Terror

I am lying inmy bed. I have finished my daily fitness routine. My daily fitness routine is a set of exercises that I do every day to make me feel great about myself. I feel great about myself. My arms feel strong. They are ropey and thick. I can do one hundred press ups. I am lying in my bed. I can feel my arm throbbing. I think my arm is pregnant. It is kicking. My arm might give birth. The creature my arm will give birth to is like my arm but with a human head where the shoulder should be. The creature is like a sperm with a head for the head and an arm and hand for the tail. My sperm is powerful. I am virile because of my press ups. I think the sperm arm head monster will be good at doing the shot put. It has its own language. It sounds like Clement Freud shouting. The arm sperm hates my weak body. It shouts at my legs, penis and chest. I am definately scared of it. I have post natal depression.

A very disturbing episode.

This reminds me of the time that I was a child. All those years ago before my transformation into a man I was definately a child. I lived with my mother and father and brother in a house in the country side on the slope of one of the sides of a valley. The air was sweet when I was a child. Everything is melancholic.

I had kites and a ball and I used to be an out doors kind of child. My brother and I used to roam in the garden. We would, from time to time cross the road in front of our house and lie in the field. At some times of the year the grass in the field was taller than my brother and I. I used to get scared that I would lose my brother. My brother is smaller and younger than me. If he gets lost in the grass it is definately my fault.

One day I thought I had lost my brother. I thought that someone had taken him away. I thought that a witch from the Roald Dahl book The Witches had tempted him away. I imagined my small brother in his grey jumper with his hand in the hand of a supernatural monster with burning eyes and ink for spit. This is my nightmare. A cold faced women ready to take my brother away. I am scared writing these innermost thoughts on to this website. I can definately feel a chill.

I hadn't lost my brother. He was nearer than I thought. That evening I had a nightmare. In my nightmare I was running from a monster. The monster was my brother - he was chasing me down the stairs. It was in black and white and slow motion. It was a terrifying dream. It recurs from time to time. At the end of it, my father appears. He has no eyes and covets mine. I cannot easily reconcile these feelings of terror with my contrasting feelings of affection.

This is what I am thinking of on my sofa. I look sometimes through an album of photographs. Memories are unreal. You can't identify with the photos in the book. They are private things; delicate. My television is talking to me. It is spewing on me. It offers me a release from my introspection. I seem to have a choice between pain and numbness. This is growing to be far too much. There is only one way for me to go.

I take a knife from the drawer. I sharpen the knife for thirty seconds. I place my hand on a chopping board. I slice my left hand's small finger off. There is an eruption of blood from My hand. I am screaming. I feel guilty, I feel tired, I think of my brother and family. I call an ambulance.

The ambulance men reattach my finger. I didn't know they could do that.

Deeper relax

The shrill voice of the singer is irritating. It is not often I get a chance to think of nothing, sit on my sofa and deeply relax. I am trying to empty my mind of everything but it is difficult. Sometimes I think of only an abstract thing, like a colour. The colour will change in my mind until it is no longer a colour, but something that is not a colour. I can draw nourishment from this new thing. It seems to funnel into me. It feels like a funnel of cobwebs and there is some liquid pouring down the funnel into me; this has come from colour; this is relaxing. The singer's voice is penetrating. Relaxing is sighing. The voice is not sighing, the voice is stabbing. I am trying to think of nothing. I am thinking of thinking - oh no! That's no good. If I were totally empty then I could do it. Thoughts of work are creeping around the edges of my unperception. I think about avoiding to think about my work training manual that sits in front of me. My boss says, read one page every day before you sleep. I turn to page one. It says "So, you want to make tubes?" Close the book. Shut your eyes. Deeper relax. You don't want your boss to die. That is myself, reassuring myself. That's fine. Nothing going on here. Definately completely relaxed. I am just great thanks. I wish I could dance. Oh no.

Sexual Problems

I found a new blog. It tells me what is wrong with my sexual technique.

