Lost Folks Week - 16/28 August 2003 / part 2
I am going for psycho - therapy soon to try and sort this shit out over Ruth and other head - fuck crap. Wibble. Will be painful but I need to go thru it and cope with the sore bits inside. Im sick of hurting but will be stronger than ever when I get out of this one. So much for taking it easy, I've just started on the vodka again 'cos Im hurting so much inside. Everythings gonna fucking explode, I can feel it, but I don't care. Had a good time at the party but it was another 5a.m. job and crashed at the pub again. In one of the guest rooms this time though, the manageress and I were up last, talking, and we got that pissed we both just crashed on the same bed after drinking orgasms all night (vodka, kahlua, and baileys). We're just friends but it was so good to be able to cuddle someone and sleep next to someone that it made me realise what I'm missing and I need vodka to take the pain away 'cos this is the worst thing I've ever been thru. Coming off the heroin and methodone was a piece of piss compared to going thru this shite. We had a surprise party for the 11 year old daughter of the landlords fiance this afternoon and I got offered a jam tart as they were preparing the food and Charlotte said "No you want a mucky tart don't you!" That says it all. I am reminded of a phrase by Burroughs 'torn apart by disembodied lusts'. I need to fuck some horny bitch right up the arse and make her cum till she can't cum anymore.
spliff tickle
cum fancy
sniff pickle
strawberry nancy
slice nylons
nice pylons
Something that is 900 years old. Happy Birthday to you. "Cod and chips twice please, flower" - "Salt and vinegar, honey?" Lips still lisping lists. Fourth write fifth. Glass gussetts tucking split pods, chuck. Flying blue transparency, itching. Basically I'm a sex starved idiot with a chocolate cock. But the Roses Are Blooming in Picardy. Prehensile textures digest the door-knob and project the door-knocker. Floods of flowery gussetts on my tongue-pen, I wish. Listening to Bedrock remix of Cowgirl by Underworld. A favorite of mine, heard it many times and always hear something new unfurling as it's layers unfold. The apostraphe. Putting on Bentley's Gonna Sort You Out by Bentley Rhythm Ace next after I've got washed and changed then Im off out on the piss again. Talking to myself, it's not funny and it's not clever. Knock me down with a feather you hair-brained beast. Oh, oh, oh, eating my own phlegm oh, Mrs Diddgeries washer, what did it do. My? head is fucked, Jean Spout-up Hans Arp or a pharmacy in the dwelling. my abode.
Things are getting lonely and desperate again. Started looking at my scarred arm again and thinking of doing some more, oh shite, where is she, whoever she is, why isn't she here, I can't take much more of this, I'm so fucking lonely and so fucking fucked-up and no - one knows how bad I feel inside, I need, oh fuck it all, I've had enough, John Cales version of Heartbreak Hotel, lonliness, suicide + desperation. Fuck it, I wish I could but there's something stopping me as ever. In the words of Monte Cazzazza "It's worth staying alive out of spite". But spite for what, life I suppose, but when it's this painful, what is life and whats the fucking point. It hurts to think that that bitch is so happy without me in her life, the fucking evil lieing cow-bag, It hurts, it hurts, it just hurts so much inside.
Nearly kicked off twice in the pub tonight, one guy was o.k., just a silly falling-out but the twat nearly got banjoed and if I'd hit him with it I'd have killed the silly cunt. Always safe with a banjo on my knee, weighs a ton, could wipe out a roomful with it, oh shit. Can't go on like this, something has got to give.
Really need to stop boozing and going out and carrying-on like this but I can't 'cos I get so lonely in this little room and the fucking walls start fucking closing in on me and I have to get out. Was talking to this woman tonight, she was pissed-up and had been in the pub but when I told her I was 40, she didn't believe me, she said I was 18, bless her, she was a little bit older than me and told me she couldn't offer sex but fed me friends fish, chips'n mushy peas off her fingers (nice) so i saw her up the road to where she was staying but regret leaving her 'cos she wanted me to stay and lick her fingers! Oh fuck this fucking stupid life and stop me going out and being nice and evil at the same time and wanting to hurt some twat - arsed - bastard 'cos thats not me, is it. Got the fridge ready for his head though. Been listening to the Pogues a lot "and he was a miserable bollocks and a bitches - bastard - whore, and it's lend me ten pounds and I'll buy you a drink and mother wake me early in the morning." Oh shit, shit, shit, I've had enough of this fucking loneliness crap and this little room I call home, wish I'd twatted the stupid bastard now, at least I might have had some company in my cell 'cos there's no-one else in this little cell of mine again tonight but it's ok, no it isn't, 'cos it's friday tomorrow (today) and it's another crazy Whitby weekend and I can whistle, no I can't, yes I can. Had enough of me.
What are you supposed to do when you've had enough of yourself and you can't take it anymore of your stupid little shitty self and can't go around Whitby whistling at this time of morning but can't take anymore of your stupid little fucking shitty little room? W.W.
There's no minge. Fuck me. Sick and tired of....
