Despondency

I am wiped out and tired. It has been one of those long days at home that I hate. There has been raining and sleeting. The patterns are squashed against my windows. One of those long days at home and alone that I hate. There is very little light now in my flat; my sofa feels dull, it supports my wait. There is no sound in my flat. I am feeling just awful. My nose is running. I hear a noise that sounds like a scratching. In the corner of my floor there is a black garden beetle. Why is it in my flat? My flat is on the sixth floor of a building. There are no gardens anywhere near my flat. The beetle is very big for a beetle, I have never seen a beetle as big as this beetle. Its back is shining. I feel as though the beetle is going to start speaking to me any second. One second later the beetle starts to speak to me. It has a high pitched voice and is terrifying. It says, "You are boring. Why are you so boring, little man? You have never done anything that is worthwhile. You are a lazy and fat little man of no worth." The beetle is right. That is one clever beetle. "You don't have any hope. I hate you little man. Nothing you do has ever been good. Why don't you say something back to me little man?" The beetle's words are seriously hurting my feelings. I feel animosity towards the beetle. I look at the window and the rain, and the grey light. "Waster. You are a waster." I tread on the beetle and sit back down.

Disco Dancing

Everybody loves disco dancing.

The song in this video is called "Disco Dancing". Do you think you can make a better music video for it? If you do please e-mail me and I will send you the song so that you can have a go.

Everybody loves disco dancing.

Stupid Idiot

I am looking at a crossword. I bought a newspaper to enjoy with my breakfast while the sun streams in and lights up the room. Eggs benedict this morning. The crossword is not going well, the clues don't seem to make sense. 1 Across - Not always - someone thinks backwards? That's all blokes. It seems to make no sense at all. I have always thought that I am good with words but I cannot solve these problems. I am still looking at the clue four minutes later. I remember someone telling me that a good trick is to leave the crossword for a bit and come back to it later. I put the crossword down and try not to think about the clue for twenty minutes. I keep thinking about the clue. When I pick up the crossword again it doesn't really seem to have helped. I don''t feel like I have had much of a break. I stare at the crossword for one hour. My eyes hurt. The small black and white squares are imprinted on my vision. Wherever I look I see the crossword. I imagine the composer of the crossword. I think about his fat smug body. He is wearing glasses. He is a big nerd. He had no friends in school, only letters, words and black squares. His name is Tom. I hate Tom. I think about kicking his head until he gives me the answer. He wears square glasses like the squares on a crossword. His eyes look like the letter Q. I really hate him.

I am jealous of him. I wish I was as clever as him. 

Banking Finance ISA Mortgage

I am running low on money. I feel a dangerous feeling - I am living on the edge. I have never checked my bank balance but I know that I am running low on money. I buy things in shops with my debit card and after I have put in my PIN I cross my fingers under the counter. This is creating a panic in me. Finally my card is declined. There are four days until pay day. If I don't have any money then I will probably die. I don't know what to do.

I put my DVDs in a bag and take them to the exchange place. They are worth two pounds each. I have four DVDS. That is eight pounds worth. I exchange them for the money. I am in the black. Eight pounds. This is the first time I have held physical money in my hands for over two years. I need to be careful with my money. My dad says "A fool and his money are easily parted."

I spend the money on 250g of expensive Bavarian ham.

It is the best ham I have ever eaten. It reminds my of a cold forest, a man with a feather in his cap and fluttering snowfall. It is delicious ham. It is succulent and full of earthy, evocative flavour. It is wonderfully silken and marbled with reams of fat. It is very fattening. It is so very very fattening.

I puke up my eight pounds. I am definitely going to die.

Atonal

I am remembering the nightmare of yesterday. Yesterday was our team bonding night at work. Our team needs to work on its integration- we are not close enough to each other - I do not feel at one with the rest of my colleagues. So we went to a karaoke bar. The man who selects the song was an ugly, angry man; ugly men are bald - they have a fixed stare; they look like they are smiling and frowning at the same time; ugly men hate me - they are aggresive men. I start to sing the song. I remember a time when I was younger. My father used to say that I have a lovely voice, he used to say do not sing into your hymn sheet, sing into the audience. I sing the song - it is "Freak Out" by chic. I am a disco diva. I have a spirit of deep and soulful funk inside of me. I am dancing like a dynamo. I am spinning out. I am in control of the room.

I have an erection,

I don't know why but I have an erection.

There is a lot of blood in my penis.

I ejaculate into my trousers.

Everyone knows what I have done.

I am banned from the night spot.

I hate myself.

That is the first time I have had an erection for four months.

