Trying To Trap The Demon In Dotty’s Attic (It Isn’t An Attic, It’s A LOFT But Attic Sounds Better)

 

Last night I set some traps to try and catch the DEMON in my loft, but before I set the traps I had to find the correct protective clothing to protect me, namely -

MY GAS MASK — to prevent me from INHALING THE DEMON

MY PROTECTIVE ALL-IN-ONE SUIT THAT FORENSIC BOFFINS AND CHEMICAL DISASTER BODS WEAR — to prevent me from ABSORBING THE DEMON

MY GOOD, STURDY HIKING BOOTS THAT I HAVEN’T WORN FOR YEARS — to STOMP ON THE DEMON or to KICK THE DEMON if the need arose.

 

So, suitably dressed, I set about laying my traps –

First, I substituted all my Cumberland sausages for the LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN SHITE SAUSAGES I’d cleverly and cunningly ordered from the online 24 hr Tesco (that is one BIG Tesco – the shop must be the size of Ireland!) and that I had delivered yesterday afternoon (Branwell answered the door).

Next, I substituted all my Hobnobs for ROUND RYVITAS (HA HA HA HA) that were also delivered from online 24 hr Tesco.

Then, I went upstairs and sat on the floor directly below the LOFT HATCH. I crossed my legs like a proper YOGI, stretched my arms into the air and touched the tips of my fingers together to make myself into a TRIANGLE and I sat there all night EXUDING GOODNESS. I exuded such great amounts of GOODNESS the house nearly floated away. I couldn’t believe I had that much GOODNESS in me, (it isn’t there now, it’s gone, I exuded it all out), SHEDLOADS of GOODNESS that I aimed up into the air, through the loft hatch and INTO THE DEMON.

It didn’t work. At least it didn’t bring the DEMON out of the loft - BUT, while I was being a TRIANGLE, exuding GOODNESS, the DEMON started singing. It sang –

 

“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me.

HE’S JUST A POOR BOY, FROM A POOR FAMILY,

SPARE HIM HIS LIFE FROM THESE QUORN SAUSAGES.

Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?

BISMILLAH! NO! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

BISMILLAH! WE WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

WILL NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go!

NOT LET YOU GO!

Let me go-0-0-0-0-0-!

NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!

Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go!

Beelzebub has a devil in the sideboard - me! – poor me - poor meeeeeeee…”

 

Now, I need to tell you something about HOW he was singing – he was singing in TONGUES and one of the tongues (the red bits) was MINE – and what I want to know is HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT? It sounded like Demon Duelling Banjos with words, him-me-him-me-him-me but my mouth didn’t move AT ALL, it stayed WIDE OPEN all the time I was there (to exude GOODNESS) and anyway I was wearing my GAS MASK and the way I’d put it on over my WIDE OPEN MOUTH meant there was no way on this earth that I COULD have closed my mouth, it was STUCK OPEN and no one can sing with a STUCK OPEN WIDE OPEN MOUTH unless they’re some sort of genius ventriloquist and there aren’t any genius ventriloquists, you can ALWAYS see movement. 

But last night wasn’t a COMPLETE waste – he’s given away his EXACT LOCATION in my loft. He’s living in the old sideboard that belonged to Granny Euphemia and when Granny Euphemia died she left it to my dear dead Daddy and when my dear dead Daddy died he left it to me but I don’t like it, it’s fuck ugly and riddled with woodworm (HA! I just wrote WORMWOOD instead of WOODWORM because I’m so used to writing WORMWOOD. I changed it). Also, it looks as if maybe I’m starting to get to him a bit, disconcert the little fucker. But he’s a stubborn one. This morning I’ve been back to online 24 hr Tesco to order more AMMO. Here’s a list of the ammo I’ve ordered —

more LINDA McCARTNEY VEGETARIAN QUORN CARDBOARD SAUSAGES

more ROUND RYVITAS

mothballs

rat poison

6 bottles of Domestos – kills all known germs. DEAD

caustic soda

some apples (they worked on Eve)

a fishing net

12 bottles of Harrogate Spring Water (online 24 hr Tesco don’t sell Holy Water)

And I was thinking of ordering a copy of Fifty Shades of Shite so the DEMON would get the impression I’ve read it, but nope, I couldn’t do it, a little voice in my head kept arguing with itself -

DEMON?/Shadey Shite? 

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

DEMON?/Shadey Shite?

and the DEMON won.

 

So now it’s a waiting game. A battle of wills. Dark versus light, good versus bad (erm, which side am I on?), saintliness versus evil. Dotty versus Demon.  

BRING IT ON, FUCKER. NO ONE BEATS DOTTY. NO ONE AND NO THING. NOTHING.

 

 

 

 

N.B. — In case it’s gone unnoticed, you should take note that I’ve used the word ‘versus’ and not the abbreviation of the word ‘versus’ which should be a small ‘v’ but is now usually shown as a capital letter when, for example, a football match is being advertised –

LIVERPOOL V EVERTON

Not only is the word ‘versus’ abbreviated to an incorrect capital ‘v’, it’s also SPOKEN as the letter ‘v’ (vee) by STUPID ILLITERATE SLOPEY-BROWS ON THE TELLY —

LIVERPOOL VEE EVERTON

Ah, fuck it – I might just keep the DEMON and get him to spew some vile bile and brimstone over ALL THE STUPID PEOPLE.

 

 

Why Is Life So Cruel To Me? Why? Why? What Have I Done That’s SO Wrong?

 

I’ve got pins and needles in my foot - I was sitting in a funny position and I didn’t feel it going numb, I didn’t know anything was wrong but then I stood up quickly and OUCHFUCKINGHELL—- TIMBER I fell down on the floor and walloped the top of my arm on the coffee table, just above my elbow, and then the PINS AND NEEDLES started and I hopped around the room going AH AH AH AH FUCK AH AH AH but my foot kept touching the floor because I can’t hop, I’m not a fucking RABBIT, so I sat down on the stairs and tried thumping my calf but that didn’t work, so I hopped into the kitchen to get my brick and I sat on the kitchen chair and bent down and slam-slam-slam-slammed my brick on my foot, but that didn’t work either because it’s not a PINS AND NEEDLES IN MY FOOT brick, it’s a HEAD-SHAPED brick for HEADBANGING so I don’t know why I thought it would work in the first place but PINS AND NEEDLES make you DESPERATE and you’ll do anything to get rid of them because do you know what it feels like to have PINS AND NEEDLES? I’ll tell you what it feels like - it feels like you’re being stabbed with JAZILLIONS of mini PINS and NEEDLES, that’s what it feels like, and it’s HORRIBLE so because I couldn’t think of anything else to do I thought ‘Dotty, distract yourself and they’ll go away,’ so I came to do a post about it to distract myself until they go away.

