Moozlambic RayBanz
Archive for October, 2017
Solly Will Never Be ‘Liked’
There’s just too much baggage at this point between him and me and the rest of the ‘tribe’.
Maybe I see myself in him as I too do not ‘try’ to be ‘liked’ . There the similarity ends though. He wants to be loved and I no longer care.
I’ve moved on, O such a long time ago.
That doesn’t mean his interests are not very close to my heart. But I am merely ‘using’ him as I do everyone else. I have no heart whatsoever. This, above all is what ‘life’ ‘showed’ me if you like. That we are all essentially utilitarian and cold. We don’t give a crap about human life unless it serves us in some way.
Seeing someone who still has a heart and indeed living at close quarters with one is quite a novelty for me, after so long hanging out with the spiritually dead.
If I ever feel another emotion I swear I will shoot myself. This is what they all do, the guys (yes, mostly guys, surprise!) on Reddit Sanctioned Suicide. They hold a gigantic long metal thing to their heads metaphorically speaking, all the while screaming ‘make it go away!’
If I didn’t feel so much the same myself I’d not hang out with them. It’s not as if I have better things to do though. I don’t.
Solly is a powerful black magician and ignorant ‘bottom feeders’ have been giving him the oxygen of publicity for too long. You made a rod for your own backs and now it’s come back to haunt you. Karma is inescapable, and she isn’t even me!
He drinks every day from morning until night, smokes drugs, anything to dull the pain he can no longer tolerate. Self-inflicted pain guys. The ‘male’ god is a masochist. You heard it here first. ‘He’ behaves like a self-harming teenage girl. Look at Jesus, or if you prefer, Yahushuah.
Old habits are hard to break. He can’t stop with his pathetic ‘black magic’. You know what it is? He picks up objects and puts them back down in ritualistic fashion. He also prepares small packages of drugs and mysteriously leaves small torn up piece of rizla paper and bits of cigarette all over the place (thanks Mike Skinner/Craig David). This sadly, is the nearest he gets to creativity. Alcohol, needless to say, is the ideal ‘painkiller’ to fuel all of this circular activity.
I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. God is neither male nor female. God transcends all duality. Anyone is free to be anything they want. Bodies don’t limit or hold us down, they are simply a convenience, a vehicle as it were. We’ve existed/survived a 3D existence in a hell realm ruled over by a black magician who some ‘peeps’ mysteriously want to worship. They too become addicts! Addicts of church! Addicts of ritual! Addicts of EVERYTHING THAT HARMS THEM putting their own children in danger by taking them to a ‘church’ of sex magic and penile worship.
I don’t like to beef too much over petty stuff but the second mysterious disappearance of cash that I had carefully stashed in a safe place this morning has me more than convinced that we are being shafted.
No one can tell me anything, to see me in person is to basically shut your mouth unless I invite you to speak. None of this is my fault so don’t think about blaming me like, ever. The buck stops with me and if any of us get out of this ‘alive’ you will have me to thank (it’s not mandatory though).
If I wasn’t keenly aware of how rife this ‘sex magic’ is – and how many fools worship and love it – I wouldn’t bother posting about what happened to me today. I acknowledge that I am a little ‘pissed’ as the Yanks like to say. I wouldn’t go so far as to say ‘pissed off’, ‘pissed’ seems more polite and milder somehow. Look, black magicians came in and stole all your worldly goods, creamed off the fruits of your labour leaving you in the dirt. Why are you not more bothered I hear you cry.
I’ll tell you. I didn’t want any of it anyway.
Black History (repost from Summer 2010)
London one massive Downhills Ward at St Ann’s Hospital (name, shame and expose!!) It’s way too hot and what’s even worse than the heat is the retards crowing about the ‘beautiful weather’.
I long to wipe the silly grins off their faces with a cold snap followed by a monsoon…
So why is today Downhills Ward, St Ann’s Hospital, Haringey, London (name and shame, expose expose expose) writ large? Let me explain.
You wake up out of a beautiful dream of being someone who matters to a living soul. You wash, brush your teeth, make your silly hospital bed with it’s incontinence-proof mattress.
Then, as is your wont, you think, right what now?
Picture this. A TV lounge with a fucked-up TV that will now only transmit Magic FM. Picture, assorted drugged-up females ensconced on the squashy leather, somehow-still-uncomfortable sofas.
Wish you were way more drugged up than you are in order to endure this.
That’s your day folks. Unless you want to count…
The Community Meeting. Want your head done in to set you up for the day? You could do no better.
Cue an inept-but-well-meaning professional or six, who will ask us all to introduce ourselves with today’s ‘task’.
Task Monday. If you died and were reborn, what would you come back as? I kid you not folks.
Task Tuesday. What’s your lucky number and why?
Task Wednesday. What advice would you give your sixteen-year-old self (in the light of experience and hindsight).
If you think the ‘task’ is not enough to send you right over the edge you should then hear the response of the roomful of drugged-up females.
No one appears to have taken part in any meetings before, so they keep jumping in randomly and obdurately refusing to stick to the script.
Head clutched between hands you run screaming from the room to the astroturf smoking area, where a lone pigeon hobbles around, starving since it snuck in through the net and now can’t get out again…
That pigeon reminds me of me. I roll a fag. I cry on the phone to my social worker. This is the cue for several of the other patients to launch into a tirade of verbal abuse against me, and for a particularly brave one to snatch my tobacco off me.
