Dairy of how to become a junky ADHD mess…

Anyways…Work it out for yourself…

Was going to ring you earlier but then just went to bed again… Been spending more than the usual amount of time in bed recently. It is the time of year for it – nothing to worry about. Just a little cold and winter bringing onset a wee depression, no doubt.

Promised Mum I would make her a new compost bin as Dad is dying slowly along with the rotted out fence she has been piling compost against for two decades.

Aren’t we all. Dying that is. His clock took on a new rhythm for a while recently… Just to be clear, this was not a old sixties dance hall classic number. More drumb and base poured into a blender with Motorheads final Ace Of Spades renditions…

Went down to Mum n Dads to measure up previously mention compost bin… To be made from wood, with my own hands. Would prefer to cut one from alloy and weld nowadays. Am enjoying my new tools and skills always need sharpening. Tools need sharpening and new skills? Half a dozen of one, six of the other. Some shit anyway…

Told Dad I was being operated on within four weeks of the doctor seeing my bum. Dad, as usual, without fail, without preamble, without thought for anyone outside his one square foot of universe,

“they have always got me in real quick, like the time I showed up with…..”

(sure,
my judgement and memory may be clouded
with time, space and
interesting neurological experiments gone awry
nonetheless, seems like this is a reoccurring theme one cannot discount my memory and feelings as completely inaccurate)

“Dad, they only get you in quick if there’s emergency or something serious” was the somewhat necessary interruption.

Yet still he carried on about HIS operations.. Oblivious to fact, his fiction weighing heavily on the judge and jury of his own mind.

Having actually had more operating table excursions over my fourty years younger span of life, he doesn’t bother to remember anything about my issues, health or happiness. Nor, it seems, going so far as to suggest others problems have been trivial.

When he sees me wince with pain just standing still he says “oh, your back is getting like mine, hahahaha”. Yeah right, like he has had emergency spine surgery and pissed and poo’d himself walking to the hospital… Fuck he is such a self centred fuck…. Unbelievable… This is going to require a breath, a thought of something happy and a lot of self restraint. Would be nice to have that loverly Clarrissa here with some restraints, but she was already booked and tied up elsewhere…

So he tells me all about HIS for the hundredth time in as many visits. Tiresome in itself.

Interruption time again….

Must record one of these conversations. You may, even the most die hard retard apologist among you,  be sympathetic to that at least. He sure ain’t.

“So, you have any idea why they would get to me so quickly?” 

“I presume as they are quiet at the moment and I was seen in that amount of time after a doctor saw my collapsed viens in my……”

WTF? Are you serious? Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuckme, fukme, f’me….. Relaaaaaaaxxxxxx…. He may be just about dead and nothing is going to change the guy now, even if he did think anything about himself and his life was not perfect.

FUCK UP DAD , NOT EVERYTHING IS ABOUT YOU.

(well, I tried. Honest)

Dad, chastised for once. Not a pretty sight as it happens…
“I never said it was about me”

DAD, EVERYTHING YOU HAVE SAID IS ABOUT YOU. NOT ONE SINGLE GENUINE QUESTION, OR SO MUCH AS EVEN FAKED INTEREST IN WHAT IS GOING ON FOR ME. AM BEING OPERATED ON TUESDAY MORNING JUST FOUR WEEKS AFTER A DOCTOR SAW THE LUMP IN MY BUTT CHEEK DAD. THAT WOULD SUGGEST IT IS IMPORTANT, WOULD IT NOT?

