Mistake

I have recieved an e-mail from the guy that I sent an e-mail to. I have recieved a reply from the guy who runs the six sentence story blog. The reply tells me that my Six Sentence Story will be published on his thing on new year's day. I am terrified. Why did I send in the story in the first place? Self-publicity. But what's the point of getting people to know me. I am ill. I can smell the ingredients of a Fisherman's Pie in my oven, cooking until Golden Brown. Prime cuts of pollock, creamy taragon sauce and piped maris piper potatoes with a crispy coating. I peep into the oven and notice in delight that the pie looks nearly ready. I notice something. It is on top of the pie. It is a fish shaped piece of pastry designed to add character to the pie. I remember what my six sentence story is about. I feel sick. In a sudden crazed movement I open the oven take out the pie rip the fish shape from the pie and shove it in a glass of water. I put the pie back in the oven. My hands are badly burnt. I put some E45 cream on them.





Want to solve the mystery? Wondering what my six sentence story is about? I bet you are you impatient swine. Then check out the http://www.sixsentences.blogspot.com/ on new years day. It's like some kind of mystery. What would drive you to put a fish in some water? What is your terrible secret etc? Well get over it. Stop thinking about it and get on with your life you LOSER. But don't forget to check the site on new years day.

Early 08:29am GMT

I have already had a cold shower. It's freezing outside and I have been for a ten mile run which finished ten mintues ago when it was even colder. I've eaten a bowl of porridge with salt and sugar in it for an oriental feel. I have had a shave and cut myself by accident while shaving; I am not a self harmer. I daubed scented after shave onto my facial wounds to stop them bleeding. I went toilet. I have watched the breakfast news and listened to some of the today programme on BBC RADIO FOUR. I have cooked some kippers and had marmalade. I have fed my surviving fish.

I am writing a list of morning things. I never do any of these things. Here is the result of my inactivitity.

I am caked in three years worth of filth. I have problems with my ticker. When people see my face they think that my face is some find of furry hat. I have a terrible aroma. I wear adult nappies. I don't know what's going on in the world and can no longer talk. My fish is totally dead.

The Future

I made a short film today. It is a futurmentary.

Gok Wan.

I am starting to worry that I lack self discipline. I keep indulging in new things. Fads are what I like to indulge in. I am drinking some probiotic yoghurt. It's packed full of good bacteria. I can feel the good bacteria patrolling my veins. There are three types of good bacteria. There are traffic wardens, who make sure that there is no illegal parking inside the tender parts of my body. There are comedians, who stand atop the cholesterol in my arteries and tell jokes to relieve the pressure. There are librarians, who get angry when there is any noise inside me. I had a book when I was a child that has diagrams of the inside parts of bodies in it. I imagine where the good bacteria fit into it. I feel aware of my body. I touch my stomach. Things are not going according to plan. Some music plays. Someone starts singing. It is Gok Wan. Gok Wan is dressed as good bacteria. He looks fabulous; his eyes dart coquettishly from side to side, his lips are pursed into a pout, his bum is pert. He is teasing me. There is a 60ft projection of my naked body plastered against the side of big ben. Gok Wan dances around big ben whilst an elephant gives birth to another smaller elephant. It is terrifying. Gok Wan.

Lights

There is a pair of tweezers. The tweezers are in my hand which floats near my left eye as you look at me. You are not looking at me. Left eye as you look at it. I am tearing out eyelashes. It hurts. We don't do things because they are easy. The light flashes from the sun to my tweezer into my eye. My eyes are bald.

Troglodyte

I have become a cave dweller. The fluid dripping on my head was rich in minerals and turned my face into a rock. I have locked myself in wookey hole cave and think I am a witch. There is a skeleton of some ancient caveman type resting up against my left cheek, and some slugs have made a home of my folded craggy love handles.

