How it Feels to be the Target of Gossip

I had another post planned, something much nicer, but unfortunately, last night a very strange tweep began what I suppose in his disordered mind amounted to a "campaign" against me.

His campaign amounted to sending DMs to others which made the following claims about me:

1. I am a pathological liar (because I don't reveal location on social media, so I guess, that makes EVERYONE who doesn't reveal location details a pathological liar)

2. I blocked him.

3. I laugh at dying and dead anipals.

4. I (the person behind this avatar) has cancer and is consequently suicidal.


The first claim is simply arrant nonsense. Because I wish to protect my privacy (and why wouldn't I? I openly admit to drug use after all) doesn't make me a pathological liar. But this claim is perfectly coterminous with the nature of this tweep. He is a control freak who until I removed him from my account and locked it, would read my tweets everyday like the obsessed freak he became. The point I wish to make is that this person is a control freak who regards me as a pathological liar because I refuse to share personal information with him.
Two tweeps here know my address. I trust and love these people. They would never betray me.

The second claim is also nonsense, it's the cry of an immature personality. I removed this person from follows, unfollowed him, and then locked my account. He found this out because as was his custom, he tried to read my tweets before coming on line and found he couldn't. To add more fuel to his attention seeking efforts, he claims I blocked him. He is not blocked, although, if I stay on at twitter, he will be.

The third claim is simply the spiteful bullshit of a disturbed personality. I don't, it's true engage in public acts of sentiment, I prefer instead to send private Direct Messages of condolence. Some months ago we lost our beloved cat Thomas in very distressing circumstances. I know how it feels and it really hurts. If anyone would like to read my post "Charities, Pick Your Victim" and also ask @ConfuciusCat for a link to the article I wrote about the plight of Spanish Greyhounds on his blog, you can see for yourself how much I like to laugh about the suffering of animals. The only conclusion possible is that the tweep who said this is malicious and deeply disturbed.

The fourth claim, is unfortunately partially true. The person behind this avatar is young, (in her 2o's) and has cancer. But the other sick claim this tweep made, that her cancer has made her suicidal, is simply not true. This strange and unpleasant tweep in his/her sick mind, has linked the accidental overdose with the illness in order to give himself an air of 'in the know' importance when it happened. The person behind my AV was emailed these distressing DMs, just for the record, she considers we are all going to die of something, there's no need to get hysterical about having cancer, suicide in her situation is completely redundant. But thanks for the thought you lowlife areshole.

I believe that this heartless, poisonous tweep has been telling people that I'm a pathological liar because he found out that I knew he'd been telling others what I told him in the strictest, most trusting confidence, and he wanted to discredit me if I told anyone how he betrayed my trust. If anyone requires proof I have this affliction, please email me and I'll provide you with the details. Why not? I'd rather you hear it from me than this disgusting creature.

How did this all come about? It's hard to say. I think I used to give this tweep the attention he desperately and pathologically craves, however, I began to realise that his jokes increasingly came at my expense. A few people DMd me asking how I put up with it, I generally ignored them I suppose. As I began to accumulate a lot friends he started with the "people say all kinds of nasty things about you, and you bring it all on yourself." I believe he became insanely jealous of my close friendship with a particular cat. (He would obsessively follow ANYONE he saw me speaking to) The final straw was his betrayal of my trust. We're not talking about what position I like best, we're talking about life and death matters.

Back in the days when I believed this tweep was my trusted friend, we spent a long time exchanging confidences, I've never once divulged one of his, I never will, I'm far too upmarket for that kind of trash.

What else can I add? Nothing really. Take my advice, trust no one. No matter how badly you may want to tell someone something, tell it to your cat instead.

With the exception of a handful of people, I will never tell anyone in cyber space anything I wouldn't want repeated ever again. I was foolish I know, to do so in the first place.

And just for the record my favourite food is Salzburger Knockel, or is it chip butties, or maybe Skandinavian Kringle, maybe even Siberian Gulag kvass? Anyone who absolutely desperately needs to know? I don't fucking think so...