“I don’t know son, they see everyone as fast as they can…”

Remaining the calmest possible, given fourty years of this sort of conversation… Hell, you people reading it are bored of it already. Imagine the effect this has on a kid growing up, or indeed the fourty year old man still trying to grow up…

THE FUCKEN SPECIALIST GUY I AM SEEING AT HOSPITAL IS THE SAME GUY WHO TREATED YOUR DAUGHTER

(funnily enough, also known as my sister, who died of Cancer May7th a few years ago aged less than me)

“Oh yes, he seemed nice… Although your sister argued with him, he knows his stuff. Top guy, really really clever…” …OMG

Really not bothering to remain calm in face of this much narcissistic stupidity DAD, WHY THE FUCK WOULD I BE SEEING THE SAME GUY AS KATE ? WHY WOULD THEY OPERATE ON ME SO QUICK ? WHY AM I BOTHERING TO TELL YOU THIS AT ALL ?

 

“I don’t know Tony, they are a good hospital though…..”

 

Oh for fucksake, if he wasn’t already on the waiting list for the cremation table I would kill this bloody idiot…

DAD, THEY THINK I HAVE FUCKEN CANCER FOR FUCKSAKE. WHY ELSE WOULD I BE SEEING THE FUCKEN CANCER SPECIALIST? THEY *DO NOT* GET YOU INTO OPERATING ROOMS IN THIS BROKE ARSE HEALTH SYSTEM IN FOUR WEEKS FROM FIRST SEEING A DOCTOR WITHOUT IT BEING DEEMED IMPORTANT.


Just in case he managed to avoid the point (as proven, he is quite bloody well capable)

 

THEY THINK I HAVE CANCER DAD. But I don’t. The really really really clever people and their two times through the MRI, the X-Ray, the Ultrasound, the various specialists including a muscular skeletal guy have it wrong.

However, I am going in Monday to sort out the procedure and am in Tuesday to have half the weight of my right arse cheek cut out… Will be good to get the bloody thing out. Even though it’s not cancer, it is annoying me more and more recently…

 

“Oh, why didn’t you tell us?”

 

FUCK ME.

 

Work it out yourself. Seriously.

 

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.

A lot to think about. Not unusually.

Yesterday was wasted. The day before was fucked.

Recovery Perspectives Title

A post yesterday contained some graffix produced by my good self in relation to DRUG ADDICTION RECOVERY and what it means for a service provider and a service user in the environment of our absurd Recovery Industry 2.0 and the medical model of ADDICTION = [medical] DISEASE.

I use “[medical] DISEASE” purely so as not to get into tertiary arguments with people over meaning of “dis” and “ease”.
Really, go away.
No, really. Piss right off. Go tell God I am a Sinner, Left Handed Bugger.

Within the first few months of stopping, after struggling to work out whom I am (what is it we are recovering from?it was time for me to work out whom I wanted to be (what are we recovering to?….)

It is no measure of recovery to join, and blend into, a sick society.
For the millionth time, BRUCE K. ALEXANDER’s “Globalization Of Addiction” is available at most libraries now.
You should be saying “”Thanks NZFIEND. “”
“Thank me by reading it FFS.”

..”& just what
prey tell Mr Narcisist NZ Fiend
are you recovering to?”..

The worlds best Dad would be a bloody good start. Wellington’s best delinquent kids football coach. A half decent advocate for addiction (dis) services clients. A reliable friend. A good neighbour. A creative soul.

And, after that little list, maybe even become someone else’s “better half”.

But, right now? Right now I would settle for being a good Dad and creating a half decent soul.

Yesterday was wasted. The day before was fucked. Violence. Domestics. Kids screaming whilst Mum and Dad abuse and hit each other at 4am…. Birth Mum told to fuck off. Fists. Weapons. Sore heads. Going on drug hunts. Insane driving.

I have books and research on all these topics. From very dirty fighting techniques (had nose or ear bitten off lately?, thanks Dave Courtney) through to how to a brilliant guide on how treat your missus like shit and yet she will still cook you those fucken eggs (Once were Warriors by Alan Duff).
Spending my NZ Government sickness benefit on anything other than limited amounts of mediocre quality food for daughter and me is a big deal. Gabor Maté’s “In the Realm of the Hungry Ghosts” was worth every single lost calorie. I was broke addict struggling to understand. I now understand. I am a broke addict.

