Ignore this, it's for a writing project, I'm not actually going mad

It's been three nights since I went to the House and I haven't slept a wink sinc. I cant really keep going without slep. I keep seeing It. It has... shapes that aren't shapes. you know when you're tired and you wake up but you can't move and everything is... a bit wobbly? I have that. but I see It. I have the itch. I have to scratch.

you want to visit the house? i could give you the address. it's at [REMOVED] just follow the [REMOVED]. you probably don't wanna go aone though. there's nothing there that you casn hurt. it's inside you. everythying.it's light. LIGHT.

christ this is so crazy schizo cliche, but i can tell you, i ate the light. i ingested it and it ingested me. sometimes i can feel it pulsing under my arm asnd i wndwant to cut it out and share with you all. it'd blind you and take your face off but it'd be worth it

theres not so long now. not long for the itch.

i scratch and i scratch. and

you'll scratch too.
one day.

To the dust we shall return.

I don't believe in anything to do with the paranormal. Here's a brief list of things I don't believe in: ghosts, UFOs, psychics, nuns, etc. I'm not religious, I think Most Haunted is ridiculous and the closest I've come to an encounter with the undead was escorting Doug Ellis around my school once. However, something odd happened to me as a child. I was sitting in the living room on the phone to a friend, when suddenly a penny feel seemingly from out of nowhere and landed on the worn, red carpet. Completely baffled, I calmly (okay, so loudly and obnoxiously) tried to tell said friend about the fortean event I'd just experienced, but it was mostly me screeching 'A FUCKING PENNY JUST FROM AIR HIT FLOOR WHAT? YOU.. PENNY'. He didn't believe me, as he's sane.

I don't believe it emanated via a vortex from a parallel universe, I don't think it was a ghost playing tricks on me, but I don't know what the shit it was. There's a very good chance it's just my memory playing tricks on me and it actually fell from a shelf, but I vividly recall it just dropping out of nowhere, man. The only rational explanation is that someone glued it to the ceiling, but frankly, that's more insane than ghosts and ghoulies.

Have you ever had a paranormal experience? Ever had something happen that, even though you know it has to have a sensible explanation, you just can't come up with one? Tell me. Share your stories. Let me feast on your tales of ectoplasm and bumps in the night.

Cutcutcut.

So I found a thing that lets you cut up text William Burroughs-style. The results don't quite work, but with a bit of editing (mostly the removing of the odd word, the addition of the occasional comma, full stop or conjunction) it can come out mildly interesting. Obviously, you're only going to get out what you put in, but I thought it was amusing enough to put up here.

Harder than a bus to the face. You, you might actually enjoy yourself. No bug? Then that's fine too. I'm not in your war, I see your death face, that fleshy vessel that is simply exhalation, just as you've squeezed paradise. I can't tell you how much there is you, I love the red meat. I was going to help, they're going to findfuck you, eat you. Try it, I dare you. another human being's flesh, in for the long haul. And if I ever get the voice of god? The last words before you: chase you, hunt you, kill you. I always had boundaries, you know? Now fun. I have pretending. I'm here for greed. I'll be someone else's kill. There's nothing, there's only the exquisite taste. It's like hearing the panic, panic has hit these streets, never thought I'd enjoy tearing. Never a good person, I wasn't meant to be. Will run and hide, but nothing's you. Going to have a ball.

I'll ravage anything, I do it for the penultimate drop of life; out of thrill. I don't do it for the women, gasp. There's that. Finally, for this earth, but before the plague.

Man in a Basement. #2

You're in a room and you don't know how you got here. You don't remember getting here, you just remember being in the park one second, on the swing... then there was darkness. How long have you been here? Do you even know? Do you even remember? Okay, just think this through now.

Or, okay, do that, freak out, scream and thrash for 67 seconds. And that accomplished what, exactly? Okay, now you're hyperventilating. You fucking drama queen, this is only a bit of random imprisonment.

HELLO? HELLO!

That'll do it. He's convinced now, he'll have to let you go, you GREETED him. Your politeness has made him think, actually, no, I'm not going to chain you up, periodically bugger you and feed you rat, no, I'm going to release you, it's cool, it's fine, my bad, my fucking bad, terribly sorry old chap. You are fucking pathetic. Oh, here come the waterworks. Thank fuck it is pitch black in here, so I can't see your fucking face. Get up.

Whoops.

Sorry, forgot, you're chained down. Hah. There, see, you laughed. You can do it. You're fine. Let's assess the situation. You were outside. Now you're inside. You're not entirely sure where inside is. You're on a wooden floor, it's damp and smells like... you don't know what it smells like. It smells like wood, sawdust, blood, piss, sweat, screaming, pain, hate, lust, fucking, mud, gunpowder, blood, wet, bone.

