So, why am I learning Japanese? Well, primarily to piss off the girl I’m dating; she says it’s a garbage language, and she speaks about 18 of them, so she should know what she’s talking about. Nevertheless I thought it was a bit racist and told her so. She said that when I’ve had 600 of them take a shit in my car, I’ll be in a position to judge. Then she hung up on me. Then she blocked me. I’ve really got to find out the rest of that story.
As for learning Japanese; I’m using DuoLingo, which is just brilliant! I’ve been doing it for a month and have learned around 60 words. I can say things like “Is it a small umbrella?” ‘chee-sai kasa des-ka?’ and “No, it’s a black dog” ‘ee-eh karoii eenu des’. I haven’t got to “Fuck you! You racist, smart-arsed, tight-cunted b****!” yet, I think it’s in module 19.
Was showing off my new phone to my mate Karl and saying how I loved it more than my own mum, and he says
“I no longer believe you when you say that.”
As a man, I admit that sometimes I have trouble recognising and identifying my own emotions. Honestly, if I’m not hungry or horny, I don’t have a clue what it is I’m feeling. So when she wants to know how I feel about her, I’m at a bit of a loss.
She definitely makes me feel horny, and she definitely makes me feel happy. Sometimes she makes me feel hungry, especially first thing in the morning but that might be breakfast and I’m confusing her with bacon. Ignoring the hunger then, that leaves happy and horny.
That’s love isn’t it?.
MINISTER ONE: OK hear me out on this. [PAUSE] How about we put a tax on vaginas?
MINISTER TWO: You want to tax vaginas?
MINISTER ONE: Well, not the vaginas themselves, just anyone who has one.
MINISTER TWO: You mean women?
MINISTER ONE: Well that makes it sound like we’re discriminating. It’s just that these stats show that the owners of vaginas are far more productive and creative, both economically and socially than any other group. It makes perfect fiscal sense. Vaginas are a gold mine.
MINISTER TWO: It might seem a little fairer if we taxed penises as well?
MINISTER ONE: WHAT!? Tax people for having a penis!? That is literally the stupidest fucking idea I have ever heard in my life! The fuck is wrong with you!? Seriously!? Tax people for having a penis!? Have you got a brain tumour or something? Listen to yourself man! I mean, WHAT THE FUCK??!!
I Watched Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride last night. It was delightful and very sweet. I fell in love with Emily here: the titular corpse.
The maggot in the eyeball made for a challenging wank at first, but I leaned into it, and I have to say, I fancy her something rotten.
so, the party is in full swing. everyone is having a good time. the music is rocking, the booze flowing and the smoke billowing. i’m playing a game of acid chess with a hot italian chic. it involves no pieces and no board and i think i’m winning. everyone is having a great time, that is until he shows up.
“oh fuck!” i hear someone mutter and i look up and there he is, surveying the revelry. you can feel the atmosphere drain from the room. most of us try to pretend we haven’t seen him, but it does no good.
“quiet everyone!” he shouts, “there’s something i need to say.” as the sound dies down, a few eyes roll as we reluctantly look his way. “i just want you all to know that i love you. all of you.” there is a general murmur and a few ‘thanks mate’ and ‘that’s nice’. hoping that’s it, everyone tries to get back to the fun, but i’ve been here before and i know there’s no chance of that, not now. “excuse me!” he barks, drawing all our attentions back to him,” but didn’t i just say something?” you can almost taste the collective sigh.
“we love to too man.” someone says and the rest of us nod and utter in agreement.
“well then,” he demands, “don’t you think it would be a nice idea if you all starting singing some songs about me, about how cool it is that i love you all so much?” everyone realises that this cunt is way too boorish to be ignored and somebody starts humming.
the italian chic and i sneak out the back, unseen, with a couple of others, and as we’re waiting for a bus she asks me “who was that asshole?”
“oh him,” i say, “that’s god.”
You won’t believe what happened to me on the way to work
I bent down to tie my laces, and a crazy woman attacks me!
Yeah! She starts slapping my ass, and when i turn to confront her, she pushes me onto my knees and shoves my face between her legs! Then, when I turn to pick up my case, she tries to bum me!
Oh my god! What did you do?