Alas, this is just a flight of fancy. I am standing outside the flat which rests blithely on top of my flat in the block of flats which my flat is in. The entrance to the flat is blocked off to the public by a strip of tape which says on it "Police line - DO NOT CROSS". There has been a murder in the flat. For some reason the police have done a terrible job cleaning up and there is blood and gore thrashed all over the inside of the flat. I do some quick thinking and conclude that perhaps the fluid dripping onto my prone face and neck was actually blood, as I first thought. You might think - Aha but what of the red colour of blood that blood normally has, that would be all over your face. The problem is I try to avoid looking in mirrors and so have no idea at any time what my face may or may not look like. I suddenly panic. I am definately panicking. What if the rozzers come out of the flat, see me with blood all over my face, put 2 + 2 togther and think that I am in some way responsible for not sending a tax form back to the home office which I meant to do a while ago. I take a half eaten baked potato from my shopping bag and place it on the ground in front of the flat to slow down any pursuing officers. I slowly back towards the lift. I am sweating. I get into the lift. I emerge from the lift. I am in my flat. I sit on my sofa.

The baked potato is still there.

It is the only thing protecting me from the police. I imagine the looks on their faces when they see it. "What is this, officer Olanrewaju?" they will say. Will they send it to the lab for DNA tests? I am anxious. I think about how good baked potatos taste.

Five minutes later I have eaten the potato. I am done for.

Wet Blanket

I am lying face up in bed and there is something drip dripping onto my forehead from directly above me that is threatening to drive me insane. It keeps beating down on me from above. It is incessant. It is unstoppable. To discover where the fluid is coming from all I need do is move my arm approx 50 cms upwards and slightly to the right and turn on old Mr. Light switch and have a look around. I only need move my arm and hand half a metre. I can't be bothered to move my hand and arm. My face is starting to feel sticky. The liquid keeps beating down on me. I wonder if this is how stalagmites are formed. I wonder if my head is going to become an unusual geological formation. Will I soon become a troglodyte? How will I breathe if my face/mouth is all bunged up with limestone? I am sure that the flood of fluid on my face is blood. I can sort of taste it. Why is there blood dripping from my ceiling?

Chapter

Once upon a time there was a very dark room with only a few people inside it. Actually there was only one person inside it. That person was me. Actually the room is the balcony of my flat and I was outside having a cup of ground wheat grass. All of a sudden OH NO a blast of icy cold air blew past and SLAM closed the door to my balcony. I immediately got sick as I was so scared of being trapped out there forever. All of a sudden I realised that I was probably going to die. But don't worry cause how am I going to write this and all that if I died so I can't have died. I was out there for over some time. A small bird that could talk came and landed on my shoulder and put it's beak in my ear and said " You pathetic miserable bastard you have locked yourself out here and I am going to drive you mad you're going to be locked out here with me forever son and I'm going to feed you worms to keep you alive you won't want to eat them at first cause they look so disgusting and they taste even worse but you'll change your tune mate you'll change your tune everyone changes their tune you'll be begging me mate pleading me to shove them wriggling wronguns down your throat I'm going to force feed you mate I'm going to force feed you and you're going to like it mate and then when you're eating I'm going to whisper demented chatterings into your ear that's right demented you'll have no chance mate no chance."

I have been watching myself eat in the looking glass above my toilet for four minutes (mins). I thought about pissing while eating while watching but my dexterity skill is only at approx 45/100. The above is a story I'm thinking of so I suppose I am doing three things at the same time in a way. This is a serious triumph. I am writing it in my diary as soon as I have stopped smearing mustard into my chops.

Action 2

I sit in a heap on my bed with thick piles of scissors around me. I look at my hands, cankered. Isn't that for plants? Not this. It's definately not for plants this canker. This is a disease that is in my veins, in my flesh, it's thick in my arteries, restricting the flow of myblood to my brain. Thump - Squirt - Slice. I cut my finger nails with scissors until my fingers bleed. I lose 2 grams.

Demographocracy

Music is coming out of the television and is accompanying moving images on the flat panel of the television. It's definately an advert. This advert is part of the new and increasingly popular genre of advert that is called "Many Small things all together in an unusual context with profound music." The music is warming and definately deeply profound. The advert is selling us a lifestyle and definately something that I want to consume. The advert is confident and moving but also subversive; it makes us recontextualise something in an unforseen way. I am sitting five inches from the screen. Or rather, my face is sitting five inches from the screen. Or rather, my body is sitting a distance from the screen which allows my face to remain motionless from the screen at a distance of five inches. I feel a hollow resignation to stupor filling me up from bottom to top. Or top to bottom. These moments of total there is a movement apathy stopping the movement and I'm turned off to be turned on. I'm turned off to be turned on. I feel completely amazing I am consuming the images I am consuming all of the implied experience that my Television is supplying I am devouring all of the lives of others. I feel like a vampire swooping.

