A Throatful of Emotion

Oh I fucking love ‘er.  She’s adorable.  I’d write that in block capitals but I don’t want to break the writing style.  She’s just woke up, and said

“I’m sorry I’m asleep”.  My heart melts, shatters, and rises from the ashes.  I’m jumping up and down inside my own inebriated emotions.  Glorious.

Len has entered my life as a great teacher.  She was here to teach me I could really strive to be a good man, I could do right by someone, I could love again, and I could heal.  I just want her to be without tears, without pain, without fear.  However long she’s in my life, I’m going to appreciate it.


I’m chain-smoking and drinking beer.  Another cig, another mouthful.  I’m listening to The Isaiah Effect in my Audible library and loving what I’m hearing.  Love God, he says.  See no distinction between yourself and God, he says.  Be the inner peace in mind, heart, and action, he says.  I love it.


It doesn’t seem like that long ago I was laying in a psychiatric hospital bed with a plastic  bag over my head.  I was orienting myself to it.  I needed to feel what it was like.  It’s near impossible to keep it over your head, by the way.  Your entire body freaks out.  The physiological manager kicks in and you claw for oxygen like you’ve missed it for a lifetime.  That was a dark time, but I learned some bastardisation of humility, and at least the cocky aggressive man had been slaughtered in his waking sleep.


I’ve got over my obsession with my twenties.  Damn, I wish I could be twenty-five again, I’d think.  I’d look at myself back then like he was a role model to me now.  That’s as cringey as it should sound.  I’m older now.  I know my own mind.

Now I look back and think man, I wish I could get back to two months ago.  Then I think, what was I doing?  Nothing remarkable.  I was in a state of being that pleased me.  That’s the distinction to see.


The Northern General hospital is full, and I mean jam packed, with attractive young women.  They are everywhere.  They’re just flitting about.  There’s no end to them.  There are definitely plenty of fish in the sea, that’s for sure.  That’s something to remind myself of, if and when Len finally leaves me for a younger, more active model.


It turns out I couldn’t watch Vikings, past episode two.  I’m not into this ‘don’t release entire series at once’ thing.  I stream television for the luxury it brings.  What will I care for Ivor the Boneless in a week?  I’ll forget that story thread in an hour.  I might write to Jeff Bezos, implore him to remedy the situation.

In my private moments I’ve been thinking what would happen if I wrote to a hundred millionaires and penned a convincing letter of why they should give me a million pounds.  I deserve it.  I’m worth it.  I think I should be gloriously rich!  I suppose I’ll have to start my own business and make a few million pounds like all the rest do.

I’ve got beer, smokes, and my laptop.  That’s good enough for now.  I’m sitting here in my shorts, contemplating watching cougar porn.  I have always liked older women, but I’m an older man now.  Where do you draw the line?

It occurs to me that dating women younger than me seems to be a trend that’ll be enjoyable to sustain.  Len’s 27.  I’m 35 next month.  It’s weird.  I’m the governing presence in our relationship.  I’m the one who often has the final say.  I’m not a tyrant with it.  At least, I hope I’m not.  It is quite nice being able to offer value, with very little effort on my part.

Love comes and goes.  Money comes and goes.  Being focused and tuned in comes and goes.  I still fight against that last one.  I want to feel tuned in all the time.  I hate when I can’t get into a peak state.  I should accept it, maybe It’ll speed up my progress.

Another Day, Another Reason

In predictable fashion, I didn’t stay up and marathon-watch season five, part one, of Vikings.  I watched one episode, then went to sleep.  It was back to the hospital for us, this morning.

The medical team said they’d found a mass in Len’s liver.  It doesn’t seem like there’s any need for serious concern.  It’s probably a cyst, or something like that.  Len feeling pain could be a result of suppressed liver functionality.  It’s early days yet.  We’ll see.