Wait a minute…

 

 

 

Yep, they’ve gone now.

 

 

Ghosty Spirity Spooky Spectrey FOLLOWERS

 

Okay, so today I came online and discovered I had passed 500 followers – 502 (thank you!) and today another two people have clicked follow (thank you!). So just now I thought okay, I’ll go to my widget thingy and click ‘Show Followers’ on the Join thingy on my sidebar and I did that and it says I have 536 followers!!! That’s THIRTY TWO GHOST FOLLOWERS WHO DON’T APPEAR IN MY STATS. Look —

This is on my stats page —

 

Site Stats » My Followers (504)

  • WordPress.com Followers (496) |
  • Email Followers (8)

 

and this is on my email sign up thing where you can show how many followers you have –

 

THE CULT OF DOTTY WELCOMES YOU INTO THE FOLD. LEAVE ALL YOUR CASH IN THE BOX ON THE WALL. I NEED IT TO FEED YOU AND TO BUY THINGS FOR ME.

Join 536 other followers

 

 

 

WHO ARE THE 32?

HAVE THEY COME THROUGH MY OUIJA BOARD?

WILL THEY EAT ME?

I’M SCARED. 

 

 

 

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT — I know who THE 32 are – they’re from FACEBOOK! They’re counted in the WIDGET but they’re not counted in the STATS! Fucking stupid.

I found out because I had a look on the support forum and this is what it says –

 

Show total number of followers – When checked, the widget will display the total number of followers, which is the sum of:

  • WordPress.com users following your blog
  • Any followers from connected Publicize services (Facebook and Twitter)

Note: This doesn’t include blog post (comment) followers.

 

 

I’m still scared.

I rarely go on Facebook, I don’t like it.

What does it WANT?

 

 

 

 

 

Dotty Was Dying Of Double Pneumonia But I’m All Right Now

 

I haven’t been able to come online much in the last few days because I’ve had Summer Double Pneumonia and I felt like SHITE. I lost my voice too so there wasn’t much point trying to write a post because you wouldn’t have been able to hear me, my voice was so FUCKED I thought I’d turned into THE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE WHISPERER every time I tried to coax my Cumberland sausages to hop up onto the grill and cook themselves so I could have something to eat.

You don’t know what it took for me to do the Shitey Sunday Picture Post yesterday – the SHEER AND ABSOLUTE SUFFERING involved, the BRAVERY and the SELFLESS PUBLIC-SPIRITEDNESS (is that a word?? spiritness?? spiritidness?? – see how ill I am?). I crawled from my bed, crawled down the stairs, pulled myself up onto the chair and DID A POST, all while I was DYING. Now that’s what I call DEDICATION. Too fucking right it is.

Guess what? I’ve passed the 500 followers mark. 502 to be precise BUT NO FUCKING BADGE FROM WORDPRESS – AGAIN!! Also, since the week before last, they’re not putting my posts in the TOPICS or TAGS or CATEGORIES or whatever the fuck they call them. They don’t like me. They HATE me. They wish I had DIED OF DOUBLE PNEUMONIA so they could have their nicey-nicey Blog World back again without ME in it to spoil everything. It’s DISCRIMINATION AGAINST MENTALS. Actually, that’s true because I’ve just had a thought - HOW MANY MENTAL BLOGS HAVE BEEN FRESHLY PRESSED? None, that I know of (correct me if I’m wrong). I don’t mean ME, (that’ll never happen, I’m too much of a gobshite), I mean the GOOD mental blogs, the serious ones. Hmmm.

I’m going to lie down again. I’m still dizzy.

 

 

 

P.S. If you hear a croaky sound when you’re reading this don’t think it’s your computer that’s about to blow up, it’s only my voice starting to come back.

DISCLAIMER – If your computer DOES blow up after you ignored any odd sounds IT’S NOT MY FAULT so fuck off with your solicitors and your ‘I’ll sue Dotty,’ and your ‘I’ll be rich for the rest of my life,’ – IT WILL NEVER HAPPEN, YOU FUCKING NUMPTY – the courts will end up giving ME all of YOUR money because you’re STUPID.

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Baby Jumping

*

Castrillo de Murcia in Spain.

It’s a nice sunny day.

What shall we do?

I know, we’ll take our babies out for the day and lie them on mattresses in the street.

*

*

This nice Catholic tradition of lying our babies

on mattresses in the street goes back to 1620.

It’s called El Colacho.

It’s holy. The priests are here. They love it too.

But what’s this?

OH NO!

Here comes The Devil!!

*

*

Phew, he isn’t going to smite us!

He just wants to jump over our babies

to cleanse them of original sin.

That’s all right then.

*

*

BOING

*

*

BOING

*

*

BOING

*

*

BOING

*

*

BOING

*

*

BOING BOING BOING BOING BOING

*

*

That was a lovely day out.

Now we’ll go home for tea.

*

A Very Nice Video Post

 

This is Smokie, fronted by their original lead singer, Chris Norman, (who Dotty knows something about but she can’t tell you because it’s a secret), singing their most famous song. Watch it, it’s good, it’s a nice little love song.

 

*

This is Smokie, fronted by their replacement lead singer, Alan Barton (who Dotty knows something about but she can’t tell you because it’s a secret), singing THEIR version of their most famous song. I prefer this one.

*

Hidey-Holes For Hermits

 

I need a new hidey-hole. Why? Because I want one.