This is, currently, my New Zealand. This is my Wellington Housing New Zealand environment.

Hoary Maori BBQ’s. They will get drunk, hit, complain, abuse, intimidate. All amongst themselves. But, when outside my window at 2am, it starts involving me.

Skinny arse junkies will hang out. Whine and moan. Do nothing about it in a positive manner. Start begging at my door. Therefore, involving me.

And, yet, in between it all… Some very good conversation and intellectual progress (on an occasional tertiary level – BEAT THAT!)

Yesterday, attempting to explain proved fruitless.

There were no vegetables in the vicinity. My ADHD writing, therefore, was also devoid of vegies… Quit for the day, vegetableless and fruitless.

Which is close to happening again write at this very moment.

When having less is not more.

Having more ADHD occasionally results in less. Having more PAIN. More STRESS. OBLIGATIONS.

More or less.

I can hear my Spiritual Advisor ™ cringing loudly from a kilometre away.

“JUST STOP IT”

She is probably screaming between eyes screwed shut.

DEEP BREATH. BREATHE. CENTRE. Relax. Repeat keyword. 

Click For Music, and continue to read in bliss
heyho
Time for some music.mushy Time to get on with it.
Time is hitting me in the backside.
It is beginning to itch.
I Wanna Be Well.

Quoting from above…

“Yesterday was wasted. The day before was fucked. Violence. Domestics. Kids screaming whilst Mum and Dad abuse and hit each other at 4am…. Birth Mum told to fuck off. Fists. Weapons. Sore heads. Going on drug hunts. Insane driving.”

If I was ever on a TV news show john_campbell_will_spewwithout having to be violently arrested during some outrageously fortunate (and purely co-incidental) bDSM-V’ing featuring a leather clad Clarissa Broderick ejecting me from the Mein Street Addiction (Dis)Services complex it may go something like this…

“So, you, NZFiend, had a bad day starting early in the morning of Friday..?”

Why, yes John. It was pretty lousy. Not the worst, but pretty lousy.

“Without trying to sound too much like a registered shrink of highest magnitude, could you tell me, and the viewers, more. In your own words, your own time. TV3 is tightening my budget, so just talk away. We may edit it later, but really don’t have the cash…”

Wow. You will wish you didn’t say that shortly. Just don’t pretend you’re a doctor and try to tell me your historic and incorrect views of addiction.

“You’re wasting time……”

Oh, right you are. It all started around midnight. Put a DVD on that had taken me three or four sittings to get to half way. Did I mention my ADHD issues John?

“Oh for fucksake……”

Sorry John, won’t happen again. Will try staying on track…. What was it you asked again? Ahh right. Yeahp. Riiiigggghhhtt……………

Was watching a DVD at midnight…

New Zealand endorses the United Nations Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples in April 2010.

Although falling asleep whilst having THE RAMONES END OF THE CENTURY DVD playing loudly on the TV, got rudely fucken awoken about 2am by some 100kg Maori biatches slapping and cursing each other. Disappointingly normal behaviour in this small enclave of under educated, yet over drugged, misfit abodes.

Unfortunately for me the human brain does not really differentiate between physical pain and mental pain. Whomever said “sticks and stones will break my bones but names will never hurt me” was either deaf or stupid. Or, most likely, selling some sort of religion with large tithe’s.

Other peoples stuff effects us. How can it not?

At two in the morning someone must have rung noise control or police or something. After yelling out the window for them to “please quieten down your over assertive use of language” peace was restored.

“Honestly, that is the most shit story I have ever heard………”

Sorry John, you’re quite right…. An hour later, after sleeping some more and hearing some quite funny tough guy Te Reo along the lines of ….