What the fuck does bone smell like?

Stop it. Wait. Was that you?

Hel-

Shut up. There was a noise. LISTEN... no, this is not the time for you freaking out and stop breathing. Breathe, but quietly. Okay, no. There's no one-

FUCK.

What was that? Where are you? Okay, look, just chill out. Calm down.

Oh no. You didn't.

You pissed yourself.

Man in a Basement. #1

You're in a room and you don't know how you got here. You don't remember getting here, you just remember being in the park one second, on the swing... then there was darkness. It's dark in here now, it stinks too, it smells like musk and rotting vegetables, sweat and sex, it's a hateful smell. You're sitting down and you hurt, your ankles are sore and you need to pee. You try to get up. You idiot, you're chained to the ground. What the fuck is going on? You can't.. why are you here?

hello?

There's nothing. You're stuck here, completely pitch black, with that fucking smell. God, it's thick in your nose, you have to puke. No, you must not puke. You can't move, where the fuck are you going to puke? Just sit down, calm down and wait. Wait.

hello?!

Shut up. You idiot. There's no one here. Where is here, anyway? Why are you chained down? What the fuck did you do to get here? You need to puke.

HELLO?! HELLO?!

I don't know why you say goodbye, I say hello.

Well, at least you still have your sense of humour. God, you're sweating, you're absolutely soaked. God, you hope that's sweat. And you're feeling sore again. You're stuck. Think. Think. Think. Think. Think. Think. Okay, so... who did this?

hello?

Yeah, that'll work. You cunt. Think harder. Oh no. It's coming. You need to puke. NO. Just wait it out. Swallow. Swallow. Swallowed? Good. Chill the fuck out. Someone will save you. This isn't what happens to men. You're going to be fine. You're going to be okay. You're going to be...

You puked. You idiot.

Floor.

This is so clearly a bloke's house. A famous television character once said that men living alone are basically 'bears with furniture'. That's always stuck with me, because that's essentially what my house is like. There's an easy way to illustrate this, really -- my goddamn floor. The landlord didn't install any carpet, presumably because it's easier and cheaper to clean up blood and spunk with a squeegee. You should see the fucking thing. It's like a history of every single meal and incident that's ever occurred in our place. Get on your knees (bitch) and check out the grime that litters our once pristine floor. Toast crumbs, bits of hair and dust, miscellaneous pieces of plastic and glass, rubber bands and, inexplicably, a collection of socks underneath the sofa -- socks that don't belong to any of us. The once, probably tasteful hardwood, is now stained by our filth.

Jesus, we should fucking tidy this place.

I like it really. This is all a lie. Apart from the procrastinator bit.

I am a life long procrastinator. I'm also too fucking funny to bother putting in one of those cute jokes about procrastination, you don't tell me what to do internet audience. And even if you DID, I wouldn't fucking bother doing it anyway. Where the hell was I?

I am a life long procrastinator. I generally don't like to do a lot of stuff, despite having a lot of ambition and a modicum of talent. Heh, sorry. "Modicum". Where was I?

I am a LIFE LONG procrastinator. I hate moving. I enjoy sitting. Imagine my annoyance then at the social construct of Christmas, and the giving and receiving of gifts. Cliff Richard only had it partly right: Christmas should be about snogging and getting pissed on Tesco Value wine. Don't get me wrong, I love getting people gifts, but for most of you idiots I just can't be arsed. You don't tell me what you want, you don't update your wish lists, you say "oh, I don't want anything" knowing full fucking well that that is a completely unacceptable thing to say in this gloriously capitalistic society of ours. I can't not get you anything, idiot, even if I wanted to. And goddamnit, I'm expecting something from YOU, so shut the fuck up and accept my chocolate Scrabble (Yes, that's a real thing).

Don't even get me started on the wrapping. The world is coming to an end, aren't we supposed to be conserving shit? Why am I wrapping something you won't want in expensive dead trees I don't need to kill? Do have any idea about the gases that are released into the atmosphere in the process of making sticky tape, the annoying shit I have to wrap YOUR annoying shit in? Look, I'm choosing not to take part in Christmas this year as a goddamn green favour to Mother Earth, it's not that I'm poor and can't be arsed to read your fucking mind and get you DVDs you'll hate and chocolate you won't eat.

Where the hell was I?

Basically, I'm lazy, and wish I could buy everything pre-wrapped in environmentally-friendly paper, delivered to your homes, with cards hand-written by blind Togolese children and delivered by a stork. Is that too much to ask from one website?

PS, this Christmas, I want booze and lots of it.