enjoyed everything I’ve thrown at her or tested her with and is not shy. We get along too bloody well. In a number of ways. I can’t think of any reason not to settle down and tie her to my bedpost. Other than her spirit is such that it needs freedom to explore and travel. And I am, just quietly, lacking in energy to left my own arse out the computer seat. Never mind keep up with her. 

I like her. I like her a lot. Stupid old me told her that if “you are really upset about me calling you bitch, you can fuck off…” She didn’t text or ring for over a week. And then rung and texted which I replied. We then called twenty times in one hour. Hahahahahaha. Love, is it?

She saw a card and small teddy bear in the car. She turned, no longer self aware of the need to pull her tiny skirt down and keep her modesty. Who cares?. Naturally she thought it was for her. She is a very clever young girl. She does not know that I know anything about dopamine, receptors, neurons or whatever. She knows I am half cripple and can kick a football pretty good, splitting my skin open from kicking a flat football with no shoes on. Slide tackling her on concrete and not even blinking or looking at my skinless knee. She started talking about drugs. I let her tell me about receptors, dopamine, deficiencies in things causing unhappiness. She told me about Ritalin missuses. I, carefully, was prodding and encouraging her to tell me more. One annoying thing about young people is that they think they know it all. She has tried to show me many things she thought she knew better than me. I let her show me. Then, sooner or later, she see’s me do it better than she could, and better than she described. She has yet to comment on this. And I don’t comment on it either. Tucking her into bed with a teddy bear and treating her like a three year old is great fun. She takes it on the chin. But, like all girls, attention is her number one thing in life. And, although I am taking the piss, giving her grief… Although my tongue is in my cheek, I can pat and caress and hold and massage and stroke and care for. Some people have never been treated in such a way. Some of them come out with stupid things like “I love you” and wrap themselves around me. You don’t love me. You love the idea of being loved, and although my hands and caring and soft tone are loving… Very loving… They ARE TEMPORARY RELIEF FOR YOU DEFICIT OF LOVE AND ATTENTION. I will make you feel as perfect as possible for a time. You may get away with saying “I love you” once or twice, but then you may get rudely dropped off and the texts and phone calls may go unanswered for days on end. Loving me is not an option unless you show empathy (identification even, if you can control it a little), are very much a person not to say “no” until you have been shown, tried or researched the idea or proposition. If you come back to me time and time again, I will really appreciate some of the same from you. If I have to ask, you’re probably going to find a wet spot right on your forehead. The lady with whom I spent six years or so had no job when we met. I had never been with someone of that weight. Or with HUGE BREASTS like she had. I am more of an arse man, and titties never interested me. I was there for sex. So was she. We must have done something good for eachother, as after a few sexual plays, she was at my place during the daytime having walked two kilometres in about five minutes to get there. Without any ado whatsoever, she initiated some pretty good sex. The curtain wasn’t even shut, it was daytime and, my god, she had her titties reduced many years later. They were perfect large breasts for a time. They gave her a crook neck and back. Although never being able to fix this for her, there were many hours spent trying to ease and help with this. All the other females I had sex with during our time together were told that I was with someone else with kids and that I did not want to lose that. I also told them my real name  (I only ever use my real name, although about 50% of girls call me different names in the morning and probably 25% call me different names a week or two later. Some even call out the wrong name when they orgasm… And then they ruin it by apologizing and losing the buzz… I don’t care who the hell you think I am. If you love MARK or TIM then just imagine it’s their tongue on your clit and make the most it. Besides, it makes it easier for me to get you cumming…. ).. Does this make it any better? I can claim I am an addict, or something. I can say all sorts of stuff. But, at the same time, I actually love providing females with things they love and cannot get enough of, I would do the opposite and go out of my way to show them I was a wanker not worthy of their respect or attentions. For I truly hated myself.

 

Am constantly finding more about myself and trying to do positive and creative things for the world.

I am still a fuckwit. But have really learnt to laugh at myself. For I can. You can too.

Am a fuckwit who owns being a fuckwit.

I really don’t mind if you don’t like me. I am not writing this for you. I am writing it for me. And hope that by highlighting some issues, YOU will spend a couple of nano seconds thinking about them.

By writing this, it helps me process and sort out some headaches induced by inability to make sense of all the data coming in.

The likes of N.A get you to  write stuff down. It is a good thing. Try it.

Although, be prepared for all sorts of shit if you do it in public. Even some young hot girls deciding you’re truly mad.

You lot, my esteemed followers, occasionally send me emails. Have had support from the most unexpected quarters. Anonymously, of course. 

Unlike most of NARCOTICS ANONYMOUS members or most stupid gossip ridden addicts, I really can do ANONYMOUS. 