Ay bro, fucken sum1 narkd on uz cuz. fuk if i fiund owt hooo da fuk narkd on uz cuz. gonna fuk dem up broz. fucken a cuz. yo fuk wotch.” (those who know the awesome sound of real Te Reo will be astounded to know these Maori speak closer to L.A Gang, but with the rythum and speed of Bob Marley on valium. Try this for an example…. NZ, you rock!)

… the mummy and the daddy start slapping each other in the apartment just across from mine. Kid is screaming. Everything is turning to shit. This happens very often. Cops may have arrived. Punches may have been thrown.

I don’t know what happened. I just turned up my favourite Jew gone bad and listened to some good lyrics…

“You mean Jesus? The jew gone bad, right? Out-stanndd-ingg”

You old git. You know damn well I meant Jeffry Hyman of Queens, New York whom became JOEY RAMONE?

Stop trying to upset me John… The DVD stopped and you could not block out the noise. Hearing kids screaming and slapping and punching going on is not good.

And then my head went to other places. My own upbringing. At least this kid knew its Mum and Dad. At least he knows his heritage. He will probably turn out better than me.

I text my Mum with “Not even so much as a text or facebook for your only son and grand kid over Christmas and New Year?

She replied very rudely with some good lines about “get off your high horse“, “anger management classes“, “I will send your daughter something for her birthday”

FUCKEN WHAT?World of Wearable Arts

My own “mum” doesn’t tell me she is in Wellington staying at a motel just down the road for the WORLD OF WEARABLE ARTS SHOW and goes home without even a cuppa with her only offspring… This “mum” who… Well… Fuckit. I am over it.

She finishes the text by saying “DO NOT REPLY“.

Fuck you Mum. Here’s twenty replies. Inclusive of ten variations on “fuck off and die” and ten with variations of “if you go behind my back and contact my child I will actually be angry.”

Don’t know how much you believe in attachment theory and how it relates to ADHD, but there are many and comprehensive studies suggesting such things. Check out my own thoughts in LEFT HANDED IS A CURSE FROM THE DEVIL

So, the day got off to a good start. 

May save the stories about driving, drug quests and others for another day. More likely, they will never see the light of day. But, then again….

“Wonder if the TV3 executives will resort to crowd funding to get this crap edited…………”

Funeral today are ARO ST COMMUNITY HALL.  Old stomping ground of many a young punk style teen... Communists everywhere. Surprised property prices have not declined.

Funeral today are ARO ST COMMUNITY HALL.
Old stomping ground of many a young punk style teen…
Communists everywhere. Surprised property prices have not declined.

My mate died recently. He really liked the Ramones too. Another mates ex missus was mates with this mate. Another mate, whom lives in the apartment two over from me, knows this other mate. Our mate plays in a band. And the other mate is an old bikey gang guy. Another guy has heaps of dodgy tattoo’s and has spent years in jail.

Ooops. Come to think of it. Pretty much everyone in this story has dodgy tattoo’s, jail time and very few teeth. Other than the band member guy. Even the girls in this story have no teeth and shocking tattoo’s. Even tho they are still sexy as all buggery.

“Your Spiritual Advisor ™ will whip your ass for that comment…”

I will deal with that, thanks [winks]…

Years ago someone was murdered. The kids of this person had attachment problems all right. Mainly due to the plain fact their caregiver was now dead.

Pavlova is a meringue-based dessert named after the Russian ballet dancer Anna Pavlova.[2] It is a meringue cake with a crisp crust and soft, light inside, usually topped with whipped cream and fruit.[1] The name is pronounced /pævˈloʊvə/ or /pɑːvˈloʊvə/, unlike the name of the dancer, which was /ˈpɑːvləvə/.[3][4][5] The dessert is believed to have been created in honour of the dancer either during or after one of her tours to Australia and New Zealand in the 1920s. The nationality of its creator has been a source of argument between the two nations for many years, but formal research indicates New Zealand as the source. Picture from http://www.annabel-langbein.com/recipes/fantasy-pavlova/62/ whom NZFIEND was photographed with and used in brochures for local community help groups. Just saying.