Thisisit.

http://sexualproblemssolved.blogspot.com/

Tidy House

Today I have been tidying my house. I normally tidy my house once every two weeks. I like to get into a good old fashioned routine when tidying. I do things in this order. Moving everything into its rightful place; Dusting from top to bottom; Vacuum cleaning; Polishing wooden surfaces with a good quality beeswax polish; Tea break; Change the fishes water (the fish is dead); Change bed linen. The routine normally takes three hours or three and a quarter hours depending on length of tea break and amount of time spent smelling beeswax polish. When I was a child I used to eat beeswax polish and replace it with earwax. I once kept a bee in a tube for two two days to see if it would make any polish. In the end I got fed up and ate the bee. Bees are crunchy and taste of nothing. They are furry. Furry and crunchy - not a good combination. The next time I ate a bee I put it in some ketchup. My brother saw me doing it. I told him that the bee had stung me, the ketchup was my blood and I was eating the bee in order to exact revenge. Bee and ketchup is much better than bee with no enhancement. It tastes of furry, crunchy ketchup. I am sitting on my sofa and I am thinking about my childhood. In those days I didn't have to shave. It was much easier to keep the weight off when you are a child; no shaving and smaller penis. One day I am going to chop my penis off.

Isolation

You know the pain I get? The red pain, around and behind my eyes. The pain which makes me think it is time to close my eyes and go to sleep. The pain that burns as I look at a bright light; fire or the sun. This pain is not a normal pain. It seems to fade and regrow, pulsing in a way that is monstrous and selfish. Always slightly growing. This is the pain, a crisis. I think to myself about when the pain started and can't remember. And as the pain grows my silence and stupor also increases. My pain has become like paralysis. Your face is on the pillow and there is a wetness on it. This is what is called crying,or tears. My face is nothing except two ragged, abnormal sockets of pain - thrones/throes of incandescent and glorious suffering. This is what is lonely.

Feeling Great

I am quite the optimist. Some people say the glass is half full. I don't have any glasses. I always try and have a great time. Today I am in work - I am sitting at the pod. My team mates are all around me - they are on the pod. A phone rings. Team mate 1 answers the phone. He is the quickest team mate. His finger is thick and bulbous from always answering the phone first. Team mate 4 is making a tube while waiting for the phone to ring. He is the best at making tubes. His tubes are strong and long, longer than anyone elses. Team mate 1 and team mate 4 are going places. They are the quickest and most skillfull. My head is plugged into a phone. When I press the button on my phone it makes a noise in my head. The three button on the phone does not work. If I want the phone to dial three Ihave to press button 1 followed by button2 with an interval of exactly half a second between the presses. My boss calls me into the room. Between us on the table there is a cake. This cake represents you he says. You are the cake he says. Do you know what that means he says. No I say. He shits on the cake. Eat the cake he says. I can't do it I say. That's why you will never be a manager he says. I walk home from work and buy a cake. I'm at home with the cake. I do not want to shit on the cake. Idon't want to shit onthe cake. I am the cake?

Rewind

I have been banned from the internet for almost exactly a month. The internet made me a slave. I looked at my computer for ages and ages and ages and did the things it asked me to. I am looking at my computer. My computer is asking me to produce an excellent plate of food. My computer is aksing my to eat an exceptional plate of food. The two voices in my computer are telling me that if I want to get through to the quarter finals I need to get more flavour out of my ingredients. I have my ingredients in front of me. I have: Five squares of chocolate; an olive stuffed with pimiento; 30 grams of quorn; a sachet of my facial hair; a man from the west country called Dean; a squid that is alive and asking me all sorts of questions. I put my ingredients into an envelope marked "Ingredients". My face is red and blotchy. The man in my flat tells me that my cooking is otherworldy and exciting. I put the envelope in the baking heat of the red raw sun for 5 minutes. I have put my heart and soul into my dish. I have tried my hardest on the dish. I want to quit my job and cook and that passion has been put into the dish. I see the pile of salt. I see the knife. I slice the salt into my dish. There is too much salt in the dish. I am thrown out of the competition and all of the celebrity chefs puke on me.