Monday, 31 October 2016

#NoLimits

There was now no limit to my debauchery. Mum and dad had long since given up on me, but so what - I've been independently wealthy since the age of seventeen, back when McRonald's had me fry up fillet-o-"fish" in their hot vats of bromine. In those days I kissed a mars bar right out of Jenny Smith's mouth, now I'm teaching chicks a course in how to take a tampon out. I don't know when this wild ride will end. Never I hope. I hope this journey never ends. I hope there's a new adult toy around every single future bend, and I hope to god my butthole mends.


Note101016

I thought I was getting better, I thought I could go from regretting I ever met you just to slowly forgetting I had. It's so strange how meeting you filled me up and yet left me feeling emptier than I ever have. If I truly ever thought I could lose you from my life and end up feeling glad, well then I was mad.

The Wind Blows Through The Hole That Is My Empty Soul Reminding Me I Can't Whistle

I dreamt I threw my iron out the window. I still couldn't bring myself to write about Jim though. My mind is like a chorophobic trapped at a disco and my life is in limbo and yet still I continue. I'm just grateful I got rid of my Windows phone so I can give all my wages to Nintendo.

Call Me Alexander

What have you caught today? Did you catch a Gyarados or just a severe case of melancholy? When did living start to feel like such folly? Feed me some molly, bundle me into a shopping trolley, push me down a hill and watch me become somebody.

Sunday, 30 October 2016

Ironing Vasco's Pyjamas

The secret to being more like Byron is to ditch your stupid iron. Throw that piece of junk through your nearest window, let the birds' song in and feel the wind blow. Own each crease like furrowed wrinkle, embrace the release - wear each crinkle as a symbol. Who cares about clothes, irons, and washing machines, what are we? Testudines? Break away your silly self imposed armor, get out there - become da Gama.

Saturday, 29 October 2016

A Moment To Breathe

Oh Jim. If only you could inspire in me what you've clearly inspired in him. The problem isn't a lack of finding your behaviour disgusting. No, the problem is more the dishes won't wash and dry themselves. And the leaves won't be swept up by anyone else. There's clothes that need washing and by the time I've gotten round to ironing them, my disgust will be half-forgotten. I'll be too distracted switching the iron settings between synthetics, wool and cotton to care about yet another male soul that is rotten and another woman downtrodden enough to stay with him until she's in her coffin, thinking right up until the very end that hers is the love to make him soften.

But For A Flight Of Stairs

They came knocking for a man who wasn't there. A man who had crawled backwards down the mind inside his stairs. He was busy in the basement, he was breaking broken bugs, he was slicking up the walls, like a slimy sticky slug. Everything he'd ever wanted, everyone he'd loved, everything he'd need forever, he left them all up above. Sometimes life was reckless, and other times unfair, always life was never as good as life beyond the stairs.

They came knocking for a man they couldn't find. A man who had crawled backwards down the stairs inside his mind. He was basking in the basement, he was glorious in the tub, he was tickling tiny trollops with his little finger nubs. Everything he'd ever liked to have inside his hands, everything he'd ever needed to make him a better man, everything he wanted, was harbored safe within these walls, he'd stay in here forever and he'd always ignore their calls. Sometimes life was rubbish, sometimes you're better off dead, always life was never as good as a life spent in your head.


The Fourth Dimension

At some point, time became my most valuable asset, and I finally understood why someone was willing to pay me for it. No longer was I happy to while away the hours doing meaningless shit, now each second grated, like blinking grit in an eye slit. Each second took me away from the few seconds I had left. Each second moved me towards the end: lonely, demented, and bereft. Living in a home for other sop-headed convicts, reminiscing on days of old, and times when things were perfect. I'd moved on up, to the point that I was paying someone else to do the things that I most wanted to do, I'd given it a lot of thought but couldn't work out how to stop, how to get off, or who to sue.

I was on the brink of breaking, my mind was angrily rotating.