Here’s a list of the hidey-holes I already have —

 

under my bed – a normal place to hide

under the bed in the spare room – another normal place to hide

in the cupboard under the stairs – normal

in my kitchen cupboards – also normal except I can’t hide there any more because that’s where my collections of Heinz Salad Cream squeezy bottles, Colman’s Horseradish Sauce jars, Carnation Caramel tins, and Suma Tomato Puree tubes live. Oh, and my Atora Suet boxes live there too.

in my airing cupboard- I’ve already told you about my airing cupboard.

in my tumble dryer – I’ve already told you about my tumble dryer (a few times).

in my washing machine – I haven’t told you about my washing machine because the general consensus is that people who hide in their washing machines are EVEN MORE MENTAL than people who don’t hide in their washing machines but might still hide in their tumble dryers. I don’t really see the difference, they’re both used for laundry.

in my wardrobe – a small part of my collection of self-help books lives there. The other parts of my self-help book collection live in the stacks on the stairs. My clothes are in – hang on, where ARE my clothes? I know where some of them are, who moved the rest of them?

on top of my wardrobe – I can’t hide there any more because in order to do my flying I had to demolish the structure I’d built to enclose the space between the top of my wardrobe and the ceiling, and I need to keep it demolished or I won’t have anywhere to take off from.

in my air raid shelter that I built under my kitchen – what’s down there? I can’t remember. I think I put some collections down there but fuck knows which ones. I’ll have a look later when I can be arsed.

in the new wheelie bin I conned the council into giving me – I told them someone had nicked my second wheelie bin so they’d bring me a brand new one when really I’ve never had two wheelie bins, I’ve only ever had ONE. And no, I haven’t made a going-outside breakthrough, my brand new wheelie bin is in my kitchen next to my cooker where it’s nice and warm.

in my loft – I don’t like going up there for three reasons - SPIDERS and MOTHS and THE TRAMP WHO MIGHT BE SECRETLY LIVING UP THERE and sneaking in and out when I’m not looking, and stealing my CLOTHES (YES! that’s where they are!!!!!!!) and stealing my Cumberland sausages when I’ve cooked a big batch and put some in the fridge but when I go to eat them the next day they’re NOT THERE because the FUCKING THIEVING RONKER IN MY LOFT HAS STOLEN THEM AND SCOFFED THE LOT and he’s stolen my Asda Toffee Cheesecakes too because I had FOUR in the fridge yesterday and now I don’t have ANY because he must have crept down in the night and ATE THEM and put the empty tubs OUTSIDE IN THE BIN because he knows I don’t go outside so I won’t see the evidence. My Asda Toffee Cheesecakes that I was saving for after my tea tonight. BASTARD. When I catch him I’ll Asda HIS fucking price.

 

Where’s my AXE?

 

 

Dotty The Sagey Wise Woman – Wise Words Of Wisdom – Part 1, A Few Idioms For Idiots

 

I know everything there is to know about KNOWING NOTHING AT ALL which qualifies me to dispense as many wise words of wisdom as I feel like dispensing to educate the people who think they know everything about EVERYTHING.

I’ll begin with some well known idioms.

 

 

A fool and his money is a good friend to have.

 

A leopard can’t change his socks.

 

Every cloud has a bigger cloud following it.

 

A picture paints a thousand NOTHINGS because pictures can’t paint, you twat.

 

An apple a day keeps the dentist busy because eating so much natural sugar will ROT YOUR TEETH.

 

If the shoe fits, find the other one – one shoe is USELESS unless you only have one foot.

 

Don’t put all your eggs in your mouth at once. You’ll choke.

 

Out of sight, out of sight.

 

Blood is thicker than Absinthe, but it doesn’t taste as nice even when you combine the two to make a cocktail.

 

Too many cooks have undeclared dirty diseases. NEVER EAT ANYTHING YOU HAVEN’T COOKED YOURSELF.

 

A bird in the hand is worth ME PUNCHING YOU IN THE NECK. DON’T TOUCH THE LITTLE BIRDIES, YOU’LL SCARE THEM.

 

 

 

Feel free to add your own.

 

 

 

 

 

P.S. Yesterday I had a tomato with my breakfast Cumberland sausage sandwich. Today I had another tomato with my breakfast Cumberland sausage sandwich. I might have one again tomorrow and see where all this healthy eating takes me. Fuck, I might end up eating FRUIT in a few months time if I carry on like this.

 

 

 

If I Didn’t Have People Phobia I Could Have Run Outside And Kicked His Head In

 

I had a big whiney day yesterday – feeling sorry for myself because everything was so LOUD I couldn’t concentrate enough to do a post. I gave my fridge a good kick in the side because it sounded like the River Aire, the River Wharfe, and the River Calder having a FIGHT, and also because I couldn’t kick the FUCKER across the road who was cutting his grass with a STRIMMER. And the reason I couldn’t kick the fucker across the road who was cutting his grass with a STRIMMER is because I’M TOO MENTAL TO GO OUTSIDE. If I could have gone outside I’d have run across the road with a big bottle of water, run into his house, unplugged the strimmer, run outside, kicked him in the bollocks, then POURED MY BIG BOTTLE OF WATER OVER HIS FUCKING NASTY BUZZY STRIMMER. So I had to have my windows and doors closed ON A HOT SUNNY DAY and that’s not good for all the obvious reasons but it’s also not good because when you have HERMITITIS the only way you’re able to have a bit of the HOT SUNNY DAY is to fling open all your doors and windows to let the HOT SUNNY DAY come inside.

 

 

Is it any wonder I have PEOPLE PHOBIA when EVERYBODY IN THE WORLD IS A JUDGEMENTAL ARSEWIPE? I tend to write about the HERMITITIS more than the PEOPLE PHOBIA – why? I don’t know, probably because I’ve successfully got rid off most of the people I used to know so I don’t have enough people left in my life to write about.

PEOPLE, PEOPLE, PEOPLE.

Say it out loud.

What does it sound like?

It sounds like PEEPHOLE.

PEOPLE – PEEPHOLE, PEOPLE – PEEPHOLE.

And why does PEOPLE sound like PEEPHOLE?

Because that’s exactly what people try to do to each other, they use love and friendship and trust to drill PEEPHOLES into each other’s lives to SPY on what you’ve done, what you’re doing, what you INTEND to do, what you’re saying, who you’re saying it about, who you’re saying it TO, who you’ve shagged, who you’re shagging, who you’ll shag next – they want to know EVERYTHING, all your secrets, all the gory details.

I SPY WITH MY FERRETY EYES.  

And why do they do want to know all this? They want to know it all so they can sit as JUDGE, JURY AND EXECUTIONER and find you to be LESS THAN THEY ARE, so they can prove to themselves and the people they GOSSIP TO that they are  RICHER, MORE INTELLIGENT, NICER LOOKING, FINER HUMAN BEINGS than you, so they can keep fooling themselves that they are better than you, so they can keep justifying to themselves the fact that deep down they are all, every single one of them, PRETENDING THEIR WAY THROUGH LIFE.

JUDGEMENTAL – there’s a clue in the word.