Live life or else.

I am looking at 500g of swiss cheese. I am touching 500g of swiss cheese with my fingers. It has been 30 minutes since I started touching my swiss cheese with my warm fingers. The cheese is yellow and looks like plastic. The cheese is nearly warm enough. I think of a cows udder. Attached to the udder is a fibre optic cable. Milk flows from the udder through the cable, sort of twisting around and lighting up. The fibre optic cables are plugged into the back of the fridge. Inside the fridge is a monstrous block of swiss cheese that seems to be pulsing. In the time it has taken for me to imagine the plot of my short film "Unnatural Lactation: Genesis Fromage" the cheese has been warmed enough. My short film is going to be better than Naked Lunch but will definately include a lot of tubes and a man addicted to drugs. I'm going to remake Naked lunch. I'm not going to waste my life. I finally start to think about the holes in my cheese. I wish there was more cheese in there. I take 40 minutes licking away the cheese until it's all eaten up. I write this weakness in my diary.

Always write a plan.

I'm trying to organise my thoughts. I'm sitting at a desk with a pen and some paper. My father used to tell me to make lists in order to give me direction. Lists can be read from the top to the bottom - this is called organisation. Organisation means always checking your bank statements online. To do this you have to remember your username which is thintom, and your password which is plcltdcoop. If you don't remember these things then you've got no chance of being organised. When you check your bank statements you need to make a spreadsheet on Microsoft Excel so that you can always know whether your outgoings are balanced out by your incomings. If they are not, then you are not organised. When I am organised I feel like everything is fine. When I am not organised I definately feel like I am letting myself down. My desk is throbbing beneath my hand. The paper is waiting for my mark. Post-it notes. I definately need post-it notes. I cut five pieces of A4 paper into squares. I brew some tea. I place the squares of paper in the tea. The paper is now the colour of post-it notes. I have no glue. I make some porridge. I paste sticky porridge on a section of the first post-it note. It looks delicious. I eat my post-it notes.

Every day.

That's the thing about me - Enjoyment. I am enjoying all sorts of sensations. I am in a taxi, we go past a hopsital. "My dad's in there." Says the driver. "How is he doing?" I ask."He's dying." He says. I sit in silence for five minutes as his dad is dying. "That's my old school." He says. Later that evening I am sitting listening to the sounds of my flat when I experience a moment of mania and rake five flakes of skin from my hand. The skin is dead. It's too late for hospital for the poor little flakes. There is a light coming from my window which highlights the circular handle of my fridge. My television is a light source also. I receive a phone call and speak. My life lacks direction. I need direction now please.

Action 1

I am in my bathroom with the door closed. I look at myself looking at myself. My hair is long my eyes seem far away. I turn the warm water tap to the clockwise and enter the plug into the hole and watch the sink fill up. I wet my beard with the warm water and think about it. I've got the razor - all I need do is touch it to my face and start to shave. I start to shave the hair off of my face and it feels sticky. The razor catches in what I think must be a hair. It is not caught on a hair it is caught on my vanity. I cut through my vanity and greed remains. My greed is floating on the surface of the water and is stuck to the sides of the sink about the waterline. I have lost 3 grams of weight by shaving my beard.

I don't really know. What's going on.

There is no light except for the light that is coming from the salt that I have been piling up on the floor. Bleach light from the salt. My brand new knife from Tescos is in my hand. I think about it for a second and then bring the knife down through the salt slicing. I have cut the salt and now it lays there in two pieces. I take the wet cod and press him into the salt curing the surface. The coated cod cured. I think briefly and stuff the salted cod into my mouth. It tastes magnificent in my mouth. It tastes of the sea in my mouth. I feel the waves in my mouth I feel the sand in my mouth the grit in the cods insides inside my mouth. This has to stop.