They brought me here for non-compliance with the full force of the law of strong-armed psychiatry. I was recovering well without meds and simply wanted the Home Treatment to butt out and leave me alone, but I was nevertheless deemed somehow a danger to myself or someone else…at least potentially.
They lied to get me here without violence, saying I would be released later that day. What’s to stop them continuing in the same vein? How sane does a lady have to be before she’s deemed capable of making up her own mind? I’m upset about being here…I’m terrified frankly, I’m in fear of my life from some of the other patients who are like something out of Broadmoor. What’s to stop them finding that sufficient evidence of psychosis to keep me here indefinitely?
What the heck, these drugs are not sufficient to dull my mind sufficiently to sit on one of the squashy sofas for longer than five minutes. What’s wrong with me! They seem to work for the others…
I hear the howling of souls in torment all day in Downhills Ward (name, shame, expose to the power of 20). There’s fuck all I can do. I can’t even hand out fags, because I’m too shit-scared of running out myself, and I feel selfish and guilty.
I see violence, demon-possession, and fights break out like little fires in a forest blaze. I see the Black Sisterhood of mainly African nurses chattering and laughing their heads off while Downhills burns.
And then, five days on, I am released as randomly as I was brought here. Ironically, I am now a lot iller. This little adventure has set my recovery back by weeks.
Ach, St Ann’s Hospital Haringey why should I put in the effort of exposing you when you are doing such a fine job of it all by yourselves?
For Sharon Part Three!
What IS it with you and me, Sharon? Who else have I dedicated three posts to?
Um. That’s right. No one.
Sulphur Skies
A happy day in the void.
Total rest. Didn’t leave house. Why lose out?
Lay on bed listening to the wind and observing the sulphur skies. No radio. No input required.
If Not Me, Then Who?
It’s OK to tell me I shouldn’t do this.
It’s OK to tell me it’s dangerous.
That I might die. Lol!
OK so if not me then who?
If I’m not equipped for this job, who the hell is?
At 55 with a life of struggle behind me I can’t know what’s possible?
So who is stepping up to take my place, you, him?
Facing down Satan, you’re gonna do that single-handed?
Huh, maybe not, maybe you’re just too damn young…
I know death, I live with death, I embrace death, I love death.
Death is far from a problem to me. So far from a problem.
Everyone is a bitch to me. No one is ‘a man’ to me…
I am Holy Water, I’m gonna piss on you and put out your ‘light’ for good.
Need Your Help Guys
Hello dear ones.
Things are largely OK or sometimes, better than OK. Look. we won! Right? Always a foregone conclusion, but still…
I’m not ‘mentally ill’ anymore. Just a bit of a moody, cantankerous old bugger sometimes. My two housemates get the brunt of that mainly. They’re more than able to ‘deal’.
Reservations are mostly financial ones nowadays. In hoc to the tune of £1300 to my bank. Bills and rent are paid, coz they have to be. Lodger is working a regular job but can only manage to pay me £50 a week. Solly brings home, as ever, zilch. The most he manages is to cover his own expenses for a few days at a time (usually when he’s not here).
In all my years of managing recurrent crises, lovers ‘bailing’ on me, a host of pisstakers and severe manic depression, never have I remained overdrawn for so long. That in itself costs £1 a day, you know that debts are rarely ‘free’. Plus, I’m like my mum in that respect. I hate to feel in debt.
It’s very hard for me to go ‘cap in hand’ to anyone for anything. People don’t and can’t take me seriously as a ‘needy’ person because I give off the vibe of being super-rich. Hah! Ironic or what. I live on Government Benefits folks. I frequently help out my people, my son and even my mum from those funds alone. I grease palms and get things done (African stylee) with cash.
Now I am almost forced into hiding. I have very well-stocked cupboards and fridge having a Cancer Moon. Home is where the heart is and for me, it can never be without food! I am ingenious at cooking what my mum used to call ‘scratch meals’. That’s meals created from leftover bits and pieces. I’m as far from ‘can’t cook won’t cook’ as it’s possible to be. I’m a provider to the core. Resourceful. Ingenious. Never knowingly under-prepared for any emergency.
Yet there is no arguing with these figures. OK someone elderly in my extended family needs to die and the will be expedited swiftly. A couple thou would make all the difference.
Or scrap the above. Money needs to and will be found somehow. And no, I can’t ‘get a job’. Don’t be silly. I’m often too tired and fatigued to make it down the road to the shop for heaven’s sake. I keep strange hours. There isn’t an employer in the world who can be flexible enough to accommodate my needs.
Which is why I’m now sending this pitiful ‘plea’ out for some wanton generosity from you guys. Think of all the fantastic karma you will accrue! You know it makes sense.
So how are peeps who don’t know me in real life gonna get the money to me? I used to do Paypal/Me. Still have a paypal account but when someone tried that it didn’t go through. I don’t really trust paypal. It would be counter-intuitive to post my banking details on here. On the other hand the blog gets so little traffic (especially from Nigeria and Africa generally) that it might be worth a try. Surprise me! Even if only with a tenner! As the British supermarket Tesco’s used to tell us, Every Little Helps.
It isn’t the first time I’ve been desperate enough to literally beg on my own blog. Please don’t advise me on other methods of getting cash. I’ve looked into all of them and they. Don’t. Work. At least, not for me. So here goes nothing, OK? (Santander are super-hot on fraudsters, and as I’m overdrawn up to the hilt, what have I to lose?)
I won’t keep the details up for too long. I’m not COMPLETELY silly.
Louise xxx
Am I Still Ill? 
Written
on October 22, 2017