And if you SEE THROUGH all this and recognise human beings for what they REALLY ARE, and what they WANT and the lengths they’ll go to to get it, and if your mind can’t cope with all the SHITE of human interaction because you can see THE TRUTH OF WHAT IT’S ALL ABOUT AND WHAT MOTIVATIONS LIE BEHIND THE INTERACTIONS, and if you’re unable to play the game any more because you know it’s all a BIG DISHONEST PILE OF SHITE you’re labelled as being PEOPLE PHOBIC and MENTAL.

In a comment he made the other day on the Dotty Talking Therapy post, MEL said it’s about HONESTY. And I’ve thought and thought and thought about what he wrote while I couldn’t do anything else because of the NOISE, and the more I think about it the more I know he’s 100% right both within the context he said it and also in the context of this post. I’m not clever enough to go into all the theories behind what causes PEOPLE PHOBIA – is it a physical blip in the brain? Is it the bastard child of CHRONIC DEPRESSION? Is it one or more of all the theories proposed by EXPERT BOFFINS? Or is it merely a RECOGNITION of a disheartening, clarifying existential truth?

EXISTENTIAL TRUTH????????  - fucking hell it’s only quarter to eleven, I’m going to make my breakfast before my brain erupts. Cumberland sausage sandwiches. AND I’M GOING TO CHOP A TOMATO TO PUT ON THE TOP.

 

 

Useless Dotty Strikes Again

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – NO

Post about the other day when little Emily came to see me – NO

Up to date with reading your blogs and answering emails - FUCK NO 

WHY? Because I’m USELESS. Not just ordinary useless, FUCKING USELESS.

FUCKING USELESS WITH BELLS ON.

BEING MENTAL  – the gift that never stops giving.

 

Guess Who’s Coming To My House This Afternoon?

 

Last night I was bored and lonely again so I got my Ouija board out, hoping for a nice chat with someone interesting. Did I get a nice chat with someone interesting? Did I fuck. I never seem to get anyone interesting – the other night (Sunday, I think), I was talking to a woman from Jarrow, a seamstress who went on and on about sewing and all things to do with sewing – stitches, seams, pleats, materials, threads, needles, thimbles, tape measures, scissors, eyesight, bleeding fingers, the price of candles. NOTHING ELSE. She didn’t even tell me her name. And she began every sentence with “Eeeee, pet,” which is fine when you’re SPEAKING or TYPING it but spelling out each letter of “Eeeee pet,” when the glass has to return to the centre between letters and you haven’t even started your sentence yet is BEYOND BORING for the person at the other end (ME).

I wanted to talk to someone WITH SOMETHING TO SAY. But I always get boring people.

WHY DO I ALWAYS GET BORING PEOPLE?

Where are the FIRST DINOSAUR DIGGER-OUTERS? MARY? GIDEON? RICHARD? What are you doing, why won’t you talk to me?

Where are the people who know my future? MOTHER SHIPTON, COME OUT, COME OUT, WHERE EVER YOU ARE!!

Or a good headshrinker (not Freud)?

Or a maths genius who can work out the winning lottery numbers for next week?

Fuck knows where they are, all I know is THEY’RE NOT ON MY OUIJA BOARD.

So who did I end up talking to out of ALL THE DEAD PEOPLE IN DEAD PEOPLE WORLD?

Little Emily, that’s who. She started fucking about with the glass before I’d placed all the letters out.

D

centre

O

centre

T

centre

T

centre

Y

centre

I

centre

T

centre

S

centre

E

centre

M

centre

I

centre

L

centre

Y

centre

and then she moaned for 40 minutes because she couldn’t find an apostrophe (I lost it one night after a conversation with Barbara Taylor Bradford).

While she was moaning about the missing apostrophe, I was puzzling over WHY she was talking to me through the Ouija board. She only lives up the road, the lazy cow, she could have walked down to see me like she always did before she turned into a TRAITOR and went off with that zombie dog-fuck, Kumblant.  I knew she wasn’t ill again, and I knew she wasn’t dead (well, no more dead than she already is) because Branwell would have told me, so it wasn’t that she was UNABLE to come to my house to talk to me - obviously she didn’t WANT to. So why was she hijacking my Ouija board?

I slapped my hand on the arse of the glass to stop her apostrophe whinge.

WHY ARE YOU HIJACKING MY OUIJA BOARD? I asked.

I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.

COME AND SEE ME TOMORROW AFTERNOON. 

WILL I BE WELCOME IN YOUR HOUSE?

NOT REALLY BUT TONIGHT I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO ISNT YOU.

EXPECT ME AT THREE OCLOCK.

ALL RIGHT. FUCK OFF NOW. 

AS YOU WISH. GOODNIGHT DOTTY MY DEAR FRIEND.

DEAR FRIEND? 

But she had gone. AND it was too late to start talking to anyone else so I put the Ouija board away, had a few Cumberland sausages for my supper, went for a wee and a wash, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

 

 

She’ll be here in just over an hour and I don’t know what she wants. I spent the morning trying to stay calm but after I’d had my dinner (Cumberland sausage sandwiches so the smell will linger and she’ll realise what she’s been missing) I had a little panic attack, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another. And I can feel another one coming on now so I’m going to crush up a packet of beta-blockers and stir them into a glass of laudanum then hopefully I’ll be able to cope with her when she arrives.

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

 

Marvellous, Miraculous Sticky Notes

 

!wOw!  

I’ve discovered STICKY NOTES! Big bright pink ones! I found them on my desk but I didn’t buy them (I wouldn’t buy PINK ones). They’re BRILLIANT! They stick to paper when they won’t stick to anything else – doors, floors, windows, heads, clothes, cups, ashtrays, ANYTHING! It doesn’t matter how many times you try to stick them to something else, they don’t lose their ability to STICK TO PAPER even when they APPEAR to have lost all their stickiness, NO THEY HAVEN’T, they’re conserving it, they’re saving it for PAPER! But how do they know to conserve their stickiness for paper? And how do they know when they’re ON PAPER and not on wood or metal or plastic or skin?

HOW DO THEY KNOW? 

 

Shitey Poem – Poemi Classicus

 

Poemi Classicus

 

Arsiderum ep tusti 

corpsicanti fortense.

Pissiflora illicidantum,

fukadukius indi ear.

Horantica in mentalium,

orifungus mushi room;

salivati ondi chinius,

dribblidrooli beestibum.