I had a hard-on for the rest of the day.
they’re a bunch of fucking natives, and they spout all this hippie shit about self-discovery and journeys into my soul and what-not. i nod politely and agree, but just so as to be polite. i don’t want to offend them, but its all a load of crap as far as i’m concerned. i’m here for the trip of my life. i’ve heard about these mushrooms, ever since i started taking drugs. the most powerful hallucinogenic on the planet. the trip of a lifetime. they are legendary and until now, i wasn’t even sure they existed at all.
i look at the pile of goo the old woman spits onto the plate. i understand why she has to chew the mushrooms first. she has been doing this for years, and there are enzymes in her saliva that will break down the mushrooms and prevent me from vomiting too much. novices have died, choking on their own puke, from not understanding this. i have travelled thousands of miles for this trip. i have done acid and psilocybin and peyote until i could go to work tripping on all three. i need more. i need the ultimate trip and, if what i have heard is right, this is it.
i hold my disgust at bay and swallow the muck on the plate. the actual flavour revolts me, and its not her spit, its just the ‘shrooms, they taste like the bitter flavour of hell. they all smile and mutter some dumb native prayer. within minutes the nausea hits me like a tsunami hits a beach hut. they have to hold me up over a large bowl as what looks and feels like everything i ever ate explodes through my mouth and nose. my head erupts and my body shakes and i vomit with such force that i am barely able to hear their stupid prayers. suddenly it stops, as violently as it had started, and almost immediately the hallucinations begin. they are like acid hallucinations at first, shapes forming from random patterns. i see dragons and belly dancers form and disappear from the smoke bellowing from the old man’s pipe. i see a forests grow and die in the plaids of the old woman’s hair, and then the hallucinations take over my vision completely.
i am no longer in their disgusting mud hut but in a large ballroom in a great mansion. expensive and beautiful things glisten all around me. i can still hear the old man’s voice, and he is asking me, with some urgency where i am. i tell him i am in a house. “what kind of house?” he asks.
“a huge house.” i hear my disembodied voice tell him, “a fucking castle.”
“you are both lucky and unlucky.” he tells me, “this is your soul. some people’s souls are tiny little apartments and their subconscious, nothing more than a damp basement, but castles have dungeons, not cellars. you need to go down there.”
‘whatever.’ i think, i’m here to get off my tits, and across the room from me are ten of the sexiest women i have ever seen. they are barely dressed and are dancing and beckoning me to join them. my cock throbs with anticipation. i knew this was gonna be good and i hope that i don’t wake to find that i have wanked off in front of the silly old natives. fuck my subconscience!
“you won’t be able to hear me for much longer,” the old man’s fading voice rattles in my head, “you need to go downstairs. you need to enter the dungeon of your mind. you need to face your demons. you won’t get another chance.” there is something in the urgency of his voice that makes me hesitate.
‘maybe a quick peek’ i think. what harm can it do? these girls will still be here when i get back.
the door is locked with a large padlock. it crumbles at my touch and i imagine that i think i hear him say
“that is all i can do for you.” the door swings open and i am hit with the darkness and the stench. it smells of fear and hate and anger and ugliness. i step into the cold dark horror. almost immediately, terror grabs me by the throat and threatens to choke me. i turn back, but the door is no more. panic smacks me in the face like a cricket bat, and i realise that i have no choice but to descend.
the stairs are rickety and feel like they want to throw me into the unknown abyss below me. i find a candle and light it but its almost like the stink of fear prevents it illuminating anything other than the next few steps. its like fear itself has blinded me. as i descend and explore, doors creak and some slam, inexplicably behind me. i am too consumed with fear to even look back in case those doors too have disappeared. i curse the old man. i scream “you cunt!” at the top of my voice. the echoes ring in my ears for minutes, until I believe the words are for me, and far below me i hear the snarl of a hungry demon that i fear i have woken.
i work my way down the stairs, at times treading on and crushing things that feel horribly human. i dare not look down to see. then i tread on something that squeals in pain and i start. i fall backwards and plummet, god knows how far, and land with a soul-shaking thump on what feels like bones. the candle is gone. pitch blackness, and terror surrounds me and closes in on me like a gang of satan’s hungry children. the howls of desperate rage and pain from the demon become my only direction, and as i crawl away in an attempt to cower, i feel my knees cut open. there are shards of glass all over the floor. i pick a particularly long and sharp one and attempt to regain my courage.