I think a little control on your tendency to identify with others, rather than empathise, is a special thing.

I also think most people would just think “an apple fell on my head.”

It takes a pretty special mental condition for someone to think “an apples fell on my head, I am going to explain that via mathematical formula.”

It is not easy having a
little bit of an I.Q and
no sense of self preservation. 

I would be the first to throw my life away for the chance of saving a group of others. I may take a couple of you with me, but then the group will thank our corpses later.

And, really, who the hell else would talk like this publicly? Given that my doctors, psychiatrists, friends, enemies, occasionally even I tell a sex partner or two about this blog. I have met people through this blog who love it. They are surprised when they finally put a face to the words. They always say hi and are good people.

It’s just plain idiotic, publishing things like this for people to actually read. Not that anyone does…… Unless I mention sex and big dildos. Or provide details of great sex with ugly people. Or crap sex with beautiful people. Fuck sex. Long term, it is the way you talk. They way you listen. The consideration. The help. The way you finish eachothers sentences. The fact you are PEOPLE ON THE SAME WAVELENGTH.

Most people think jumping off buildings, jumping buses (with a motorbike on the road in traffic), playing soccer football with broken bones in your foot…. This is all idiotic… But fun. And dying has to happen at some point. A little pain along the way is okay. If it provides happiness to others, entertainment to a few or saves others hardship, count me in. If I kill you in the process, sue me.

And that makes me a good person to have on your side, or your team. Just not the figure head, or the person to promote your not for profit health trust.

You may hate me. You may not invite me to your wedding. But years later you will remember me for something really good. Probably you will remember me for a hundred really fucked up things, but the one good thing is what makes me proud of myself.

I am really sorry if you were on the other team when we were losing and spent time in hospital or I found another way to win which upset you and your grandad for years to come. There were some pretty hurt and disappointed faces on other teams. Some grandads even try hitting me with their walking sticks to this day. My team was happy, but would avoid the back of the bus if I was sitting there.

So, WAS I a psychopath?

The 200px-The_Psychopath_Test_(Jon_Ronson_book)_coverNew Zealand probation service may have thought I was. Given the tests they tried to put me through.

My original response to a Doctor thinking I may have ADHD was to visualise putting my fist through his nose into the back of his skull.

Turns out he was pretty correct. Bugger him. Must sneak onto the CCDHB DSM against the TRESPASS ORDER they have given me and apologise to the guy one day. Yeah right. He also decided to stop giving me strong halcyon (two a night) and 60mg Codeines (over a hundred a fortnight) just because, according to court and police documents) I hacked into his computer to find information about my daughter when estranged from her.

I did it, yes. But only as he broke the law be denying me information on the health of my child. The law is pretty clear on this. He wasn’t. I took it upon myself to find the information myself. I withdrew from Halcyon and Codeine a little bit. I returned to buying drugs on the street. 

What a wanker.

I could be labelled a psychopath. But anyone could be, given certain events, stressors.

I feel everyone has mental illness. It is like a graphic equaliser on your expensive Yamaha amplifier from the nineties.

If you’re listening to old school metal, you will wind the bass up. If you’ve got Talking Heads going you might add a bit of mid range and tweeter.

Same with life and mental states.

Given the fact someone just about ran over your child and your morning drugs have not kicked in – you are in pain and broke and have not even paid rent for three weeks due to buying food and paying for your child to do things… Given those facts, when the guy whom just about ran over your kid is ridding his motorbike on the footpath exactly where your kid got run over. When you stop him and ask him politely to slow down. When he ignores you, looks at you like you’re a fuckwit and then revs up his bike and tries to push past you.

Does YOUR HAND COMES OUT AND GIVE HIS HELMET A BIT OF A CLIP AS HE TRIES TO PUSH PAST YOU?

If you answered YES, then fair enough. If you had to think about it for a split second, you are possibly not, currently, psychopathic. And yet you read this far?!

You can identify with me. You imagined yourself in this circumstance, didn’t you?

Did you feel empathy? Anger at the unjust way this situation unfolded?

Or did you stop reading this shitty blog about a seven thousand two hundred words ago?

one_year

 

And you know what is really annoying me lately?
The fact is that, given a subject matter other than “myself and drugs and wankers at methadone clinics” there is, on occasion, some acceptable writing of creative and factual variety. I am getting sick of writing “I”. I am getting sick of using short sentences and a limited vocabulary.
I am not getting sick of being open, honest and willing to accept new ideas and others input. I am never sick of really good co-incidences and people on same wavelengths connecting at whatever level.
If you can find any errors in any things I claim to be fact, please advise. The foundations of my thinking are pretty sturdy, even if the delivery is too much for your sensible shoes.