PS: One of the my friends who passed this information on to me told me that some of the more "gullible ones" were very upset by my 'laughing at dead and dying anipals, animals' and were now "terrified" of me. Well, call me unimaginative, but logically that doesn't even make fucking sense. Someone who clearly has a grudge sidles up to your DM box spinning spiteful shit and you just believe them? Just like that? I sincerely hope that if you believe this egregious garbage you are no longer following me? Cos personally, if you really have such a low opinion of me, I'd rather you just go, just get fucked off my timeline.

Self Destructiveness vs Egoism

Hello,

I haven't posted much these past few days, I've been rather knocked about by past events. Not surprising. I think though, I should make some kind of entry.

This is probably of minimal interest to most people, but I want to say it anyway: all I want is smack. It's all I want. I don't want alcohol, I don't want weed, I don't want happy pills. I just want smack. It's not that I'm no longer interested in the things I used to be interested in. Those things still exist, they are all now subordinate to the craving for smack.

I prefer to be direct and honest. I'm impatient with meandering airy fairy bullshit. So I shall state things as cleanly as I can. I like danger. I like the thrill of a near miss. One of the reasons I'm a bit uncomfortable with well meant sympathy is I enjoy engaging in behaviour which endangers my life. I feel as though I'm conning people who want to express sympathy, when in fact all the while I crave and enjoy the pain, danger and panic of self destruction.

The pain of withdrawal was indescribably vicious. It took me over completely, just as this craving for smack has. But I still look back with a shiver of thrill that I endured, survived and for that time, my body and mind were completely alive in extremis.

I love the painful ache of desire for smack, I don't ever want it to leave. Once it passes, I'll be bored, empty
and resentful. I know.

This is probably impossible for anyone to understand; it seems it just has to be accepted that we are all wired up in a unique way.

One good thing I suppose, is that I'm not interested in hurting other people. Unless provoked, I never have a go at anyone. Even people who have abused my trust badly, as has recently happened, I'm still friendly...don't care really. If they died tomorrow I couldn't care less, but I have zero interest in hastening them on to their end. I don't have killer mentality I suppose. I've met people who have badly hurt others for doing a lot less than has happened to me, smashed their victims up for life...but me? I don't give that much of a fuck... about anything really.

I have no doubt that upon reading this many people might conclude that this is not a very useful or psychologically healthy way to be. I disagree. There's something to be said, I think, for a bit of welcome neutrality. The personality that isn't constantly in competition with others, that isn't interested in annihilating everyone else around them or establishing dominance.

Frankly, I prefer to spend time with people who are secure enough within themselves to not require the submission of others as an act of self realization. I can't even tell you how much I hate pricks like that.

Self destruction might be a lamentable character flaw in the eyes of many, but I think it's to be preferred, or at least it's easier for others to live with, than the insufferable ego that tries to hurt you in order to establish it's dominance. I hate pricks like that.

This post contains drug references. Here's What Happened.

Hey guys, some of you may know that I was quite ill for a few days. I think there was a bit of talk about all kinds of sordid things and that's ok, speculative thinking is as old as Mankind. It's only natural, and I have no hard feelings one way or the other.

Ok, here's what actually happened: For the past two weeks I've been on a smack binge. I binged and binged. I slept - shot up, slept - shot up. Fortunately, I guess, I slept a lot.

Sadly, all the things we like are no damn good for us, so the love affair (and Oh, God, what a triumph of passion over intellect it was) had to draw to some kind of conclusion sooner rather than later - if I wasn't to spend the rest of my life an even bigger retard.

But it's not so easy to dump the one you love, we all know that. Armed with an assortment of drugs, blankets, buckets, water, ipod, rosary beads (we all have our quirks) I attempted the "DIY Bathroom Rehab". I've done it once before, it was nasty, but I did it, ...sigh, not this time though...the love of my life refused to piss off in spite of all my persuasions.

Anyway, the upshot was, it was hell. I've never experienced pain like it, it was a triumph of pain over every faculty I possess. To give you some idea, because I do want you to realize in order to understand the thing I later did, I'm going to reprint some DMs I sent to someone when the withdrawal process was underway:

"I'm crouched over beside the toilet, freezing my arse off, I can't stop shaking. I'm exhausted. Puking and puking, there's nothing left to bring up, but my body just keeps heaving and retching.