My mates other mates mate mate sells some crystal meth from time to time. My other mates mate mate ex-missus was being put down. So my mates mate went and had a word to my other mates old mate. One guy was acting pretty cool, getting pavlova out the fridge and sitting there eating loudly.

Rather than try and explain “mates mate mate” we will simply say “person A” huh?

A was eating loudly being the man
B was sitting elsewhere
was sitting there
was my mates mate (oops) with a bit of a grudge.

A had been saying a few things about C ending up like the murdered person whom was murdered about fifty metres away from where I am writing this…

D did not like A for selling shitty drugs. D also goes way back with C.

A started acting all strange, hitting D‘s knuckles with his head whilst laying in a foetal position on the ground doing something similar to crying. A fifty year old biker with jail tattoo’s all over him was laying on the ground hitting his head repeatedly into the floor and D‘s closed hand when an even stranger thing happened.

B came out of nowhere and at about that time a hammer hit the back of D‘s head.

Personally, I have purchased shitty drugs from the area before too. Having consumed them with the dead guy – although still alive at the time – the dead guy then didn’t want to pay me for the drugs he consumed with me. The dead guy knew A too. The dead guys house contained some metal artifacts capable of projecting projectiles rapidly in a forward motion. Some of these things may, or may not, have been pointed at good old NZFiend during some disputes that followed. Only made peace with dead guy a few months before his death. Person C may have been at his deathbed. Person D … Well..Knowing him as well as I do… Really asking him to go easy on person B. Even employedperson as a builders labourer. He was useless with a hammer. Which shows in the lack of impact he had on D‘s shaved head.

 should really not have done this. B is in no way a tough guy. Hell, he can hardly swing a hammer. He has trouble enough brushing his own hair.

Yet, hair we have it. Gave B a lift home from the supermarket after getting a tattoo done last week. He really should not have got involved with all the other mates mates mate mate problems.

The other mate matey mate (D) is more of a genuine tough bastard. He is now not happy, understandably, with having a hammer dropped on his noggin.

Personally, I can totally relate to this. Having been hit from behind with a 4×4 foundation post, a three foot long plumbers crescent, a hammer and a bottle. After being stabbed. After being on wrong end of guns… Well. I feel D‘s pain and annoyance. At least it wasn’t the police with the guns mate. They are the scariest bunch of people when they get their tools out. They are not calm. They are, frankly, a danger to themselves and the public at large.

So, after all this, D gets E to contact good ol’ NZFIEND and look for some crystal meth’. I drive there. I drive here. I drive every-bloody-where. I don’t ask for money. It is a good deed.

Part of my HARM REDUCTION strategy. Harm reduction of a most grass roots nature. Something that the doctors and idiots at chemists, doctors offices, drug treatment centres and N.A would never understand.

For I really do care. 

Doctors and addiction centre workers… Workers the world over… They do not understand that lives like mine do not revolve around set routine. I do not get up at 7am, go to the office, and come home five or six days a week. Collecting medication at an exact amount, at an exact time will not work for us. Complete abstinence will not work for us.

Engraving of Hippocrates by Peter Paul Rubens, 1638

Drugs, when and how we need them. Just like any person in the world. The opportunity for us to be part of this normal medical model was taken away from us the moment we presented with “addiction” or “dependence” issues. We show up in need of painkillers with a bone sticking out our skin and they will only give us panadol. Did these people ever read the Hippocratic oath“First do no harm” (Latin: Primum non nocere) originated with the 19th-century surgeon Thomas Inman, not the good old Hippocrate at all.