i edge my way, blind, around the wall until i find its door. i piss myself literally as i swing it open.
it is huge and has its back to me but i can see it is horrific. it spins and snarls, and if there was anything left in my bladder it would have fled my body in an attempt to flee. i see the demon is chained but as it turns and faces me, the rage in its eyes has such fury that it breaks its bonds without a single thought.
it knows me, and i know it. trembling, i hold my pathetic shard of glass in my hand. knowing full well that i can never kill such a monster. our eyes meet and we see each other. tears stream from the demons eyes and its chest heaves with decades of non-stop sobbing. i see that despite how horrific this beast has become, that it is me. a forgotten me, a neglected me. an innocent, child me that has been hidden from even my view. giant, grotesque and locked away. growing more ugly by the day.
i drop the weapon, not from fear but from pity. this monster doesn’t need slaying, it needs to be hugged, and nurtured and freed from his prison of lies and hurt.
i wake to find myself still in the hut. the wise old folk absorbed by breaking bad. they hear my sobbing, and without turning, they smile.
i’ve got this pedometer app on my phone. its really cool and tells me how far i’ve walked. i guess it works by measuring the up/down motion of each step, i’ve never really given it much thought. until today.
as i was about to go out for a jog, i checked that the app was on. it drains the battery, so i often switch it off if i know i’m settled for the evening. it was on, and in fact it said that i’d walked 3,247 paces already today. now, this was impossible. i’d only been out of bed for 20 minutes and had walked no further than the loo and the kitchen. 3,247 paces is almost two miles.
i checked the times of this supposed jaunt, only to discover that it had happened before i’d even got out of bed. then, it hit me. when i’d woken up, after listening to the news, i’d checked my phone and read my mail. a sweet and sexy friend of mine had sent me some pictures of herself, and i had spent some considerable time ‘enjoying’ them. it would seem that my trusted app is not so accurate when it comes to measuring up/down motions as i thought it was.
now i’m left wondering how many 20 minute wanks have been logged as two-mile jogs. maybe that explains why i’m putting on weight.
you ride me. rising and falling with growing passion and vigour, feeling me drive deeper and harder into you, feeling your lust growing with every thrust
Stop it Kyle! I’ve got ppl here!
your pussy glows with a wet, hungry heat
I fucking mean it. Stop! I can’t touch myself right now!!!
but you will … your thighs tremble and your whole body tingles with delight as you reach down and tighten my collar by a single notch
you see the fear in my eyes and drink it in like strong liquor – your power magnifying your pleasure a hundred-fold – you stare deep into my soul and lap up the helplessness you find there, and you tighten the collar by another notch
I kinda hate you right now!
as my panic rises, you ram yourself harder and and faster onto me, my cock bulging like my eyes, your pussy so wet and hot, it burns. you know you shouldn’t, but you tighten my collar further still. your control over me, so thrilling that you cannot help but scream with such primitive and animal delight that it sets off several car alarms
I told you! I CAN’T touch myself right now!!!
but i know you are
the terror in my eyes is so intoxicating, it sends your mind to a whole new place. and as your orgasm crashes into you like a 100 mile an hour juggernaut into a brick wall, you know you will not let go until you are spent, no matter what.
I fucking hate you! Asshole!!!
did you come?
You know i fucking did!
so who really has the power?
I love you.
So, the rooms we live in are provided by the charity we work for, the rent is very reasonable. they do keep nagging us though. about smoking pot in them. “please smoke your joints outside?” they keep asking, “that’s our property and we are legally liable”. of course, they have a good point, and of course, we ignore them and keep puffing away like octogenarian grannies on a the 25th mile of a marathon. thing is, the job is stressful, all that bum-wiping, and lifting, and bed-sores, and feeding, and death, and boredom and stair climbing, and caring. you need an outlet and weed was ours. well, that and e, and acid, and ska, and football hooliganism, and speed and uk surf: a genre of music that has sadly not survived.