I paid someone else to tidy my yard. to renovate, to clean, to work really hard. I paid someone else to have fun with my kids, enjoy their smiles, milestones and laugh at their fibs. I paid someone else to cook me my food, nothing wholesome, or romantic, just crap that allowed me to keep me on the move. And I built it all up until I couldn't stop earning: how on earth could I afford all these people if I simply quit working?

The stress was the best at keeping me oppressed, I didn't even have time anymore to feel depressed.

And then when you're old, the wheel falls off and the hamster is freed - well, at least, so it seems - for then I can do all the things I've wanted to do, like pay someone to clean up after me and to make me my food. And change my pants when I go to the loo, and push my wheeler to the lounge and to bingo too. Fuck, what a waste, I've been such a fool.


Sunday, 23 October 2016

Japes With Jeb

She looked worse for wear. As if a troll had climbed in there, begun yellowing up her teeth and made her flesh look like well roast beef. I asked him what he'd seen in her, he said that their time together had been a blur, and anyway, he was a well known frotteur - it was her legs that had made him purr.

Roll Credits

Thankyou Jim for resurrecting my writing career. From your lowest point I can eke out some semblance of cheer, some jumbled pile of letters that only theinternetsux can hold dear. Never fear, we'll find someone else to rip into next year.


Deal With Linda

When you said that you wanted me to deal with 'that horrible Irish whore', I nearly couldn't take it any more. Three wives, fifty plus girlfriends, mistresses - maybe a hundred or more? Surely at some point sex becomes a bore? And yet you've never wanted to settle down with someone that you say that you adore? Every advance I've ever made you seem to actively ignore, and yet each time you hook up with someone new I have to watch, and I feel the fire rise inside my core. What's one more... what are personal assistants for, if not for breaking the law? And sure, at least they won't refer to you as 'that stupid autism anti vaxxer guy' no more.


Over Ten Thousand People Say: Rape And Wrongful Infection Is A-OK

Can't you see he's suffered enough? Sure, he put herpes up her muff, but he was really funny in Dumb and Dumber and stuff. Sometimes you've gotta give a guy a pass, girls are just a piece of ass, if they get all butt hurt after we've gotten on and given them a squirt, then they're crazy bitches and deserve chlamydia up their snitches. I know Valentines is a bit of a sacred institution, but how can he possibly be expected to have the constitution to refrain from spreading his seed? This guy is the big mother fucking cheese, he's a fabulously wealthy, white, famous man, and he's probably really big in Japan. (This was not written by Jim - I'm just a really big fan).


Did You See The News Today?

"Jim Carrey's friends fear he'll become suicidal" - like as if he's sitting there innocently reading his bible, and making sure everything he trashes he recycles, whilst fearing absolutely no reprisals, despite condemning his girlfriend to the nitrogen cycle. The jokes on us really in the end, the ridiculous thing is that he still has friends.

Happy Valentines; Now You're Mine

Lately I'd started to silently drown. The endless drudgery of life kept washing over me and I could no longer choke it all down. So I went out in a last hurrah to find me some brown - two high class ebony escorts from the shady end of town. You'd think that a guy like me, would never need to pay, he'd get it all for free - but then, realistically, you have no idea what it's like to be a celebrity. I can't just go out and hook up and not expect a frenzy of complete stupidity, and the videos of me, looking like a cocaine powered freak, ending up adorning the pages of LiveLeak. So the price was right and I came on down, leather swaddled, studded, looking like a clown. The idea of herpes never got me down, in fact it turned my frown completely upside down - fuck this world, let my dick shrivel up and turn brown, I was just a slave and it was time for me to buckle down. They dressed me up in a thrift shop bridal gown, they let me wear a crown whilst they jived in tiny shorts humming my dick motown. Afterwards, as I sponged down, and watched the gore detach and trickle down, I thought about my Irish lass, her beauty, her innocence, her impeccable class. At first I'd thought that I'd leave her alone, break up with her by phone, I never wanted her to watch me raise my own headstone. But now I see the best gift is escape, each day we live is a terrible, terrible mistake. Her life is hanging precarious and it's there for me to take.

I have to do this Cate, all of this is now for your own sake.