Most drugs are given on a “take two pills, when and if required” basis. As soon as you’re an addict, or mentally deficient in the eyes of the capitalist medical system, you must take EXACTLY 51mg’s of this and 62mg’s of that at 8:57am. Forget the fact that you are busy one day. And sitting on your arse another. You are awake all night dealing with girls and drama one night. The next tossing, and sometimes turning, yourself to sleep and you don’t wake until midday. After that you have to drive to the middle of nowhere to comfort an overdose victims grieving sister for a day. You miss your 8:57am appointment with the drug hander over people and you get into trouble……

HEY, ARE YOU AWAKE?

“zzzzzzz…… zzzzzzzzzzzz…. wh-whatt? oh shit….. En-thrallll-innnngggg…..”

Here I am. Here we are. I have been having very little sleep this week. A lady came over one night resulting in about one hours slumber. Then various parties in near apartments. Then I had to look after a girl whom turned up at midnight, just as going to bed. And that meant no sleep, no sex, no drugs. No rock n roll. Just listening and making appropriate noises until the men with the white coats could take her away. Advocacy and caring is not for me full time John. I take it too seriously. Then… Well… Whatever. You get the picture.

“If a picture told a thousand words, would it shut you up?……”

Now now John. Here’s $5 for some video editing time…. Can we blank out all the references to real people John?

“What, all that crap wasn’t just made up……”

No, John. That isn’t even the half of it.

“Fac-sin-nate-innnngggg….  I was afraid of that……”

Now defunct meeting that resulted in drama and me deciding for the third time to tell N.A to get stuffed.

Now defunct meeting that resulted in drama and me deciding for the third time to tell N.A to get stuffed.

(anonymous is something Narcotics Anonymous should actually practise – they could learn from me John… When  saying “My mates mate mate mates cousins mate ex girlfriend….” you would never guess I am talking about the girl whom is arriving on a bus and staying the night tonight.)

Sorry John, that has to be the end of the stories for now. I need to find some way of getting veges for the dinner she is cooking.

These stories make me think.

And that is not such a bad thing.

“You reckon?……”

The day was not fucked. The day was an experience.

My input, help and mitigation helped others experience of that day be less harmful. Without being able to talk about so many things, I am proud of some things that day.

Not so much the dealings with my undiagnosed mother.

And how all this helped me become a slightly better Dad? 

God Knows.

I believe in miracles…. Ramones again.
For I have made a ringing noise in my ears get louder and my ability to hear even less during the course of writing these three thousand words. http://youtu.be/V1VczvVrD_I

Samtsirhc Yrrem

Once upon a time there was a little boy who hated Christmas carols and shopping centre festive music.

He liked titles by the likes of Joy Division, Depeche Mode, UB40 even Iron Maiden and Sex Pistols. He was born in ’73. That means music was responsible for the way this guy turned out. Bloody EMI. Click on the band names. The favourite song will load in a new window for your pleasure whilst reading this, the worlds shittest blog.

He wrote his own computer publication and signed himself off as “Sir” K..Ynot.

He was, some would claim still is, left handed.

Signed his name backwards, he did.

Arguably there is a tenuous link to reality via some far flung theory combining left handedness and learning to write using fountain pens and ink wells.

Years later the “K.Y” part of the backwards name turned out to be useful.  6d makes more sense to him than 69. 

It still does.

At age fourty there is another guy who writes crap,
puts a narcissistic “Sir” in front of his handle,
thinks he is clever and even
claims to be capable of rigging elections.

slaterCLICK ON PICTURE FOR MORE

Mr Slater (click above) is a bit of a right wing knob.

Me, being left handed, know all about the way the right suppress the lefties. They call us “reds” and organise witch hunts, wars and pick at as mentally with subtle things like calling us sinister.

Mr Slater and I agree on one thing. We both like CHARLOTTE DAWSON. I like her for all sorts of reasons. I think she may have been left handed. And adopted. There are statistics and those who think these things go hand in hand….