eventually the bosses do what they got to and call the fuzz. i’m watching the box in the communal area and supping on a pint of shepherd neame, when i see four burly looking blokes and a german sheppard stop outside my room. i know instantly what has happened, and rather than panic, i get up and walk calmly into my fate of being a homeless and jobless criminal. i even manage a smile.
i lead them into my room and just point to the weed on the table next to the bong. they say “all very well and good sir,” all of them staring at my sorry little bag of grass, “but we will need you to strip.” so, i go through the humiliation of a strip-search (wishing that there had been at least one wpc there, to see my dong), and then they let the dog have a good sniff around. she is well trained and loves me, or at least how i smell. there is no other puff in my room and the only point that grabs her attention is my laundry basket. there are socks in there that, if you threw them at the wall, would stick to it, and the cops ask if i have anything in there.
“not that i know of.” i lie, knowing that the cop will have to rummage, very thoroughly through them all.
As they take me to the cop shop i think of doug.
doug and i have rooms next to each other, we smoke a lot of weed together. we score from the same geezer, every thursday, on payday. just like we did today. only difference between us is that i cycle and he walks or grabs a bus. i always get home quicker. he was just arriving, as i was leaving, which means… he’s like half an hour away. he ain’t back yet. there may well be a chance for him to avoid getting busted, if only i can get hold of him before he gets home.
the cops aren’t rough with me or anything, after all, they have what they want, and we almost have a laugh together. all the time i’m thinking of doug. “am i allowed a phone call?” i ask.
“sure.” they smile, “who do you want to call?” i tell them it’s my mate doug. “come with us.” they beckon, and i follow, assuming they are taking me to a telephone. all i wanna say to him is
‘get out of the fucking house man! the pigs are coming!’ they lead me into a room where i see doug, sat, being interviewed by two other cops.
“here is is”, says one cop, “what do you want to say to him?”
“get out of the fucking house man!” i say, “the pigs are coming!”
There are just some people, who, without really possessing any amazing qualities, are nevertheless, amazing. Usually this is because they think they are, when they are not. Perhaps this immense sense of self denial, is what actually makes them amazing.
I just had a brief conversation with a woman I met coming back from the store, who was such a creature. We bumped into each other because I was not really looking where I was going, my mind on other things, and this resulted in the very English tradition of us both apologising repeatedly to each other. Why was she amazing? Because despite being older even than I am and having let her body go, to chips and KFC many decades ago, and looking like a poorly strung up sausage, she was dressed as though she were Beyonce. Fish-nets, mini-skirt and so much cleavage on display, that if i were to attempt to bare that much flesh, I would have to strip naked, and probably twice.
For the moment of conversation we shared, I got the impression that she was a thoroughly nice old girl. Not bright, but friendly and open and nice, and as she waddled off in front of me, shovelling chips into her mouth, between gulps of White Ass Cider, I wondered and marvelled at human nature and our ability to delude ourselves.
Then I thought about myself: 50, still with a mohawk and sporting bright camo-pants and wondered how ridiculous I must look. I was too scared to actually answer the question but then two 20 something hotties walked past me and giggled. So I got my answer anyway.
I arrived home with the feeling that we can all be amazing, if we are only brave and stupid enough to try.
i long for your rewards,
i fear your punishment.
your control is total
and obedience guaranteed.
but what will you ask?
how much of me
will you demand?
will you push me to my limits?
will you test your own?
i do not know.
how dark is your imagination?
or how far you will go?
i just know,
i want you to take me there.
the last few weeks and days of my life have transformed me, like very few periods in my life ever have. maybe when my son died, or maybe when he was born, but little else in my life has caused me to define and redefine myself as much as the last few days and weeks have. i have lost friends and gained friends. i have had a punch up on the street with one of my best mates, and i have not had a punch up in decades. i have learned a lot about myself and a lot of it i wish i hadn’t. i have had to look at myself hard and admit things i don’t like. i am shallow and fickle and very selfish. i am proud and arrogant and stupid. i have had to look at myself very hard, in a way that made me realise that i am deep and serious and not what i just said. i am as stupid as i am clever. i am a walking contradiction. i can feel real and deep hurt, but i have a capacity to hurt others that exceeds that, and i do not like that about me. i’ve made new friends but lost old ones. i have had to redefine some friendships and redefine how i see myself. i have reconnected with some and disconnected with others. i have seen people change and i have changed. ‘life is like a great wave,’ a one legged surfer’s ex once said to me, ‘try to control the wave and it will crush you, all you can do is read it and ride it’. i have grown and i have shrunk, and growing is the more painful and difficult. i have lost and i have found, and sadly i have learned more from what i have lost, although i am learning right now that if my neighbour does not turn his music down, i am going to find my cricket bat and he is going to lose some teeth.