Muscles, bones and joints feel as though they're repeatedly being smashed and re smashed with a sledgehammer, my muscles keep cramping and jumping about, every time more painful than the last...every nerve ending in my body feels as though it's been scraped raw and bloody through a grater...and I'm so cold, I can't stop shaking or retching, every heave feels like it's the one that's going to stop me from breathing..."

So that's what it was like. Oh, and all the while, my head hurt so badly, like a giant pulpy bruise. Well, the things we do to ourselves huh? I know, I know, I was stupid, I overused, I knew I was doing it while I was doing it, and inevitably, I got what I deserved.

Many people use smack all their lives and can function normally with few side effects. The moral to the story is - if one absolutely insists on one- don't play with a loaded guns. I fooled around and got what was coming to me. I'm not looking for sympathy, I did it to myself. I know that.

The pain became unbearable, and I began to panic, so ( yes, this is humiliating) I arranged for someone to bring me more smack. True to form, though perhaps understandably under the circumstances, I fucked it all up, badly.

The upshot was (hah! no pun intended) I bungled it and OD'd... Sigh...the old story...just a cliche...I know I know...

Fortunately, I was found by the friend with whom I'd made arrangements to come over twice a day and take care of things.

Well, there's no more to tell really, the rest is the usual litany of hospital paraphernalia, drips, tubes, dull prescription medication, questions, questions, questions...you know... "Are you suicidal? Did you intend to OD?"

"No, Nurse, no intention. I'm just a retard"

"Have you ever OD'd before?"

"No Ma'am, I'm not that much of a retard" (Nurse rolls eyes, snaps clipboard shut and stalks off muttering something like "fucking junkies.... I spend 4 years in nursing college for this scum"

And so on ad infinitum onward towards abject humiliation and cringing embarrassment...

So, that's what happened.

Questions anyone?

There's something I want to make clear, prior to the two weeks mentioned, I barely ever used, just once for less than a week, and in that case the Do It Yourself Bathroom Rehab worked a treat. I am a recreational user I guess.

I know that labels give a certain type of person the feeling they understand things, so here's one for you, "Sir Fudge Esq is a recreational user who moronically, fucked it up". I don't think there's a question of physical or psychological addiction. It will be quite a number of years before I'm able to face the love of my life again. Get me?

To all those who offered to be my new Cunta Kinta, the short answer is thanks, but no thanks. I have 3 Cuntas I'm very happy with. Mother types are an instant turn off.

To all those condescending cunts who gave me lots of shit and got off on presuming the most sordid stuff while feigning concern: Fuck off.

To anyone who held a bitch fest at my expense: I really don't fucking care, not now, not ever. People like you are just nasty scum.

To all those who sent calm, supportive messages, emails, and DMs expressing sincere, non intrusive friendliness: thank you. I can't really express how much they meant to me, although being intelligent and sensitive, you would know anyway.


And finally, yes, I know I am a Fucking Idiot. That's a given I freely admit to. So if there are to be any comments for this post, maybe demonstrate your intelligence by not stating the fucking obvious?

Friday

Hello Dear Reader,

So nice to see Friday again, this is just a quick good bye for the weekend. We have guests, so I don't expect to be around very much.

These are nice guests, quiet, intelligent, educated. We're just going to sit around, listen to Radiohead, get high and talk pseudo intellectual bullshit....you know... as well as generally blame vacuous, materialistic, society for all our addictions and afflictions... just as one would expect a bunch of fucked up whining prozac bombed out losers to...


So, I'll see you on the other side my friends, wish you could all be here,

Enjoy #Dudefest if you're going,

otherwise it's Goodbye and Love from

Your Friend

Sir Fudge Esq x

Ruminating like a Happy Cow

Dear Reader

I'm so glad last week is dead and gone. Finito. I was truly exhausted and drained. No gas left in the tank. For all those who expressed concern, thanks very much indeed, but you never need to worry about me. Ever. Planet Fudge might be deranged and chaotic, but it's pretty much unsinkable. It's a floater, not a sinker.

