3 Years and counting

So Saturday was my three year anniversary. I'm not sure where to go with the blog any more or even if I should keep posting. It's mostly because I'm no longer a lonely crackhead living in Belfast.

I still sniff felt tips from time to time though. Mostly I just get high throughout the day on coffee, and come down in the evening with alcohol.

Still, it's nice to make it to the big old three years and know that my blog has outlived Hamsters, Guppies and unfortunate pets (I'm not sure why this is nice, especially because I'm sure all those deaths involved crying children). Ho hum.

Threats from Occult Forces

Yesterday was when I had that conversation with Hot Baby Roy about us stopping crack. He was really disappointed and said that he'd been planning some good crack smoking times and he was gonna get me and him initialled pipes but I told him no way hose.

He brought out a few rocks of crack and said it'd be a shame to throw them away. I said okay then, for old times sake.

We sparked up the pipe and had a good old smoke of the crack. We were having a great time, and Hot Baby Roy said: "Wouldn't it be great if it was like this all the time?"

I thought so, but then I thought a bit harder and I saw us in about ten years time, still on the dole, wearing the clothes we were wearing then with not a tooth in our heads. I told him it would break my heart.

He said that I was killing his buzz so he was going to go and see if Hot Baby Roy on crack could have his way with The Raven Princess Spandex. I told him to remember that no-means-no because the last thing we wanted was the cops to show up when we were doing crack.

He rolled his eyes and fucked off.

Five minutes later the door went. I thought he'd forgotten his keys but when I answered it Balkazaler was standing there bearing his fangs.

"I wondered if I'd see you this week I said. You're not getting my fucking vote."

"Shut up you crackheaded fucker. What are you doing smoking that shit again?"

"I'm just having a bit for old times sake, anyway I'm bored, like it's any of your fucking business."

"Listen I'm a powerful daemon! I can see the future and you need a clear head."

"Why? Is this something to do with The Death Owl?"

"Never mind him, this is much bigger than him. You stop smoking that shit or I'll kick your balls up and out your mouth."

"I was quiting anyway after tonight. You're still not getting my vote you peeler tasched fucker."

"You're not registered to vote in East Antrim," he reminded me. Then he walked to the front door, unfurled his horned scaly wings and flew off into the night.

Fighting The War With Amazon Porn

I'm not back on crack, at least I don't see myself as a crack smoker, and that's the main thing. I read something on stopping smoking that said the most important thing to do was to change your self image from smoker to non-smoker. So I'm sticking with that. I'm not a crackhead, not again.

I'm just walking down memory lane and seeing a few old faces and finding out that it was right that we stopped hanging out. Zim Van Bindle is a scatty fucker. He's seriously all over the place and tries to present his weird wee head as some mystic shaman for the neon streetlight generation (his fucking words). He talks about building a warrior igloo but putting food colouring in the ice so that he can build a rainbow igloo to show that his part in the war is reactionary and not aggressive.

Then he asked if he could come to my house and suft amazon porn on the net.

I'm in Love with a Fairy Tale

Fabian Wildman and Betty Blue watched Eurovision together the other night, I didn't because I hate it. Fabian Wildman has been in a bad mood ever since about the Norwegian entry (which won, and which I'm not going to show here because it's balls). Anyways, I caught him talking on his mobile this morning to some Norwegian holiday firm asking them if they would give him the wee bastard's address, just to send "hate mail" he winked at me when he said this and showed me his balled fist. They hung up on him.

I told him about getting kicked out of the band. And how I've just been sitting round the house licking my wounds and wanting to lick the bowl. He agreed, he says he loves to lick the bowl. I told him I felt hurt by the sweaty metallers and that I'd thought we were friends. He gave me a sympathetic look and asked if I wanted a smoke of crack. I told him no. I told him I wanted to get a job. He told me that I needed to be careful because the work almost destroyed him and it was crack that helped him get his life back on track. I told him that being a crackhead wasn't the same as having your life back on crack. He just rolled his eyes and boiled some eggs.

Hot Fun in the Sunshine

I took Battle Cat for a walk down the Lagan Meadows today, Fabian Wildman came with us. It was nice just hanging out the three of us like the old days. It made me think about how lonely I used to be and how I'm not any more and Fabian and Battle Cat were the start of it ending. Though part of me is questioning how that's changing. Battle Cat was bought to eat The Death Owl but now we never see him and even if we did I wouldn't want Battle Cat to eat anyone. Fabian used to be really cool then he became a yuppie, then a racist, now he's a crackhead again but he seems so much sadder than before, like he thought when he quit everything else would start working, but he's tried that and now he's decided to settle for being a crack head.

I didn't say any of this. I bought me and Fabian Wildman a twelve pack. We walked down about half way to Shaw's Bridge and sat guzzling them in the grass and sun. After we'd finished Fabian pulled out the crack pipe but I told him if he smoked that I wasn't carrying him home. I thought he was going to spark it up but he put it back in his pocket.

"It'll keep till later," he said.

Like so many things, I thought.

Be true cause they'll lock you up in a sad sad zoo

Fabian seems to have really taken to his new found employed status with the same ferocity he took to being a crackhead. In other words he's come home every night this week talking about "lazy dole scum bastards" and wee kids in the shop that he knows are shoplifting and how if he catches one of them stealing he's going to nail their hand to whatever they're stealing and boot them out of the shop on their arse. I think he was high on felt tips when he said it but that's no real excuse.

I've been taking Battle Cat for walks down to the Odyssey Arena. He likes the picture on the underpass of the bear wanking and giving the fingers but I keep telling him it's a shame he's not human because if he was then we could go in for a boogie on a friday night and maybe get a woman or two.

For now though we just sit and stare across the smelly Lagan at the Masonic compasses on the far bank.

A storm is coming.