It’s amazing what you can get away with in a store. Despite the idea of CCTV, security guards and tag triggered alarms, I’ve seen all manner of things happen on my trips outside. Once a woman pulled down her stockings defecated in a vase, pulled her stockings back over her fat ankles then waddled off, and no one did a thing about it. I watched her complete the whole process, then spent a number of minutes staring into the vase, holding my nose, wondering just how badly you’d need to go to choose that route. The same negligence of security happened when it came to theft too.
You can just stroll on in, take what you want, and in most cases you’re off, scot free. I’ve witnessed crime a handful of times first hand, with a friend slipping some sweets under his coat at a cinema, and a school kid helping himself to some heavy metal CDs. I didn’t say a word in either instance, for maybe they’d retaliate and attack, or my friend would abandon me? You never know with criminal friends and heavy metal fans, they turn violent at the slightest touch. That’s what they say in the papers anyway. And my friend left me anyway, not that I had any intention of remaining friends with a crook.
I myself had never committed a crime, at least not till one summer’s day in a clothing store. Everyone has a criminal within them waiting to be awakened. Continue reading
I sat in a back alley, dripping my guts all over the floor. In a film there tends to be a homeless person camping in some cardboard boxes, but all I saw were dust bins, all full to the brim with garbage. I was half tempted to throw myself in with the plastic and glass, but I wasn’t sure if I was recyclable or not. Didn’t want to cause problems for the bin men. Didn’t want to cause problems for anyone. But I did. And now I’m bleeding out alone, without anyone to call, no one to shout out too. It was a solitary death.
It all begun a few hours before. Stacy Lee had was going to be twenty one, and I knew she didn’t have too many friends so would most likely be sat at home watching porn while eating microwave pizza. At least that’s what I imagined, and sometimes my thoughts take me to dark perverted situations I’d like to clamber into and solve the problem with my dick. I always flushed up red, despite keeping the thoughts entirely to myself, but as a narrator to my misfortune, I’ve finally laid it all bare. I’m a shy pig, and I wanted to surprise Stacy Lee as she would surely be sat there, with pizza and porn. Continue reading
I lie on the concrete watching the sun. It’s a beautiful day.
I’m in the middle of a busy shopping street. Hundreds walk past.
They get my blood on their shoes.
But they carry on walking, looking to phones and shop windows.
A leaflet falls by my side, and they finally see me.
Yet they focus their eyes on the leaflet.
A leaflet which promises money off on top quality goods.
And then they run off smiling.
Some even stomp on my legs.
Some even trip over my head.
And so I stare at the sun and wonder just how much money they’ll be saving.
I didn’t do it. That’s all I could say when I saw the cat squished under a tire of my car, its back completely broken, its eyes hanging from its furry head. Ted Nugent’s ‘Cat Scratch Fever’ was playing on the radio from my car and I was starting to feel a little sick. I didn’t do it.
I didn’t do it. It must have been a cat based suicide, so I’m not to blame. I got back into the car and moved my car to unpeel the dead cat stuck to my tire, it made a scraping sound. Ah Tiddles! Or Beans! Or Mariah Carey! Or whatever you’re called! I’m so sorry!
I got out the car with a plastic shopping bag and scooped the remains. My plan was to bin it, pretend nothing happened. Or that it didn’t even matter. After all, it’s just a cat. I have a sever allergy to them anyway, so it could have killed me first. Yeah, that’s it. Continue reading
I stand in front of the mirror naked to look at all my imperfections, to taunt myself, to tease myself. I do this on days when I see nobody else, so I have to be the one to bring about my grief.
My legs are hairy.
My belly is round.
My rashes are sporadic.
My face is tired.
This is what a typical overworked, undernourished person looks like.
But I say only I look this way, so it stings more.
Afterwards I flip through fashion magazines to compare myself to models. Then smother my face in a pillow while I sleep.
This is who I am.
My hands were red and raw, my arms scratched and marked. My head buzzed as I walked, and my voice broke as I talked. It had been a long day, but at the same time, just another day.
For there are no short days as a slave.
The day begun as any other day would. Sluggishly rolling out of bed to the floor, and then lying on the floor till a range of daily goals funnelled their way into my mind. It’s funny, but when you lie in bed, you only experience dreams, yet on the floor, the cold stark floor, I could feel at least something. It sets you off, like nothing else can. And today my aim was to function, to free myself as the slave I am. Continue reading
I dress myself in teabags as I need the aroma to get me out of bed, out of the house, and off to the job centre. But it feels like a double edged sword, as while the teabag outfit I created myself with string, tape and glue, along with an assortment of different tea brands (Tetley, Typhoo, Nestle, and some off brand called Typhoon) gives me the energy to walk the streets, it doesn’t give the job centre employees the energy to help me find work.
They simply question my attire, but I see people dressed worse, looking less alert. Deep down I know a tea bag costume is stupid, but it has become a crutch, for I became hopelessly addicted to the stuff, to the point of becoming an addict. Continue reading