WILLY MOON GETS KICKED OFF NZ IDOL (X FACTOR, whatever)

Poor old Willy lad got his sorry ass kicked off New Zealand X-Factor. His wife, a lovely lady by all accounts, lost the guts and threw her toys out the cot when she was presented with a rather low class version of her husband to judge.

She judged.

Willy judged.

whs_willy

They judged. They did.

The TV executives then did judge the judges. They did.

And fired the poor fuckers.

My high esteemed and respected goodself and Willy could see eye to eye on a few things here. Sometimes, just once or twice every while, you have to let your slightly more uncaring and psychopathic nature out for a play. I am sorry the guy in for criticism had mental health concerns, but you are being judged on what you put forward as part of the judgement process. If I judged women differently from guys because they had perceived frailties, that would make me what ________________________? Just saying.

It could certainly be unhealthy to keep all that goodness bottled up for ever.

The world needs to see this shit, although Willy really stuffed this one up.

HE BLOODY WELL APOLOGISED.

Simon Cowell never apologised. Nor did the ginga cook who swears a lot. Whats his name…? You know, the ginga guy who is also quite capable of psychopathic diagnosis being high on most peoples favourite outcomes with their local bookie… Ramsey. Gordon Bloody Ramsey.

My ex spiritual advisor ™ once commented that the unbecoming amusement I got from watching Gordon was due to the fact we were the same.

This spiritual advisor is a lot cleverer than she looks. She is the one person on this planet who even came close to really knowing me.

And, guess what mental diagnosis one could apply to JEREMY CLARKSON without too much effort? In fact, maybe it was JEREMY CLARKSON my ex spirtual advisor ™ likened me to. Probably both, for I am a person proud of his fuckwitism. A slightly good I.Q with no self worth. Loverly juberly.

And now, Willy old bean, just quietly, one WELLINGTON HIGH SCHOOL dropout to another…

WILLY BOY. Are you back on the drugs or something?

Fucken apologising for saying what was on your mind without editing it down to complete drivel and bore inducing crap?

Dude. Come on.

EPIDURAL STUFF UPS

Went for another epidural as part of a relatively drug free pain management strategy. Who the hell would have guessed having a adult life full of chronic pain may have had something to do with “drug use.”

FFS people.

And then…. The epidural went quite rankly. A big needle poked through your disk, into your spinal chord thing… Bugger me with a pitchfork, they got it wrong multiple times during the first half an hour of agony and crying. My blood pressure was 150/90 for hours after. I was happy to get out.

But then the next day… I went and got a tattoo done. Tattoo took well over two hours… In fact, here it bloody well is….

Board Shitless Tattoo

And those two hours were okay. Bloody sore. The tattooist knew it. I knew it, everyone knew it.

But, it was less painful than sitting up and walking afterwards.

The tattooist asked me to get his camera (he keeps it under the table). I could not get it. He winced, and said “oh fuck, sorry mate, yeah, your back…”

That night I had my kid. I got caught leaving a young ladies house by her on again, off again, very serious and very very hard man father of her kids. Just saying. I am an addict after all.

Excuses are everywhere. Claiming to be an addict of everything – sex, smack, sugar, being smacked – get’s you a one way ticket to a recovery industry. Maybe, if you don’t swear and play your cards correctly, a real publishing deal maybe. Call yourself Russell Brand.

Fuck that. Idiots.

The next day went a little pear shaped. It ended with me spending six hours in accident and emergency with a line in my hand and pain relief pushed into my oh so unwilling body.

And today I awake and cannot afford the prescription costs to get more.

Fuckit and Fuckme. For I have sinned. And really, I don’t want your forgiveness. I want you all to piss off, have a real think and throw in your silly jobs that support this silly capitalist system that consistently creates more addicts, adhd owners and idiots.

One day the balance of power will fall into the hands of the idiots.

FREEDOM IS TAKEN FROM THE BOTTOM.

NOT GIVEN FROM THE TOP>

Song of the day —

There is no depression in New Zealand (extra points for guessing where the coastline is in the opening of the video…)

There is no depression in New Zealand;
there are no sheep on our farms,
There is no depression in New Zealand;
we can all keep perfectly calm,
Everybody’s talking about World War Three;
everybody’s talking about World War Three,
But we’re as safe as safe can be,
there’s no unrest in this country
We have no dole queues,
we have no drug addicts,
we have no racism,
we have no sexism, sexism, no, no
There is no depression in New Zealand;
there are no teeth in our heads
There is no depression in New Zealand;
we sleep in a well made bed
Oh but everybody’s talking about World War Three,
yes everybody’s talking about World War Three,
But we’re as safe as safe can be,
there’s no unrest in this country
We have no SIS,
we have no secrets,
we have no rebellion;
we have no valium, valium, no, no no fucking valium
There is no depression in New Zealand;
there are no sheep on our farms,
There is no depression in New Zealand;
oh we can all keep perfectly calm,
perfectly calm,
perfectly calm…

And then there is life.

