The Doctor is back in the house

It's been a short break. In terms of weeks. It's felt like years.

It started with a large bout of smoking, then came a mash up which lasted the best part of a week involving too much alcohol and a few pills. Then the smoking brought me back down for another week or so. I've been out of my head for the best part of two months if I'm being honest, but it's started getting out of hand recently.

Housing benefit and income support should be coming through next week, which is good because rent hasnt been paid. I was so out of it I completely forgot about my PhD application (actully I didnt so much forget as just keep putting it off). The day before the deadline I posted it off, fuck knows where it is now, I couldnt give a flying. Posts will appear infrequent and erratic, I have to wean myself off this shit and attempt some sort of clean up.

I am not a good person, I figured this out, I give the impression I am a good person, but I am not.

Things are as they are because they were as they were

I have that fear of the herd. The herd mentality. It scares me. I try and fight to carve a little pocket of existence out for myself, to separate myself from what I consider oblivion.
It is extremely unlikely that I will become noticed as a writer, I never set out for success, I just want to be a decent person. You can't stop writing though, it's like breathing.

I entered into the Kafkaesque world of bureaucracy, red tape, endless forms and sneering advisors when I applied for benefits. Told to obtain documents which I found out the next day I didn't need. A sick note that isn't the sick note I need. Sitting with the rest of the scum staring at the nailed down furniture waiting for my number to be called. The girl sitting next to me speaks very loudly, insulting everyone in the room for being trash. Often when we lose our temper it is said we are angry with ourselves. She had a black eye. Her boyfriend repeatedly informed the room he fucking hated that social security place. Apparently the way to get attention is to not speak English and have brown skin, then they'll serve you this guy tells me.
I carry on staring at the plastic chairs. I hope the staff notice I am polite.
They don't. I am officially a number. I don't have the required documents. I don't think the required documents exist. I am sent back into the loop with my head spinning.
It was a fucking nightmare.
No wonder I'm smoking green again.
Nasty things, people.

My partner is leaving for Paris for a few days. I have already invited my friends from Wales up. They drink. I intend to be off my tits on anything and everything I can get my hands on for a good three days. I drink too. Cocktails for breakfast? I don't see why not. I already have enough weed to sedate a Police horse.

What's going to happen? The world is fucked, the politicians won't admit it to us, they run the place, it's gone to Hell. Crime figures never fall. Birth rates don't decrease. It's flavour of the month to say that fossil fuels are running out. They are.
Suddenly the two-disc special edition DVD I want doesn't look so impressive. I think this generation is the one that will witness the snap, the event that occurs which makes it plain to all that things aren't going to get better. A collective "Oh... shit".
Of course nobody will take the blame. It's easier to blame technology, or entertainment. They are a problem in some respects, they divert us from looking at the world as it truly is, they provide escapism, but people are too easily led. I'm sure it was the same with books hundreds of years ago. People were scared of them, burnt them. It's not the books you fools, it's you. Take a long hard look in the mirror. You are not God. Take responsibility for your actions. If you fuck up, own up, I do, it's funny, I have no shame. I will stand up and say, yup, it was me, I pressed the wrong button. Now fuck it, lets get on with what we've got to do.

You have to be something, do something, work. We are born to work. Now that is depressing.

Thought Disposal Unit

Do you not want to walk up to people and ask them "is this how it's supposed to be?"? It may seem like such a cliche, but that's what makes it funny. Is this how life works? It passes us by day by day, our goals and dreams seem as far away as when we began our journey. Except we never do begin. I'm always promising myself a fresh start that never manifests itself. Diet starts tomorrow. Give up drinking next week. Look for a job later. Write stuff down tomorrow. Life is a series of false starts.
Am I missing something? I don't think it would be that hard to totally let go.
I think the best piece of advice I ever received is to take pleasure in the little things. The big things can't be changed, so take a step back and look at what has just passed and take a picture with your head. When you do take stock and look back over your life, you'll have these small memories, they add up to a much bigger picture than you realise. And hey, it wasn't so bad. At least I didn't forget to have fun.
But that's all in the past, and life lies in the future. Fitting in. In work, in society. Obeying laws and legislation.
"Do you feel there may be a defect with your life?" Something is definitely broken.
Why am I here? You hit the ground running, don't try to look where you came from, you just are, now be, become a proper member of society and live your life. Hey, some people have drive and some just don't. I can't help it.
It's good to be quiet. Not to speak. It's not expected of you. "You don't say much". People have this innate ability to fill in the blanks. The less you tell them, often the better.
I think people are amazing. Animals are so predictable, they have their set behavior, they do things, humans don't, we just are, wandering, lost, creating things. Trying to make time. Time, faster computers, mobile phones, time-saving devices, time saved to do what with exactly?

Perspective, snow, Incapacity Benefits

Well, the anti-depressants are either kicking in or I have actually turned a corner, I'm filling in forms to apply to Leeds Uni for a PhD today, there's quite a lot to do, and I have to apply for a scholarship to cover the fees and provide living expenses.
If I don't get the scholarship then I wont be doing the PhD whether they accept me or not, I cant afford it. Simple as that.
When reading the guidance notes it states that starting a PhD in the absence of something better to do is a bad idea, you have to really want to do it. I do really want to do it, I think if anything the previous course was the one I started in the realisation I didn't want to do a PhD immediately and would have to explain myself to rabid family and friends who were waiting to pounce after completing my MA and not actually having a proper job. I want to continue my research, I'm interested in it, and I think I could get a book out of it eventually, it will be published in some form at least.
Fuck it.