Monday, 17 October 2016

When I Want Stardust

My phone died as we told each other our hundredth lie, at that point I was relieved I could no longer try and convince you I still wanted to be yours and you to be mine. I looked up at the night sky and it looked as empty as I felt inside. But then I threw my phone in the nearest bin and I suddenly felt alive. I started to run. Past the park, past the graveyard, past the train tracks, past the shops, past the fields, past my memories, past dem feels.

I Could Be Him Or I Could Be Jim

Can you be a sex addict without having much sex? I've always been too lazy and charmless to worm my way into too many people's beds. But the worship and defiling of women's flesh is the only thing I think about even more than death. I can't seem to picture a future for myself that doesn't involve me in between a woman's legs or with a slab of stone above my head. But surely there must be more important things in life to regret than the women I didn't get a chance to make wet?

Saturday, 15 October 2016

Have You Thought About My Cock Today?

I'll put Linda on the goddamned phone. The weight of you around my neck is like a ten tonne stone. All I wanna do is go out and freely bone, but you just keep sending me texts about the bumps on your erogenous zone. I care about you, that's obvious, that's why I shared with you my enterobius. How would you feel if you were me? I'm glorious, I'll reign victorious, you can go die for all I care you jerk bag whorius. I'll tell 'em that I picked up your funeral fee, I'll look sad and bearded, all their sympathies will be with me. But deep down I'm happy as happy can be, because you were really stressing me - my levels were rising so damned dangerously, it was really gunna have to be - you - you or me.


When Everything Smells

Everything around here still smells like you and your shit, I can't even remember what's mine amongst it. I'll probably just have to start all over again. Burn it all, Dump out all your favourite instant coffee blend. Fuck it, perhaps I'll call you on the phone, speak for just a minute, then join the universe in it's constant expansive drone.


Friday, 14 October 2016

When I Want Candies

My phone died as I caught my hundredth Magikarp, at that point I was the only one left in the park. All the other kids had long since gone, six months odd since the game's novelty had become worn. I decided I didn't need to click evolve. What was that ever going to solve? I clutched my bedimmed device and steeled my resolve. I threw it in the bin so I had nothing left in life on which to hold. My soul was long since parceled out and sold, and here I was with nothing but the time I'd gathered into old. I rubbed my nose and breathed in deeply all the cold.


Being Just Simply Being (Because I've Got No Actual Clue, What else On Earth I'm Supposed To Do)

I'll play your game, world, I'll write my best for that one single 'like'. I'll think of all the stupid things going on in my life, tap the keys angrily until the page is filled with shite. Maybe one day I'll write something without spite, find something inside me verging on polite. But then, do I really want to run the risk of losing my only like?


Agrivated Fola-cles: The Greek God of Vigorus Sex

It's just ten ropes or so, lash it on, lash it on. Ten ropes to hang yourself with. Ten ropes to rip apart your lover. Jim Carrey caught his HIV from the musical career of Donald Glover; they were romping in a hedge whilst being sternly swooped at by a plover. And so the paps snapped away and snapped away at the heels of a shriveled shamrock shover. You might be found not-guilty, but all you're not-guilty of is ever having loved her.


I Swam From Plymouth To Penzance To Watch My Irish Selkie Dance, But It Turned Out She Died Mid-Prance Due to The Pimples In Jim Carrey's Pants

When I was young everything I loved looked bad if viewed through the eye holes of my dad. And now that I've become him it's really sad - turns out he was right and I've been completely had. Sure, everything is shit now, that much is true. But everything was shit back when I was a kid too. Perhaps it was because I had a limited scope, to scrutinize between what was quality and what was a joke. Perhaps I had a higher tolerance for shit, and now that life drags on I only now realize the truth of it. Because sure Bieber is mad retarded, and the Kardashians leave their brains uncharted, but back when I was five, people thought that Hootie and the Blowfish were all the jive, and I thought it was really cool just running around and being alive.

Jemz's Five Most Succulent Chinese Meals Q3 2016




Tuesday, 11 October 2016

James' Favourite Microstories Of Dom's From 2016 Q3

In alphabetical order...

Grip

Onward!