Am writing from cellphone as daughter is MineCrafting after this mornings football…

image

Yesterday was valentine’s. Something not really on my radar.

It seemed only fair to spend a little romantic time with another single person. Although having a few possible hug and cuddle contenders, I had accepted the idea put forward by a single lady whom was feeling especially single and down on a day advertised by our corporate leaders as a “must have” otherwise you’re not as happy as you should be.

For once I cove to corporate crap. I gave a quick visit, present and hug to a beautiful young lady whom could be a great fun friend, long term. If only she felt the same… Sigh.

Then received odd Valentine’s day comments from some very young and possibly fun friends.

But ended up spending the evening, uer, the night, with someone else. She snuck in, once daughter asleep, jumped into bed without preamble, started a dvd and greeted my return from shower with a genuine smile and hug. I am never going to love this lady, hell, I don’t even like her that much.

But right then and there we were both what eachother needed. Poor girl.

I was stressed. My daughter came for a weekend without a change of undies or socks. Three days in same underclothes, on top of other repeated adhd style behaviours started doing my head in.

Had a nice chat with lady from previous post. She knows about this blog. She may have read yesterdays entry. Whatever the reason she has not returned texts or calls today. Hope she ended up having a nice Valentine s. Was thinking of her, just couldn’t be with her.

Fucken life.
.?

 

Just sent this text to the four players whom showed up for this mornings soccer football…

Was good having time after game . I have a really screwed up lower spine so takes me a while to get going. Was neat having time after game to have a kick and give attention to each kickers style. Will give them homework and fitness drills next week…
Lol
🙂

Spending time with four kids and their mums n dads n aunties was A fucken PLUS use of my life.

 We only had four players, the manager of the other team had a beautiful smile, a nice wink and a warm handshake. The team was from a rich suburb. All the mums were well presented and young. This, believe it or not, was not noticed until later. Right now, however, we borrowed a player.

My kid and her got along really well. We had a great game, some good moves. Some of my advice and nagging was evidently working well… Parents on all sides are starting to see the madness that is me making sense. The kids are starting to love playing Sunday footy. It was cold and wet and for the first time in history, not one single kid or parent mentioned, nay, complained, about…. weather

We got there at 8. We left at 10.30 even tho we only had a half hour game at nine.

We didn’t want to leave. The fields were needed for adult games. Kids all learnt. I taught one kid something. I taught another kid something else. I have grazes from goalie diving on artificial turf. Kids have sore legs from kicking a ball more than most ever have. Parents seemed stoked. Dad and Coach worn out.

Sometimes I love my life and think I am truly an awesome guy.

Really. This is a new thing for me. Having spent the better part of three decades trying to live as though you didn’t want tomorrow goes with the territory of loathing. Of the most dedicated “I don’t give a shit” variety.

And then the kids go, the nice mums stop imagining fifty shades of football coach, the energy fades like the come down from some watered down NZ purchased cocaine…

We have twenty dollars to go to a festival, yet we’re sitting at home. She is playing MineCraft. She creates some amazing things and I am so proud of my slightly adhd bundle of enthusiasm….

Need another life. A family. A real family unit.

Without, there is a large deficit of happy.

A happiness deficit of any magnitude is a dangerous thing.

Artificial happiness is available.

So, prey, is oblivion.

It is bloody hard trying to chose life, fucken life. On a daily basis.

Life, circles, spirals? Wasted?

image

image

Last night I took a photo of a moon from a moving bus. The mural on the wall is done by a lady, Ellen Coup, whom I was in art classes with as a teenager at Wellington High School. Look at what she has done with her life.

Right now I am doing Community Work in Owhiro Bay Wellington New Zealand. We are not allowed phones or comms of any nature. I, typically, am breaking rules. I am not working, but am hiding in the van. Ten metres to my right is the car of the lady whom did give me some paid design work on a recovery project. Thirty metres further up the road I can see my adopted Mum gardening and Dad opening the garage to go play golf.

Fucked if I am getting out the van and explaining myself to these spectators.

Look at what I have done with my life.

I may have had some nice sex with girlfriend on the floor of her friends loungeroom whilst Ellen, her partner and other couples were either sleeping, or pretending to sleep… But, other than that one time, it makes me sad.

I could have done anything.

Sometimes I feel as if I have done nothing.

Saw an old friends younger brother yesterday. Was climbing into my car. He was working on a flat next to mine.

“Should have done something with my life” I say.

“Bro, you’re doing it ” was his instant reply.

Life from an ex Jehovah Witness perspective.

Better than being wasted I guess.