You know what I think about addictions and mental health. Problematic ones that is. Non problematic addictions can go take a running jump. If you need drugs to play football with your kid, or converse with people on your deathbed, then go tell CCDHBDSM and it’s head Mistress to go tie herself up some place nice and quiet. Leave a cellphone just out of reach and leave saying “if I am gone more than an hour, call me”.

After all, it is what they do to a bunch of mental health and addiction clients whom need to sort out their medications over the holiday period.

Addiction to power. Different from being a right wing knob addict. But probably similar enough to have problems getting proper diagnosis.
The Discipline Sadism Masochism for Virgins Manual (DSM-V) will sort out these discrepancies in its next edition.

I have pain.

Constant pain. Sometimes crippling. Mostly just a bloody pain.

I get tattoo’s and the pain in my back seems less for a day or two. Hell, I got these ones over the last fortnight. My birthday and Christmas presents to myself.

O for OarSum. Simply freaken Class A.

geoff_crammond

 

  • Bill Bennett has not sent me a Christmas card.
  • Cameron Slater neither.
  • Nor Clarissa Broderick, Sandy Baigent, Lucy Politini…
  • Tom Flewett would never send me a card. Clarissa will not allow him. 
  • Neither did I get a card from one of my best mates sons who died.
  • None of my mates who died since I gave up drug abuse last year.
  • But wait. No one from N.A has either.
  • In fact, no living person has given me a card or Christmas wish without me sending one first.
    This is Christmas and I can’t be fucked. 

Makes me want to go and use drugs. Hard and long. Repeatedly. Like wanking with a needle full of smack.

But the drugs will not take the pain away.

The day they find a cure for pain is the day I throw my drugs away.

http://youtu.be/985JGeGq_tc?t=34s

But then, I have another eureka moment.
Definitely re-inventing the wheel again.

you can’t fuck the pain away

Not even according to Peaches. And she should know. She looks worthy.
I can just tell.
Some girls get a shock if you say “nice arse” or
flick your tongue out and air guitar with it as you walk past.

Others have worked out you may be a little more than the average pervert builder.

Some turn and wink.
Some turn and abuse.

Some lift their bums higher with their heels and strut off,
leaving a vapour thin trail of expensive perfume and
pheromone like particles discharged by overt displays of power and authority.

Hi, I am NZ FIEND, and I am an addict. 

Hi, NZ FIEND.

Today I am going to share about getting Chlamydia in my eyes………. I may not be Brad Pitt. Nor Stalone. Nor even the rough teddy bear guy that girls want to take home and nurture. But, I am worried. Has anyone here got a “how to tell if you’re an addict” SLA style?

http://www.slaawellington.org.nz/40Q.htm

For fucksakes, bugger. Fuck me. 

Should I really jump into bed with another group of dysfunctional addicts?

Their definitions of recovery seem to be “shut up, have a totally boring life and do all you can to be a good capitalism addict.” Becoming a good “economic unit” is part of every definition of recovery from the industry. “Having a job” is listed by a lot of addicts. This just shows how capitalism has screwed you hard and fast. Shouldn’t having the skills to bring up your kids be more important. Even capitalists should see this.

The kids are going to be much better capitalists if they’re not in jail, on drugs and chasing skirt all day. Spending more time with your kids would probably even stop ADHD (along with banning TV adverts, of course….)

Capitalism addiction is the bloody worst.

You can keep it….  Your capitalism addiction.

I’ll keep mine…. Compulsion to please females pubic areas.

After all, it is not hugely problematic………..
Well, not to the global economy or capitalist markets. I will not change the price your house sells for (unless the purchaser notices the rock climbing equipment anchors in the cieling – in which case the price may actually go up…)
…………….unless you are an ex-partner who kicked me out for giving other ladies orgasms. (sorry)

Unless you are the girls whom I want nothing to do with (other than your sex, of course) as you all give me headaches telling me shit. (sorry)

Unless you are the person whom is so damn straight you got a surprise and crashed when you saw a couple having sex on top of the entrance to the main motorway tunnel. (sorry)

If you’re the policewoman whom complained about a lady with long blonde hair bobbing up and down in front of my waist whilst standing in front of five thousand people at a New Years gig… (sorry you were ten metres below us and couldn’t join in…)

I owe all of you people a great deal of amends.