The weather is shitty, it's always the coldest time of the year round my birthday, and for some reason half of Britain has come to a complete standstill, even though I'm looking out of my window at a crappy bit of snow, still it's enough to fuck the trains and I can count the good drivers I know on one hand.

So, in the absence of a real job I have decided to do what anyone in my position would, phoned up the job centre and asked for forms for incapacity benefit, hey, why the hell not, if I'm clinically depressed shoudnt the Government help me out for putting me in this situation? No, I don't think so either. It's immature to blame society for your ills, goodness knows I've done it enough in my life, ok society is fucked but you can't give up, you have to drag yourself out of the hole. I gotta go now, things to do, but I will be back, I have things to say.

This is Mr.Lee. Respect. 

A Legend Passes

The day of my birth 20 February marked the death of one of my heroes. Hunter S Thompson took his own life. Living and dying on his own terms, the man will be greatly missed.

His writing changed my life in a number of ways. Me and my good friend lived the gonzo life, and through Thompson's writings we tried to change things around us, to fuck things up a little. And we managed it. Even though we have "calmed" with age, we are still gonzo. Hunter S Thompson will never die. He was too crazy to live in the first place.

R.I.P you fucking legend.

Read:
Fear and Loathing
Generation of Swine
Songs of the Doomed
The Rum Diary

Lapdancers, depression, enlightenment, and all before my 24th birthday

Today I was diagnosed with severe depression by a doctor. I haven't seen a doctor for about seven years, it was an odd experience.

In a way it was a weight being lifted, it's a condition I have had since my teens, although many people confuse the two, they are different. I don't feel suicidal, I feel completely indifferent.

I've found myself thinking of Candy lately.
Candy was a ladancer I met, and kissed one night when I visited Dublin. She was working in a strip bar called Angels. She came up to me asking for a dance, I replied that I didn't want one at the time, maybe later, she asked why, and I started talking to her. I think she started taking notice when I asked her name, "Candy", she said, and without missing a beat I asked her what her real name was, she looked at me and answered, Amanda, and smiled. A friendship was born.
Now, I was in good shape back then, but my long hair was not, I hadn't decided to chop it off, so it hung between long and mid-length, not attractive, so she obviously saw something else in me.

She told me of the hardships the dancers faced, the terrible lodgings, the nasty bosses, the girls banding together in the harsh neon glare of the floor. My heart went out to her, really, it wasn't a particularly pleasant place, and I wasn't there myself through choice.

We talked, she danced for me in the private room where private things took place. Not even my closest friends know what went on in there. I never told. I never will.
We left the room and went to a quiet corner, kissed for a few minutes, then she asked for my number, I gave it, drunk on my achievement, never expecting the call which came two days later while I was back in Wales.
That's all you need to know.

Nobody believes me it comes up I "pulled a stripper", I dont bring it up myself, it's often left to the few people who have heard about what happened to speak of when in my presence. It's unbelievably not the kind of thing I want to talk about/brag about or ever did, but its another experience I can mark down as totally unique, the kind of thing I live for.
She taught me a hell of a lot about life and the shit it can throw you in our short time together, and I'll never forget it, or her. Unfortunately it also means I am a horribly generic, egotistical male who expects all women to adore me because I "understand" them and feel their pain.

Bollocks. I'm just a person. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less. The sooner it gets drummed into our heads as children that we are all the same in as much that we are all different, the better. I'm sick of people branding themselves freaks, outcasts, different, special, weird, ect, the truth is, if you think you're special in that you're an outsider, you're more like other people than your limited imagination can conceive.
It's the great human desire, to be seen as "special", "inside I'm different, nobody knows it, but I know I'm special".
Look at the stars.
Look at how many you can see, now think of the amount of stars you can't see. Try to comprehend the sheer enormity of the universe. The unlimited expanse of immeasurable mass. The infinite capacity of the black velvet sheet that gives our world a context.
Look at the blades of grass underneath your feet.
Look at the raindrops that die when they smash into the pavement.
Now try telling me you matter.

St.Valentines Day, Greetings cards, Menstruation and pots of money

Valentine's Day, oh dear.
Hallmark have got us running round in circles, the crafty capitalist bastards.
Well, women get their own back on St.Valentine's Day, we men have to spend a fortune, the consequences too gruesome to contemplate (think scrotal amputations and rusty penknives).

See, if men had periods, then all that towel/tampon stuff would be free. It's really unbelievable that every woman on the planet has to pay to remedy this monthly occurrence. Just my thoughts on the matter, because if men had their way, greetings cards would be obsolete; in my book they rate just above flyers that pizza houses/kebab pits put through the door, you read them, instantly forget the inane message on the inside, then ignore them altogether. Have you ever actually read a greeting card more than once? No, so, in actual fact, they are demoted to less important than pizza menus. Pizza menus also make great roach material, greetings cards are too thick and are thus not supple enough, making them useful only for burning. Even then they give off toxic fumes.
Instead of giving me a crappy card that will irritate me no end, why not, now hold on, because this is a craaaazy idea, why not....phone me up and actually take time to speak to me and wish me a happy -insert whatever occasion- day? I will appreciate this ten times more than some bland corporate spam you have taken all of three seconds to pass on.

And I did get a Valentines card actually, a huge one, from my other half who will not listen to reason: If we have no money, then it is better to appreciate each other 364 days a year and spend the money on food and cleaning products which we vitally need, than spend two weeks shopping money on cards and presents which, while nice, have no use beyond their initial instant pleasure giving ability. I'd prefer a blowjob, it's free, I'll never get tired of it, and it is never unwelcome.