 

 

Dotty The Cosmic Orderer Who Asked The Universe For £148m But Didn’t Get It

 

The £148m should have been MINE. It WAS mine, I asked the Universe for it – when Andy Murray won the Gold I dug out my Cosmic Ordering book because I thought if Cosmic Ordering worked for Andy it’ll work for me, and I’ve been Cosmic Ordering my arse off ever since with varying degrees of success. Here are my successes –

 

1) my Cumberland sausages haven’t burnt AT ALL since I asked the Universe not to burn them

2) my learning to fly injuries on my face are healing up nicely after I asked the Universe to help them heal up nicely

3) Lottie hasn’t been in touch since I asked the Universe to make her go away

4) life has been quiet and free of stupid fuckers since I asked the Universe to make my life quiet and free of stupid fuckers (this one’s a bit iffy, I only asked the Universe for it last night so we’ll have to wait and see)

5) I won the £148m Euromillions jackpot last Friday

 

Did you read #5? Eh? BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED but somehow it didn’t, somehow my £148m WAS STOLEN FROM ME and found its way DOWN SOUTH WHERE THE RICH FUCKERS LIVE.

 

 

I need to go now and talk to the Universe to find out what happened.

Aha – a thought – maybe the Universe is teasing me, like it did with Andy when it gave Wimbledon to Federer BUT THEN IT GAVE ANDY THE GOLD.

Hmmmmm!

 

 

 

£148m Euromillions Winners Say It Won’t Change Them

 

The couple who won the Euromillions jackpot on Friday were just on the BBC News.

He doesn’t want to give up the music shop he owns.

They MIGHT buy a new house. At the end of the report, the reporter said “they said they won’t let it change them.” Meaning their win.

WHY THE FUCK DID THEY BUY A TICKET IN THE FIRST PLACE THEN?

If you don’t want your life to change DON’T BUY A TICKET. Leave the tickets for those of us who DO want our lives to change.

Am I jealous? YES I FUCKING WELL AM JEALOUS. 

That was MY jackpot.

MY £148M.

Would I have let it change me?

FUCK, YES.

It’s not fair.

 

 

Dotty Talking Therapy © – The Cure For Being Mental

 

I’ve found it! The cure for being mental!

Talking Therapy isn’t a LOAD OF WANK after all! All those gobshite headshrinkers who believe WE WHO ARE MENTAL can talk away the crazy – THEY’RE RIGHT! We can!

But they’re WRONG in their belief that it takes TIME – months and years of appointments and sessions and tears and tick boxes – it DOESN’T TAKE TIME, all it takes is COMMITMENT!

Commit yourself to the belief in what I’m about to tell you in DOTTY TALKING THERAPY© and YOU WILL BE CURED! FOREVER! Yes. FOREVER!

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I’ve hidden my cure down here to trick the SO-CALLED NORMALS who’ll be coming to STEAL IT and GET RID OF IT when they find out that I KNOW WHAT THEY’VE DONE.

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DOTTY TALKING THERAPY ©

 

It consists of one sentence and one sentence only. The sentence should be SAID to (or SHOUTED at if they don’t hear you the first time) EVERYONE YOU COME INTO CONTACT WITH – family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, bosses, doctors, nurses, shopkeepers, children in the street etc etc etc – EVERYONE.

The sentence is –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

Because it’s TRUE, they ARE. They’re the mental ones, not us. DOTTY TALKING THERAPY©  is based on the theory that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the so-called ‘normal’ people in society have plotted and conspired down the years to make WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL think we are mental when really THEY’RE THE MENTAL ONES.

And the worse thing about what they’ve done is they’ve MADE US BELIEVE IT. We BELIEVE we’re the mental ones, we BELIEVE we have to have the crazy taken away from us, we BELIEVE we need to be CURED OF BEING MENTAL.

 

EVIDENCE

Would we start wars?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we leave whole countries of people to STARVE when we could do something about it?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow homelessness to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow people with potentially terminal illnesses to NOT BE TREATED WITH DRUGS THAT COULD CURE THEM, BECAUSE THE COST OF THE DRUGS IS HIGH?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow ALL THE WRONG THINGS THE SO-CALLED NORMALS DO to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

MURDERERS – How many murderers are found to be insane? VERY FEW compared to the ones who are deemed to be SANE. I never understood that until I invented DOTTY TALKING THERAPY© – they’re ALL fucking mental, as are the JUDGE and the JURY and the SOLICITORS and the BARRISTERS and all the so-called normal people who’ve decided that a MURDERER is SANE but someone who can’t come out of their house, or sings in the street, or has a panic attack in the bank, or can’t get their thoughts straight etc etc is MENTAL. Where’s the logic in that? THERE ISN’T ANY.

 

And that’s just for starters. There are countless examples, from the highest echelons of society to the lowest.

And also –

Would WE zap electrical currents into THEIR brains?

Would WE cut into THEIR brains to perform lobotomies?

Would WE immerse THEM in ice cold baths for hours and hours?

Would WE force nasty drugs into THEM?

 

They use WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL to entertain them. How many books and poems and paintings and sculptures and music and songs and photographs and films and plays and comedies and theories etc etc etc etc would NOT EXIST if they weren’t created by WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL? And inventions. And discoveries. And science. And buildings. HOW DIFFERENT WOULD THE WORLD BE IF WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL WEREN’T IN IT?

 

 

 

WHY have they done this? WHY have they turned it all around and made WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL BELIEVE WE ARE MENTAL?

I don’t know. Because they can. Because we LET them. Because they’re the MAJORITY. Because we’re not as CRUEL as them, we don’t understand their DUPLICITIES and their CORRUPT MOTIVES and their INHERENT SAVAGENESS that dictates all their thoughts and actions.

 

So here’s the cure for being mental. Tell them, each and every one of them –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

AND BELIEVE WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.

Because it’s TRUE.

 

 

DOtty’s FavOurite Letter Of The Alphabet

 

My favOurite letter Of the alphabet is O.

O is a nice letter, rOund and lOOpy.

Where dOes O begin?

Where dOes it end?

NObOdy knOws.

It begins wherever yOu want it tO begin.

It ends wherever yOu want it tO end.

 

 

YOu can make pretty patterns with it –

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

 

 

It lOOks like a dOt.

It lOOks dOtty.

And spOtty.

And blOtty.