There was nothing wrong with me that my ipod, happy pills etc, and black as sin, dry as toast humour couldn't cure. I don't take the shit fest that seriously; neurosis, paranoia, substance abuse, psychological instability, whatever, it's all a huge joke and it keeps me entertained for hours. I never worry about any of it, so don't you either.

We're all going to die of something, and once we go, none of this will matter to us anymore. None of it. No need to get overly fixated on or fucked up about oneself. Let it go. Just be free.

Who's constantly happy/emotionally stable anyway? a fucking cow in a field chewing grass all day. Barely a sentient being...and just as fascinating. I prefer the mercurial and angst ridden to the dumb happy fuck that's never had an original thought in his head, who's greatest desire is to fill up on McShitFood while he's loses himself in tv land... and kids himself he's a happy, happy regular guy.


I think the nicest thing that was said about my blog came from someone on DM, they said "... it feels good to be reminded that I'm not alone, that dysfunction is everywhere..."

Right you are my dear. It is everywhere. But you know, it's worst amongst those who won't admit that they are... and we all are.

How to get High and Have a Fun Time

Greetings Dear Reader

My head is still... oh, how to explain this feeling? kind of spacey after my last little experiment. This means it must have gone well. Only it can make simple things a little tricky, ie: typing.

Why do I do it to myself? I mean really, why? What do I get out of regularly turning my head into a no go zone? It's like a fucking marshmellow right now.

Yesterday, two well intentioned tweep friends implied, (independently of one another) that really, I must be a troubled soul to do this to myself. Well, not really, I don't think. Ok, I'll settle for a little weird that I can't get my jollies by you know, consumerism, McHappyPlastic, fast food, packaged holidays, tv land, skank mags, vacuous plastic boob job pop culture, rationalized, sedated society...

I know, I know, something's desperately wrong with me obviously.

Being pleasantly stoned is a science and an art. My method is minimum input for maximum trashedness. If one plans it properly, the liver need not rot away; by carefully combining moderate amounts of vodka with happy pills, weed (anything you like really), one can achieve the desired chemical reaction... And oh lord. What a high... What an incredible shit fest in the brain, circuits wallow in happiness, synapses fire off mellow bliss. At that moment, I sincerely wish everyone could be as quietly happy, as affable. There's quite a few people I know who could really, really, fucking do with it.

Needless to say, I'm a strong believer in the freedom to self medicate.

But you know, there's always some cretin out to bum your high. Some politician, bureaucrat who was the fat boy at school nobody liked. Some puritan cracker cunt revenging themselves upon a world that they feel has passed them by for being whatever...too ugly, too socially inadequate, altogether too unpleasant to love and so on, ad nauseum.

The downside? There isn't much of one really. As I never use uppers (amphetamines: cocaine, speed etc) of any kind (ugh), I never experience the hell of coming down. At worst, I can only think in binary code ie: thoughts and sentences become very simple logical units. Nothing extends beyond the logistics of 2 + 2 = 4.

That's not so catastrophic is it? Now pardon me dear reader, I need to crawl back into my marshmellow and hide out for a while. I sense the soulless spectre of a homogenized bourgeois world closing in on me...time to fucking run for my life...

I visit Cunta Kinta, and teach the kiddies a few tricks...

This weekend I saw the Cunta Kinta, my Omi (german for granma). I had 3 main objectives: 1. Cause no trouble 2. Say nothing, nod and smile alot 3. Stay constantly stoned.

The plan was simple in theory. I had a relative who deeply and utterly pissed me off. I said nothing, but in my mind she was slowly being roasted to death on a spit whilst marinating in my urine. Yes, yes! nasty I know...but you don't know this psychopathic slut of a woman.
Oddly enough, this horrendous bitch has managed to produce 2 rather wonderful children...two boys, who are just the coolest kids, and a third, a girl, who is rather a waste of space, not offensive, just boring as bat shit.

Anyway, the high point of the weekend, was when Omi imagined one of the kiddies gave her a bit of lip (they didn't, these boys are angels) the upshot was, the Cunta Kinta screamed her fucking nuts off...it was kind of funny but alarming at the same at the same time, she has lungs like jet engines on heat...you seriously do not want to be close by.
I hustled those kiddies off as fast as I could (in my stoned state) it was like, "come on boys, come and help your uncle Fudge in the bathroom...Kid A: hold the spoon steady Kid B: hold the tourniquet for your Uncle Fudge...nice and tight, there's a good lad..." Just for the record, Kid A is 13 Kid B is 17, old enough to assist their Uncle to self medicate as far as I'm concerned. Don't bullshit yourself they haven't seen it all before...