Socialising

I lie sprawled on my bed. My body feels uncomfortable but I do not want to move it. My mind is trapped at the moment, I feel like I am in the centre of a venn diagram. My brain lies in the middle of a venn diagram. I am being hung drawn and quartered by the parts of the venn diagram. I have been socialising with my television. I have been watching a programme on the television about a group of people. When someone finishes a sentence I press the mute button. I then reply to them. After my reply I unmute the television. This is a conversation. I have been doing this for two hours. While I do it I have been crushing garlic. I have been rubbing the crushed garlic into my chest. This is an ancient remedy for a cold. The garlic is seriously hurting my skin - perhaps in the olden days people had thicker skin. I smell terrible. I think that I am wretched, I am fairly sure that you could definately call me a wretch. I think the garlic is giving me hallucinations. I am on a television panel comedy show. It is my turn to speak. Clement Freud is sardonic he is too sardonic for me. I am not sarcastic enough I laugh too easily there is no bite to my humour. The studio audience is looking at me with distaste. I feel like they might want to eat me. I see some one in the audience wink at me. It is Anthony Worrall Thompson. He holds up a card with a red pepper printed on it. He is having sex with Gok Wan. He is smacking Gok Wan on the bum with the card. Gok wan is smiling a lovely smile.

I think about my life and why this is happening. I don't know why this is happening.

Bile

I can see a road in front of me or a pavement. At the end of the road is a bakery which I want to get to. I feel as though I can't move though as I want to be powerfully sick. There is hot thick acid inside my gut. It feels like it is bubbling. The taste at the back of my throat is like rancid cottage cheese with pineapple. There are many colours to the throaty wash of vomit that I can feel inside me. Bread would be dissolved by the acid, there is no point in getting there. I crumple to the ground. On the ground my stomach feels even more full of frothy sickly congestant. My guts are a mesh of fibrous biliant. My mind is awash with a tide of stinking illness, putrid and pouring pulses of puke. Massive chunks of scalding vomit are pushing their horrific exit through my now infected throat and mouth. A pillar of shining vomit erupts powerfully from me, pushing me backward and caking the pavement with my organic filth.

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.

Action 3

I have a gilette razor that I am holding in my hand. I take a very sharp butcher's knife and cut away the plastic that holds the razor blades in place on the razor. I am very careful not to damage the ultra fine blades. The blade is lighter than you could possibly imagine. I think that if I was holding the blade between my fingers and let it go it would not fall. The blade is clean and almost white in colour; it reflects things but is so thin you can never really see what it is that it is reflecting. But I know that it is reflecting my fingers. I delicately lay the blade to rest on my left forefinger, where I can see fourteen hairs. Slice is too heavy a word. Slip, now there are no hairs on the back of my finger. Saah. That is the noise that the razor makes as it saahs the hairs off the back of each of my fingers. Critch. That is the noise of the blade critching the hairs from the back of my hand. My hand is bald. There is a sort of halo of arm hair that stops suddenly at my bald hand. My hand looks like the hand of a montsrous child that is overly large. I place the arm and hand hair in a small plastic bag that used to hold the dice from my Monopoly set. I place the bag under my pillow.

I am about to go to bed. I stop. My arm starts twitching uncontrolably - I can feel blood pumping around it. Tonight I am not sleeping.


I look at the fridge.

Friday Night

I have finished my week of work. The place that I work in is the place that I love; my boss tells me that I have a special and unique talent. He tells me this in my monthly assessment which happens once a month in a sealed room. Although I sit on my sofa when at home, sometimes I think about the inside of the sealed room. There is a plant with large flat leaves that seem too big for their stalks, there is brown paint all over the walls, the room smells of subway sandwiches. It is always very very very warm in this room. I really cannot stress how warm it is. It is very important that you understand that it really is uncomfortably warm in the sealed room. The sealed room is simply too warm. I hope I am giving you the impression that the room is very warm. If there was one word I would have to use to describe the room it would be warm. The warmth makes the room stifling. I am not allowed to loosen my shirt. I always try and loosen my shirt in my assessment when my boss is not looking but he always catches me and looks dissaproving. I think that he thinks that loosening a shirt is definately a sign of weakness. My boss assesses me on a number of criteria. The number of criteria is two. 1.How many tubes have you made? 2.Do the tubes always look the same? Imaketubes. I think that my boss might have head lice. His hair is always meticulous - head lice love clean and tidy hair ergo he is infested/infected. Head lice are probably inedible. I wonder if my boss would mind if I tried to eat his lice. I think that I would probably catch four or five of them and then eat them in one go, one at a time would probably not be practical. I would need tweezers to catch them. My boss looks at me. He is terrified. I think that I may have just said that the reason I didn't hit my "Tubes Made" target is because I was too busy thinking about eating his lice. His face is sort of twitching. I think that if he saw my body naked on the side of Big Ben he wouldn't compliment me.

My brain cannot work after I have been at work.
My brain can notwork after I have been at work.

I think that I want to unleash the NOROVIRUS at work.

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.