 

 

It’s full Of expressiOn -

O - is an expressiOn Of a sudden surprise – bOO

Or a sOmewhat disappOinting surprise

Or a questiOn (if a questiOn mark immediately fOllOws it)

 

Or -

oooooo - is an expressiOn Of a cOmpassiOnate wince

Or a juicy tempation like a lOvelyCumberland sausage sandwich I’m abOut tO eat

Or a lOvely Cumberland sausage sandwich I’ve just eaten

 

 

 

Because it’s a gOOd letter, O dOesn’t appear in the impOrtant basic swear wOrds I like tO use -

FUCK

SHITE

BASTARD

ARSE

TWAT

 

 

O is the neatest letter Of the alphabet. Even the scruffiest, sprawliest handwriting can’t fuck it up.

O has nO sharp cOrners.

O is perfect.

 

 

O is the shape Of a ring.

O is the shape Of a circle.

O is the shape Of Our planet when yOu lOOk at a picture Of Our planet.

And all the Other planets. 

 O is the shape Of O.

O is the shape Of everything.

O is what we’re made Of.

 

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Inspirational Wordy Posters

 

Today’s Shitey Sunday Picture Post doesn’t have many pictures because I’m too lazy to go looking for proper Shitey Sunday Picture Post pictures today so I thought I’d make a post out of some of the nice little wordy posters I’ve collected. I don’t even have to comment on them because THEY’RE MADE OF WORDS!

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A Shitey Poem For Shitey Saturday – The Stolen Shoes

 

The Stolen Shoes

 

When I escaped from the mental hospital

I stole a pair of shoes,

pretty shoes,

prettier than my own black institutional uglies.

The stolen shoes were white and unworn,

immaculate, clean, soft leather mysteries,

with golden eyelets

threaded through with blue ribbons for laces.

They belonged to Mary, Mother of God,

who slept in the bed next to mine

and woke me in the night with her snoring. 

She was an odd one. 

She wrapped beads round her left thigh, like a bride’s garter,

and draped an old scrap of lace over her head for a veil.

I don’t know why she did this;

she had never been married – she hadn’t even kissed a man –

she was sectioned when she was ten.

At the dinner table she whispered Hail Marys to herself

as her porridge, or her lamb stew, or her custard 

dribbled onto her blouse.

Once, she stole all the pears and hid them in her locker -  

the ward stank but it took days for the nurses to find out

where the smell was coming from.

 

Every Friday morning, before breakfast,  

the stolen shoes were brought out and laid on her bed.

She looked at them for a short while then put them away.

Every Friday morning without fail.  

I don’t think she noticed me looking at them too.

 

The stolen shoes didn’t get me very far;

I put them on before I climbed out of the window  

and ran as fast as I could across the grass, 

but they were too small – or my feet were too big -

the soles split when I reached the wall

and started to climb the ladder I had bribed the gardener to place there for me.

I nearly cried when I had to leave those shoes behind in the rose bed. 

 

 

Hello, My Little Chickadumplings

 

I’m back.

Where have I been? Nowhere.

What have I been doing? I’ve been learning to fly. And I’ve finally mastered it.

I CAN FLY.

Not outside (because I have HERMITITIS and PEOPLE PHOBIA) but round the house from the living room to the bathroom, from the bathroom to the kitchen, from the kitchen back to the living room. Round and round, up and down, back and forward.

WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

And I did it all by myself. I self-taught myself to FLY and even a BIRD doesn’t teach itself how to fly, its mum or dad teaches it. And I didn’t even use a FLYING MANUAL.

I started in my bedroom – top of the wardrobe to the bed (soft landing except for the big brass balls on each end of the footrail but they’re balls, they only leave bruises). The trick to flying is DO NOT JUMP because jumping is FUTILE, it has nothing to do with flying EXCEPT IF YOU’RE A HARRIER JUMP JET which I’m not. You have to keep in mind that what goes up must come DOWN even faster than when it went UP (this is some sort of science and physics gobbledy-shite to do with GRAVITY that I don’t understand but the SCIENCE BOFFINS can tell you all about it if you really want to know).

No, you mustn’t jump – what you do is you SPRING. From a crouching position on top of the wardrobe you do a little SPRING (from your ankles) and as you spring into the air you flap your arms SLOWLY (this is the mistake everyone makes – they flap-flap-flap like fuckers but FLAPPING LIKE A FUCKER DOESN’T WORK FOR HUMANS) and after the first eight hundred or so times you should start to feel a LIFT into the air instead of feeling a DROP, well not exactly a LIFT but something like a lift, it’s a strange feeling that’s hard to explain to someone who’s never flown before – but don’t worry, if you ever master flying like I have you’ll know what I mean. And then, once you get this LIFT feeling EVERY SINGLE time you spring from the top of the wardrobe to the bed, and once you’ve mastered the correct speed to flap your arms – suddenly, unexpectedly, IT WILL ALL FALL INTO PLACE AND YOU’LL BE FLYING.

Practice, practice, practice – and PERSEVERANCE. That’s why humans aren’t flying all over the place, not because they CAN’T FLY, it’s because they’re TOO LAZY to put in the time required to LEARN HOW TO FLY.

Word of warning – if you’re learning how to fly in your bedroom BE CAREFUL OF YOUR SPEED OR YOU’LL CRASH INTO THE BIG BIT OF WALL ABOVE YOUR BED AND KNOCK YOURSELF OUT AND WAKE UP WITH YOUR PILLOW SOAKED IN BLOOD THAT SPURTED FROM YOUR SPLIT LIP WHEN YOUR TOP FRONT TEETH BIT INTO IT, AND YOUR NOSE WILL HURT LIKE IT’S BROKEN (IT’S NOT, IT’S SWOLLEN BUT STRAIGHT) AND YOU’LL HAVE TWO BIG BLACK EYES BECAUSE YOUR FACE HIT THE WALL FIRST, AND YOU WON’T KNOW IF YOUR LEFT WRIST IS BROKEN OR JUST SPRAINED BUT YOU STILL HAVEN’T GOT AN X-RAY MACHINE OF YOUR OWN YET TO FIND OUT BECAUSE THE DONATIONS HAVE DRIED UP AND NO ONE WILL BUY YOU ONE. AND YOU’LL HAVE A TWISTED KNEE.

But whatever pain you’re in, whatever injuries you sustain, whatever you break, sprain, bruise, cut or twist – IT’S ALL WORTH IT. It’s like childbirth or falling off a horse or a bike – you forget the agony and do it again because what it gives you in the long run is FREEDOM.

