SHIT I WRITE WHILE TIRED - HASH 4

As of late, I have been rather ill. I could have done what anybody else would have done if they were ill. I could have gone:

'arrgghh I believe in you God, are you making me ill coz I don't believe in you, well I do now'.

No I didn't do that, instead, everytime I felt ill, I would say 'fuck you God you don't exist and I am going to recover through my own personal will and strength, you are not going to blackmail me into believing you exist'.

Well immediately I started to cough again and have nausea and other shitty symptoms, which are very mysterious like the disguise of Rey Mysterio... who is really a little Mexican freak.

I don't know where I'm going with my life now I am on the scrapheap of Cash In The Attic and having to convince that guy called Alistair Appleton that my bizarre magazines and old FHMS are worth something when they clearly aren't... But I feel alive again, rather than merely aware, even though I am now back in a morbid world, I can freely write uninterrupted without watering down my shit to suit the system man... this is make or break season and I am ready to enter 2008 with a fresh ounce of un-optimism as one of my best friends enters a deception case for the first time in history... Its called Mortal Kombat Deception ft. Sal.

But seventeen years ago I was in a cornfield with West Coast rappers Westlife who used to say West Side... all the friggin time like Fraggle Rock and wimpy burgers called John Culligut... but I ordered the chicken selects because they are the bombs knees... You first have to win the chicken selects by playing on a Macdonald's fruit machine, against an internal Floyd Mayweather and hoping ya mouth doesn't look like you've eaten out a herpes riddled hooker after being punched in the gob so much... These keyboard letters are gonna break with the intensity I'm hitting em.. they will be in intensive care with Bill Holland who lives five doors down the street from me and he had an heart attack, but I don't give a shit coz I am ill myself and I can only worry about me and not what is going on in someone else's chest, when I have my own attention deficit disorders going on... Where is my shoulder to cry on? Where is my kleenex tissue to wipe my cum up? ahem... I mean dry my tears with....

These blogs are only seriously deranged to the normal person. If you are deranged too and not arranged like a marriage, then follow me and we will do the conga around Penny Street... at midnight on sunday when nothing is happening and only a sweaty craggy old bus driver will be a witness to the madness... even though Highercroft buses are always late and that's because he sneaks off to see Loves Fetish, which is her actual real name... she's a craggily old nurse who added too many words in a verse... she sells shit that is not worth buying or publicising on this myspace page... It is horrific really, like me having to make do with a 20 inch wharfedale tv, that randomly changes from stereo to mono itself, which is fucking up my sound and playing sadistic games with my brain, which is already fucked because I get dizzy spells, desensitivity to violence aka snuff etc... and I have a vein in the side of my head which pumps and feels like a creature from another planet crawling inside me... like one of those beetles from the film The Mummy... and I don't mean a beetle car which is being driven around my head like a nightmare where I become a slave to DVLA car tax evasions and insurance I can't even pay... man I don't even have a car, so why all the insanity and birdplop that irritates my bronchial tubes and causes longterm damage to the fine hairs in there and makes me cough which causes more stress... so my head vein beeps and bleeps and weeps and seeps worry and anxiety and its a viscious cycle of Richard Cycles and the one eyed cyclops that stares at me while I write this, demanding that I type faster and if I don't, then the world is going to end before paying a visit to Anya and her crumbs... I mean chums... at least it wont be harry enfield and chums... which would be horrible.

But the frontal lobe continues to have a detrimental effect on my ability to function in this modern society.. so I say this.. I'll live till 40, then blow my brain from out the back of my head and then someone else will have to clean up the guts and all because the lady who loved milk tray or the silken Dr Dre wouldnt put a message on my comments page... is it too much to ask for some recognition, I feel like I'm rambling to myself on these blogs.. I bet if I ever came rich and famous, everyone would wanna kiss my anus and watch Game On with Samantha Janus... I don't want to associate myself with oldies from Radio Hangin' Ya... who spy like the budgie in its cell in a living room in Dortmund... which is really just Pilmanure Road at its lowest common denomenator and doing fractions and making the song rest easy, when that guy smashed his car after seeing the white lady... he could have gone in a nightclub, he would have seen plenty of white ladies... all ready and waiting to make changes to the gears of war and sacrifice themselves for the greater good, which is really just man's manifest of bullshit...

I wish to leave with this sneeze, give you a quick tease of what is happening to these Vietnamese people in the East. Even though I wont.

Holy shitbag it is 12.46am, way past my bedtime and I should be tucked up already wearing a pair of those blue and white stripey pyjamas that you see in the corny toothpaste ads... tellyads is the fucking mother of all fathers, and has a bucketload of buckets on there.. filled with water all ready to be squeezed and squashed with orange and lemon... and being forced to eat cranberries which are really bitter and sour and make you pull a face like Renee Zellwegger... what is happening here is I am suffering a nervous breakdance... and I'm going through a full array of emotions, arrays are created using C+ programming... which I wont go into because uni is a loser territory and is for losers who like to be fed with an aeroplane spoon like little kids and have to sit there listening to lectures... unless you don't go and instead visit brothels and trash an house and spend horrendous amounts of money until you are on the receiving end of a deception case, which will result in bankruptcy which will end with lots of verbal humiliation and on-the-floor-humiliations *censored* which will eventually end in heaven because your debts will be written off and you will have a clean slate, which you have purchased from Argos and had to wait at letter stand C for 30 mins... which is painful like when me and my bro shaun had to carry a three part cabinet home from Argos.. and my bro was drunk... and we put the cabinet boxes on the escalators in town and nearly ended up falling all the way down to our sticky-cum-stained deaths... which would have been hilarious man... we'd have been broken up at the bottom like some Goldie hawn type shit in death becomes her.... but we survived, had to carry our pieces to a black taxi cab... which was backbreaking, but we achieved it even though everyone in town were laughing at us or staring, coz my bro was pissed and talking really loud and embarrassing me... YEAH I KNOW!! I said it too!! Somebody else embarrassing me?!?!?!? I mean it wasn't me embarrassing them for once!! which felt great in a way, but terrible in another, because my bro kept stopping and having a roll up golden virginia and I could see his nicotine finger which just destroyed me inside man, like when I saw Peter Couch and his dildo recipe whisk mixture... truly disgusting...

But I love you and leave you now.. like a fake celebrity talking mumbo jumbo and being forced to start up a funk band in the subway outside Morrisons.

See you soon, I will hopefully be out of this mental hospital and straitjacket like Michael Myers before you can say:

SHISHH KEEBABOLA WINNING ON A TOMBOLA LIKE HEATHER TOMBOLAN.

And I'm out...................................
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This has been a snail trail production.