All the guys in my family are very cool. The drunken uncle who is fantastically intelligent and self medicates on anything with an alcohol content every night, my other weirdo uncle (nearly 50) who just laughs at everyone and oddly enough, is a health fanatic who still lives at home with omi (we only have extremes, middle of the road just doesn't exist for us, either survive any which way, or go crawl in a hole and die, I never said we were nice people)

There's also the poor bastard who is married to the horrendous bitch, he frequently rings one of my aunts almost in tears because his marriage is a nightmare...I tried to warn the poor prick when he first started courting my sister...he hated me then, he talks to me now like a desperate, lonely man...he knows better now. What can I say to him? "that's my family honey, mad, bad, and dangerous to know..."

Cheers guys, hope your weekend was cool. Anyone offended/disgusted by this post, let me tell you something sonny, I actually left out the worst bits

Packing for a Trip

I have to go away for a few days to visit my Kunta Kinta. (explanation available on request). The whole thing is retarded. I actually have to get a taxi, then a train, then a plane then a train. I don't want to go. It's someone's 80th birthday, won't that be bag of fun...yeah, good luck with that...
These days I'm lucky if I struggle out of bed at 11 in the am. I have to ring a fucking taxi at 9? Wtf? I can see it all going pear shaped pretty quickly...
I honestly don't know what to do...I don't have an alarm clock, I'm too thick to set the mobile alarm. I know I won't go to sleep before 2 am...what to do...what to do...what the fuck to do...
I suppose one thing I can do is pack ahead at least the essentials to survive this disaster: 1. Valium 2. Prozac 3. Vodka 4. Sundry illegal non scripts 5. ipod to tune out the Cunta Kinta's ear splitting, senile racist rants...ah, better take 2 bottles of valium...someone might try to hug me...
With any luck I'll get arrested at the airport, here's hoping . Helping the police with their inquiries is a pretty watertight excuse not attend grandma's 80th isn't it? Who can blame me for that?

The nature of the sentimental mob... Appropos of nothing, Just ignore

Self consciously public displays of sentiment revolt me. There's always something coercive and unnatural about them. A kind of mob smugness that sanctimoniously implies if you're not with us, you're a cold, unfeeling creep. Let me give you one example of how this has worked in history.

When that high class good time girl Diana Spencer died because her chauffeur was a stoned drunken speeding fuck, the boo hoo mob went into hysteria hyperdrive. Flowers, tears, cheap sentiment, pop 'stars' recycling lame songs, infotainment nobodies photogenically boo hooing into microphones, cheap arsed women's magazines peddling schmalz, hand wringing and chest beating... oh, it was all so terribly concerned...oh so dreadfully sad... all so boo fucking hoo... sentiment commodified, all played out to the sound track of big business laughing all the way to the bank...

But the really nauseating bit was the pressure on the Queen (the mother in law for Christ's sake!!) to "prove" she cared. No uglier sight than that of the mob forcing it's way into a private person's interior and trying to colonize it with their sickly McHappyLand pop culture sentiment. If I'd have been Queen Elizabeth, I'd have gone out on the balcony and given the crowd the one finger salute and told them to fuck themselves in no uncertain terms...or simply barfed on them...

Has anyone read Shakespeare's "King Lear"? A senile, vain, stupid king banishes the daughter who truly loves him because her integrity and sensitivity preclude her from making a sham parade of her feelings in order to satisfy his grotesque vomit inducing egotistical neediness. Eventually, the old man is stripped of everything: title, friends, protectors, castle...by the daughters who had obligingly declared their undying love...

As for me? I understand very very well that when someone does the "prove you care bit" they are only trying to fuck with me... only trying to establish some kind of domination or make a parade of their own worthless, hollow sentiment to gain attention...Go bleed your sham conscience all over someone else...I'm not your audience. Boo fucking hoo.