I hate to see Len fall.  I hate to see her cry, and I hate to see her in pain.  I’ll try and be awake when I need to be, supportive and ready.  I’ll make the effort to spend time watching her shows, making love to her when she feels sexual.  I’ve been thinking about this over the past week.  With every passing week I seem to realise just how much I appreciate her.

She’s in bed now.  We just scoffed the most delicious kebab with cheese and chips.  We discovered the miracle that is cherry Pepsi.  We’re fed and warm.  She’ll get some sleep.  I’ll crack open a cold one and watch something on my own for a bit.  YouTube’s calling me, but I’m kind of on the Vikings hype train right now.


“It’s like he’s on stage!”  The voices call.  I start identifying what my worries are.  What’s that feeling?  Who’s observing that?  What’s behind that?  Where’s that come from?

Promise of a cooked canteen dinner instills something within me.  The day has promise.  Of course, all I want to do today is watch Supernatural and drink beer.  I’ll settle for a canteen dinner.

We borrowed the money to fund today. My family rallied ’round. They always do. I’m blessed to have them.

Ball Ache Central

I’m in A&E right now, waiting on Len’s scan results.  There’s free wifi, so we’re all types of awesome.

I forgot I smoked, for a minute.  That’s how it’d have to be for me to quit smoking.  I’d have to enjoy the absence of the desire to smoke.  I’d have to feel like a non-smoker.

That’s pretty much extended to starting a business venture, too.  I’d have to be inspired.  I’d have to feel like making the effort without feeling like I was making an effort.

We might be here for hours.  Yesterday was a novelty, but today’s a ball ache.  Eating sounds good.  I’ll look forward to that.

Vikings, Ragnar, and Beer

Vikings season five, part one, is out on Amazon Prime.  I’d been genuinely bitter since Ragnar got killed off, and I mean genuinely bitter.  The writer of Vikings wrote The Tudors, previously my favourite drama series of all time.  I’ve just realised I can watch the first half of season 5, in one sitting.

It’s even got Jonathan Rhys Meyers in it.  I loved him the minute he played Henry the eighth.  I’ve loved Natalie Dormer since then, too.  I want to marry her.  She can bear my children, with their quirky schizophrenic minds, and their quirky, unsymmetrical mouths.

Len’s in bed, the poor bastard.  She’s spent all day in pain.  She battles through.  She’s an inspiration, really.  Oh, I don’t know what this blog post is about.  I’m drinking beer and smoking, revving myself up to marathon-watch Vikings and stay up to an impractical and lethargy-inducing time.

I understand they killed Ragnar for historical accuracy, but Ragnar was my hero.  Fuck Game of Thrones (and I love Game of Thrones).  Give me Ragnar Lothbrok in season one to three of Vikings.  Season one to three, as a set, is by far my favourite TV show extravaganza, ever.

The beer’s affecting my writing ability.  So be it.  I’ve only got one person to please, anyway.  I studied internet marketing, you know.  If people find this ‘site, it’s by some thread of divine providence.  I’m not marketing what is arguably the inane rantings of a madman.

I’m going to have another beer, and count my lucky stars that I’ve overcome my bitterness towards Michael Hirst for killing off my hero and role model Ragnar Lothbrok.  I feel silly now, having written this.  I am all about keeping a sense of humour about myself, though.

I’m all about drinking another beer and smoking another fag, too.  Seriously, I’d give up Game of Thrones, Breaking Bad, and The Tudors for just one more rocket ride like season one to three of Vikings.  I guess it’s all about stumbling onto that next big obsession, something that’s sustenance for the soul.  Right now I’m going to have my fill of love, in the form of gritty, realistic battles, and characters so good they even look awesome alone on promotional images.

Let’s drink to the God that I am, that you are.  Let’s drink to creating this universe, and this planet, and loving our creation as we inhabit these primate bodies and laugh along to our own innate sense of irony, teasing out from the realisation that we feel disconnected from each other.  Let’s oversimplify things and bond.  Let’s sip our poison of choice and be merry.  It is nearly Christmas, after all.  Let’s be vikings.  Yeah, let’s do that…