(NB – Having a baby doesn’t give you freedom, I just added the childbirth bit to show you how PAINFUL learning to fly can be).

 

 

So now I have to catch up on answering a big pile of comments and reading OVER 600 POST NOTIFICATION EMAILS (oh fuck) because I didn’t come online AT ALL during my learning to fly days because I didn’t want to lose focus but now everyone’s been posting like POSTING FUCKERS - (what happened to the QUIET POSTING PERIOD)? I thought I’d found a way to strap my laptop onto the front of me so that when I’m flying round the house I can still READ YOUR BLOGS and click LIKE and DO A COMMENT - but it doesn’t work because I forgot I NEED MY ARMS TO FLY WITH.

And I forgot to do the Big Blog weekly stats thing before I started learning how to fly – I was keeping up to them too, I was doing them every Monday (almost, I was only a day late last week, I did them on Tuesday). So I’ve fucked that one up good and proper, haven’t I?

Oh well. Never mind.

I CAN FLY.

 

 

 

Two Pints Of Laudanum And A Packet Of Crisps, Please!

 

This post has nothing to do with two pints of laudanum and a packet of crisps, please – I just couldn’t think of another title because thinking of titles is hard and I don’t usually bother thinking of them (because it’s hard) – I just bang something stupid into the title box so the post doesn’t appear in your email as a number. I AM NOT A NUMBER. I AM A DALEK (no I’m not a dalek, don’t believe everything you read).

Here’s a little haiku I’ve just made up —

 

WALKIES – the cruellest

word ever to be heard by

a dog with no legs

 

 

Here’s a little song I’ve just made up —

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

Verse

 

 

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

 

Second Verse

 

 

 

 

Chorus

 

 

 

 

 

Repeat Chorus

 

 

 

 

It’s a silent song. For people who want to sing a song but they can’t stand the sound of their own voice. Have you ever listened to yourself recorded? HORRIBLE. UNBEARABLE. I sound like a high-pitched chain-smoking faerie with throat polyps.

 

I might not be around much for the next day or so – things to do, people to see, you know how it is when you’re a busy-busy social DYNAMO — which I’m not, I’m lying, I don’t have ANY PEOPLE TO SEE and I’m not a SOCIAL DYNAMO but I do have something I have to do so I’ll be back posting and reading when I’ve done it - unless I need a little rant in the meantime (in an hour or so, knowing me).

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Weirdy Beardies And Mental Moustaches

 

Did you know there’s such a thing as FACIAL HAIR ART? Nope, neither did I until I saw

CHRIS’S MOUSTACHE POST  (go and look at it)

and thought ‘AHA! I bet there’s some FUCKING STUPID moustaches out there and I bet if I find some I can steal Chris’s idea for a moustache post and turn it into my Shitey Sunday Picture Post because originally I was going to do something about the Olympickles again but I couldn’t be bothered because I’M BORED OUT OF MY TINY SKULL WITH THE OLYMPICKLES.’

So I did a search. And A WHOLE NEW WORLD WAS OPENED UP TO ME. A world of WEIRDY BEARDIES and MENTAL MOUSTACHES, and even though I feel just a TEENSY bit guilty about nicking Chris’s idea, I don’t feel guilty enough NOT TO USE IT.

Brace yourself, bloggy people. Prepare to be ASTONISHED. I’m not going to make any sarcastic quips today because I don’t NEED to - THE PICTURES SPEAK FOR THEMSELVES.

 

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THE APPRENTICE

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THE EXPERT

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THE LEMON HOLDER

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THE BEER HOLDER

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THE CLOCK

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THE WINDMILL

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THE BRIDGE

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THE SEA CREATURE

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THE COLLECTION

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THE BIG GINGER BEARD OF SHAME

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The Big Blog Collection – Dotty’s Choice

 

I’ve just done a new Dotty’s Choice post on the Big Blog. It gives links to my three favourite Humour/Satire blogs. :-)

 

DOTTY’S CHOICE POST

It’s All In The Eyes – What NOT To Do With A Character’s Eyes If You Don’t Want Your Readers To Piss Themselves Laughing

 

As a reader, I’m going to give you some examples of what NOT to do with your character’s eyes because I’M SICK OF SEEING THIS SORT OF SHITE – if I’m reading a book, or a short story, or a fictional blog post, and you’ve drawn me into the story and I like your characters and I’m reading on because I want to know what happens next, I DON’T WANT TO END UP LAUGHING AT YOU BECAUSE YOU DID SOMETHING STUPID WITH YOUR CHARACTER’S EYES. And that’s what I DO, I laugh at you – then I get MAD and I throw your book/story at the bin after I’ve jumped on it a few times, or I shut down the window that has your blog in it WITH A VERY HARD CLICK OF THE BUTTON. And why do I do that?  BECAUSE YOU’VE TURNED YOUR STORY INTO BOLLOCKS WITH YOUR BAD WRITING. And then I go away and I NEVER read anything of yours EVER, EVER AGAIN.

 

So what do I mean by “what NOT to do with your character’s eyes”?

THIS is what I mean –

“… she rolled her eyes at him.” — We all know this one, it’s a standing joke. You should NEVER roll your character’s eyes because the immediate response of the reader is to laugh and think ‘HE ROLLED THEM BACK.’  — AND THE READER STOPS READING BECAUSE THEY THINK THE REST OF YOUR STORY WILL BE A LOAD OF WANK EVEN IF THEY’VE ENJOYED IT UP TO THAT POINT.

 

More examples (with the additional info of what the reader thinks) –

 

“She fell into his deep blue eyes” — never to be seen again, even after the MISSING posters went up around town and the police got 3 phone calls on the first day.

“Her eyes fell to the mess on the floor” — never to be seen again because without her eyes she couldn’t see to clean up.  

“Her eyes danced around the room” — The Waltz? The Lambada? The Funky Chicken?

“His eyes burned into her” — FIRE! FIRE! HELP!

“Her eyes widened” — Get yourself to Casualty, pet, that sounds serious.

“She ran her eyes across his chest” — Brrmm, brrmm.

“Her eyes were deep pools of fresh, clear water” — Do you need a fishing licence? I’ve heard tales of a MASSIVE KILLER PIKE in there.

“Her eyes pierced into him” — her miraculous stabby eyes.

“Her eyes darted round the room.” — Come here, you little fuckers!!