Pauline Brexit And Her Seven Deadly Droogs

Sorry, She's Takin

When I've Finally Got The Answer

This Song

I'd skip to your house just to kiss your pretty mouth. It would turn me on, your sister watching us make out. Now I skip for nowt. One day I'll be dead and for no apparent reason you'll have the words to this song spinning round your head. In theory, I should be one of the easiest people to forget. And yet. I wouldn't exactly call myself a lingering regret. More a slight, brief misstep. And yet, the deeper you dig the harder it seems to cut me out of your head.

Monday, 10 October 2016

Happy Anniversary

I have to hand it to you both. To tolerate each other for so long. When to me, it would seem so much easier just to slip my neck through the noose and take a step up, then a step off. The only women I've ever wanted for any length of time are the ones that have never been mine. How could I not lose patience with anyone who wants to be part of my life when it's so shite? Do they think they make everything that's wrong suddenly all right? A problem shared may be a problem halved but together aren't our problems multiplied?

Sunday, 9 October 2016

Being The One

I was thinking about her the other day, and realized that she wasn't the one that got away. The one that got away was me. My life, my future, my mooring grasp had come loose and my heart had drifted free. She remained as always, standing on the pier, a perch that bridged between the two sides of our sphere. But all that I could make out as I drifted out of here, was that she wasn't calling after me, she seemed relieved to watch me disappear

Friday, 7 October 2016

I'd Rather Look Down; That's Where Your Arse Is, That's Where Your Legs Are, That's Where The Dead Are

I don't fear the raising of the dead, not nearly as much as the thoughts lurking at the back of my head.

I don't fear the four horseman, not nearly as much as the weaknesses I succumb to upon suffering extreme boredom.

I don't fear the revenge of Jesus, not nearly as much as having to beg the mother of my children not to leave us.

I don't fear Satan's malevolent power, not nearly as much as the meeting I have to attend in an hour.

God,

I don't mean to be

Unkind

But I often wonder...

What exactly

Did you put me on this earth

To find

In amongst

The laborious daily grind

And cruelties

Of the human mind.


Thursday, 6 October 2016

I'd Rather Look Down; I Won't Even Look Up To See Where The Bus Stops Next

I don't fear the raising of the dead, not nearly as much as the daily raising of my head.

I don't fear the four horseman, not nearly as much as just one bogan who thinks they're awesome.

I don't fear the revenge of Jesus, not nearly as much as when someone too near to me sneezes.

I don't fear satan's malevolent power, not nearly as much as having to scrub the shower.


God,

I don't mean to be

Unkind

But I just...

I just no longer

Have the

Time.

Image result for sad bus stop

Monday, 3 October 2016

When Your Heart Is So Heavy That It Feels Like It Weighs Even More Than Jorge Garcia

All my latest fevered dreams revolve around a fun time dying. In your arms, I am lying. In my arms, you lie crying. As we spend the day in bed watching old movies, or to put it another way - the steady decline of Meg Ryan. But despite my casual words, that's not to say that I'm completely without sympathy for the old dog as I know more than most how when you're awake life can often be so very trying. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't mourn the loss of my youth and Cecil the lion.

Saturday, 1 October 2016

Laniary

The dog waits all day for her to come home. Even though she's long gone and I'm the only one that brings him his bone. He sits and waits, nose pressed against the flyscreen door, absolutely sure that in a minute she'll be here once more. Of course dogs have next to no concept of cause and effect, they've got no understanding of lies, or betrayal, or self respect. Dogs don't understand the creeping death of youth and the inescapable unyielding rot.

Dogs are faithful, even when you're not. 


Just Swirly Hurly Things

All my latest fevered dreams revolve around a fun sized Meg Ryan. She's an unusually well proportioned midget, and she's casting me cheeky smiles as she opens my refrigerator door. Luckily its the face she bore in the nineteen eighties and not the current one she wears. She says to me "we're out of cream," and I respond to her "who cares?" The only cream or home I need is the cottage I've found between your legs. Her cellulite thighs chunder and thunder and make my innards beg. You're plastic now, but weren't you always Meg?