i stand naked in the middle of the room, blindfolded and with my hands on my head, as you asked. i hear you open the cabinet and take something out. i do not know what it is and my imagination starts to run wild. not knowing what is coming makes it seem far more frightening and you know this. i hear you slowly circle me, sometimes coming very close. minutes go by and i start to tremble with the anticipation. i think i feel something brush lightly against my skin but i can not be sure, my senses are playing tricks with my mind now. more minutes pass and despite my fear and the tears running down my cheeks, my cock is stiff and twitching. i swear i feel something touching it but i can’t be sure. i can’t even be sure which way up i am any more. you turn the music up and i know this is to drown out my screams and i tense up and start flinching uncontrollably. i can feel your hot breath on the back of my neck and smell your arousal. i can almost taste how turned on you are. i cannot believe that you would make me wait longer but you do, and it is not until you see that i am at the point of collapse that you finally do it. you kiss me.
Shhh, and I’ll let you in on a little secret.
I have very dark eyes, they are almost black, and I don’t need sunglasses. I do wear them though, in the summer, but only so that I can look at women’s tits without them realizing.
I am worried however that the slobbering might give the game away.
One of the most embarrassing things that happened to me recently was when I got an erection during a prostate examination. I think that was when they realised that I wasn’t a real doctor.
Hackney is one of the poorest boroughs in the country, and the neighbourhood I live in is pretty rough and run-down, even for Hackney. We see more than our fair share of crime and inner-city depravity: just this morning I walked past a drunk woman taking a dump in a phone box. Nevertheless we were all horrified when we learned that the local library was being used, after dark, as a brothel and crack house. The police raided it around three AM, arrested 30 people and seized a stash of drugs and weapons. We were flabbergasted, we had no idea that we had a library.
I have been away from the blogosphere, working on a design for a rudimentary time machine. I now have basic prototype but I won’t know if it works until yesterday.
In 1920 Albert Einstein undertook a lengthy lecture tour of the United States to explain his new theory of relativity. The tour was so long that, towards the end, his driver mentioned that he had heard the lecture so many times that he could probably deliver it himself. Einstein suggested that he have a go, and the following night they traded places and the great man sat in the audience with his driver’s cap on, while the driver delivered the speech – with word-perfect accuracy.
Once the lecture came to an end, the Q and A started and a student in the front row threw up his hand and asked a complicated question about the mathematical structure of the space-time continuum. Without a moments hesitation, the driver pointed out Einstein in the crowd, still wearing the driver’s hat, and said “That question is so easy, that even my driver knows the answer.”
It was a dodgy kinda pub, you know the sort, dark and seedy, old men nursing their half pints so as to make them last the whole evening, or topping up their glasses from cans in a bag under the table, but I was meeting the man there, so there wasn’t much I could do except grin and bear it.
When I got up to visit the bathroom, several heads spun silently in my direction, beady eyes weighing up my pint greedily. I sat back down and flipped over a beer mat. On the back I wrote, in simple block letters “I HAVE SPAT IN THIS BEER”, propped it up against the glass and went and took a leak.
When I got back, my drink remained untouched. I grinned, I was way to smart for these lowlifes, I thought. I took the card and laid it back on the grubby Formica. I took three long gulps of the cool, golden liquid and then noticed that underneath my words on the beer mat, someone had written the words “SO HAVE WE”.
i like my women like i like my coffee.
What? hot, sweet and black?
nah, bought from a street corner and costing less than three quid.
You think you’re funny, don’t you?
sure, i could make people laugh just reading from a dictionary.
Really? how would you do that then?
i’d read it with my cock hanging out.