Mental Case Castle

I used to live upstairs at the Rochester Castle in a stinky, filthy arrangement with no lock and very handy drug dealers two doors up. I'd like to say this was the lowest point of my life but there have been so many. Let's not play favourites, let's be fair. Yes, I'm saying my bad memories are my children. They always fucking want something.

People who want to be writers would kill for this experience, the wankers. I gradually sold my record collection to pay for bong smoke and I choked down those thumbscrewed haystacks like they were liquid gold. Clearly I was lost because dope made me intensely paranoid. I was selling a great vinyl collection so I could experience even deeper mental illness.

When you're that confused you feel like people eights blocks away should be able to sense your need for help, but it's not like that. Every mental person grows a kind of shell to protect the ego from being exposed to prying eyes. Your greatest desire is also your greatest fear.

Best trap ever: needs help, can't deal with being helped.

Now there's a comedy night downstairs and I may even go there to do a spot, putting some people on edge by talking about what it was like upstairs and giving young wankers a thrill because something "edgy" is happening.

Nuclear war. It's your friend.

Amen.

  


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