“He pinned her to the bed with his eyes” — He’d have been better off using a Black & Decker Nail Gun, £39.99 at B&Q

“Her eyes landed on his face” — Aaarrggh, get them off, get them off!!!

“He felt her eyes on his back” — I told you, get them off me! Stop it, you sick bitch!!

“She cast her eyes to the floor” — Ooops, you’ve lost them now – they’ve rolled under the fridge. 

 

And there are LOADS more but I can’t be bothered thinking of them right now. 

 

 

Oh, and another couple of things that make me SEETHE AND WANT TO BATTER YOU TO DEATH WITH YOUR BOOK even though they have nothing to do with eyes –

 

“She subsided onto the floor/chair/bed” – It might be TECHNICALLY CORRECT regarding definition of the word ‘subside’ but it sounds FUCKING STUPID. Don’t do it.

 

AND

 

“He fell onto the plate of chicken and ate it all within seconds.” — written when a character is overly hungry and someone presents him with a plate of chicken. NO HE DIDN’T FALL ONTO THE PLATE OF CHICKEN or the second part of the sentence would read something like “…and ended up with four stitches on his chin and a wing jammed up his left nostril.”

 

 

Eliminate all the SHITE from your work. It’s not creative, it’s not a clever use of language, it’s SHITE. Plain and simple SHITE.

STOP IT.

 

 

A Nice Letter To Dotty’s Future Dead Second Husband

 

Dear Future Dead Second Husband,

 

How are you? Comfortable, I hope. Are they looking after you? If you don’t mind I need you to answer a few questions –

1) Are you a single zulti-zillionaire with no family, a minimum age of 99, a maximum age of no maximum- the older the better?

2) Have you spent your whole life building your fortune and now you’re lonely with no one to talk to except your nurses and the cleaners?

3) Do you want to die happy in the knowledge that your businesses and your mansions and your islands and the FUCKING LOVELY wordly goods you worked so hard for have been left to someone who will love and appreciate and cherish them for the rest of her life? 

4) Can you answer positively to the above questions?

Yes?

Then HELLO, DARLING.

We can get married NOW. It’s daft to wait when we’re so deeply in love. I can read to you and we can watch Dexter together when you’re awake. I’ll make sure the nurses give you whatever drugs you need and when you get close to your time I’ll make them keep you sedated so you don’t know what’s happening because I LOVE YOU and I’d hate to see you suffer.

 

Lots of love,

Dotty xxxx

 

P.S. Send me a credit card, I need to buy a wedding dress and some shoes and some flowers and a castle for us to get married in. Darling.

 

 

Questions, Questions, Questions – How To Successfully Torture A People Phobic She-Hermit

 

I don’t like questions, do you? Why do people ask them? Haven’t they anything better to do?

Most of the questions I’m asked are STUPID questions asked by STUPID people with STUPID motives. They make about as much sense as the ? post I did yesterday. And these STUPID people who ask their STUPID questions aren’t even interested in the answers I finally manage to give them, they’re only interested in answers that tell them WHAT THEY WANT TO HEAR. They pick and choose certain key words and manipulate them into answers I DID NOT MEAN. And I’m too STUPID and too PEOPLE PHOBIC to correct them.

How?

What?

Why?

Where?

When?

 

 

Having PEOPLE PHOBIA is SHITE at the best of times but when you’re sitting in front of a pair of STUPID LASER EYES THAT CAN SEE RIGHT INSIDE YOUR STUPID HEAD, and the STUPID LASER EYES are attached to a STUPID BRAIN THAT IS JUDGING YOU AND FINDING YOU TO BE THE WORST HUMAN BEING IN THE HISTORY OF HUMAN BEINGS, coherence and clarity are impossible. THINKING is impossible. A STUPID question is asked and when you try to answer the STUPID question what comes out of your mouth (if anything) is a rambling babble of words that either has no relation to what you really want to say or over-says what you really want to say - and the crucial point is LOST IN ALL THE SHITE YOU’RE SPOUTING. But the STUPID people asking the questions are too STUPID to consider the fact that PEOPLE PHOBIA makes you hide things and gloss over things and fail to mention relevant things that you WANT THEM TO KNOW but CAN’T TELL THEM because they are PEOPLE and the fact that you have SEVERE PEOPLE PHOBIA means you’re SO TERRIFIED OF PEOPLE you can’t talk to them in any way that makes sense.

And you’re such hard work they get annoyed even though they’d never ADMIT they’re annoyed. And who’s fault is it they get annoyed? IT’S YOUR FAULT. Naturally. And because it’s YOUR FAULT you babble even more in order to mollify them, you try to justify yourself to them, you try to tell them WHAT THEY WANT TO HEAR. You try to STOP THEM BEING ANNOYED because you BELIEVE IT’S YOUR FAULT they’re annoyed in the first place. But there’s still a tiny part of you that KNOWS it isn’t your fault, a small part of you that wants to scream IT’S PEOPLE LIKE YOU WHO MADE ME LIKE THIS, YOU CONDESCENDING PATRONISING BASTARD. SHUT YOUR YAPPING FACE AND LISTEN TO WHAT I’M TRYING TO TELL YOU.

Add to this the fact that you have to keep asking and asking them to repeat themselves because you can’t hear what they’re saying BECAUSE THEY WON’T SWITCH THEIR COMPUTER OFF even when you’ve explained the difficulties of Hyperacusis – and they’re too STUPID or too IGNORANT to remember to raise their voice when they speak so you ask and ask and ask. And all through this FUCKING TORTURE you’re desperate to get home, or to die, or to vanish in a puff of smoke, anything to get away from the STUPID LASER EYES and the STUPID questions and the PRYING and the JUDGING and the SNEERING and the LAUGHING that are all going on behind the STUPID LASER EYES. You want to be at home with the doors shut and locked, the curtains closed, the phone off the hook, nobody there but you because the HERMITITIS has shackled your brain to the walls of the house you’ve had to leave, so although you’re physically present in the place you’ve had to go to, mentally you’re desperately trying to crawl home again. 

By the time you do finally get home your head is on the verge of imploding; you’re so tired all you want to do is sleep but the second you put your head on the pillow you’re MORTIFIED WITH SHAME at the STUPID things you said and the IMPORTANT things you didn’t say. The shame doesn’t lessen with each replay, it grows and grows and grows and THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO CHANGE IT.

 

And all you’re able to think then is -

?

 

?

?

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