I owe you.
Would that be cash, credit card or oral?

 

Well, that is Christmas wasted. One step at a time. Entirely fucking backwards.

 

 

My bloody daughter….

My bloody daughter.

So proud.

We got two identical meccano style construction toys last year so she has just convinced me to wrap one up and give it away.

But not to any one Tom, Dick nor Harry.

 

She is to give to the kid at her school who kicked her football away, stole her boots and threw her shoes over a power line.

The kid has a few problems. My offspring thinks the teachers can be mean to him and he doesn’t feel included all the time. a bunch of other shit came up, but I am proud that my daughter seems to know more about dis association, dopamine deficits and healthy child development than the teachers or even half the academics and medical professionals….

We are going to invite the little shit to play footy with us over holidays.

Christmas spirit of giving rich people plastic shit made by slaves?
fuck that

image

But still… The little cow didn’t get her Dad a birthday present. Was on Sat 13th.

You know what… Real present is having a kid like this… and giving her back to her Mum late Sunday so as to have a bunch of interestingly sceptik-all adult fun later.

Something to be said for not having kid all the time after all.

Is sex better than drugs?

Self medicating with sex would probably cause less concern at the CCDHB ADDICT DISSERVICES… It may even be encouraged. 

CCDHBDSM anyone?

I am a real brother.

KATEAlthough currently listening to BROTHERHOOD OF MAN by MOTORHEAD quite loud at 8am in my block of flats, I feel this is somewhat tame.

Today is the deathday of my sister, Kate. Her birthday is later this year.

Dug up this graphic I did for the cover of the memorial service prints. Also did the inside, the back, the inserts. But, this graffix will suffice for these crappily written and ill thought pages.

You can see the house we grew up in behind the beach. You can see my car (most importantly, of course) too.

We had some good times on this beach.

I am a real brother.

Life was starting to take a new turn before Kate came back from the U.K weighing something like 35kg (she should have been 60 I would say). Kate ran, she biked, she walked, she sailed, she toured the world.

She is scattered in New Zealand.

Gabor Maté once corrected me when I suggested us ADhD types had “SHATTERED MINDS”. He was quick to point out the differences between SHATTERED and SCATTERED.

Kate is shattered.

I am attempting to spend the day SANS-SHATTERED myself.

Football training last night did my head in. Pulling my hair out. Twenty boisterous ten year olds to control. Is it wrong to diagnose ADHD, ANXIETY and other personality disorders whilst coaching your teams? I think not. WHY DO I HAVE TWENTY KIDS TO LOOK AFTER WHEN I HAVE TROUBLE WITH MY OWN ONE TEAM ANYWAY?!!! I got annoyed. I could not get them to listen for fourty five minutes. Finally they started getting it. One group of kids (my daughter was in this group)  started doing it properly almost straight away. The worst listeners… Well… The drill was to only kick the ball twice and PASS. The worst listeners were still dribbling the ball (one kid kicked 17 times!) AFTER TWENTY MINUTES. The worst listeners got their football taken off them… I then kicked the football as far as my back allows (about 60 metres) and they had to run and get it. If they did not run there and back, I would take it off them and kick it just as far the other direction. 

Something to be said for military style ADHD interventions.

Any Comments Gabor? Am sure my spiritual advisor would kick my arse. With a potentially penetrating appendage on her toes.

This took away my happy mojo. Went to a social gathering, did not see anyone I recognised immediately, so turned and left. Was only there thirty seconds. If that.

Guess I am a real brother.

Guess I do have some stress around my sisters death.

Guess I am okay.

Guess life and time changes.

Guess I am healing.

Guess I am recovering.