Packing things away, getting ready to go.

I have a lot of drafts. My blog is a drafty place. Here they are.

-Untitled
So you see there’s this guy, right, and he’s with his girlfriend on the bus (where I seem to encounter a few interesting people these days) and they’re having an argument or a discussion or something. I can’t tell from where I’m sitting. What I can tell, right, is that the girl’s mad at the guy or concerned at the guy or something. Basically she’s the one that’s in some form of distress. Now, this damsel is doing the works; concerned frown, short, quick gestures with her hands and a little bit of hope lingering on her lips. The guy though – this swooping knight in shining armour that’s supposed to rescue her or something – he’s just like sitting there confused. He’s got a little frown too, right, but it’s a frown like he doesn’t know what to do.

I can sympathise.

Anyway, so this girl who’s talking to him about her parents or her problems or her choices or whatever, she gets a little mad. Like, angry mad, right?

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-Untitled
So, I’m a room. It’s a big room, a little too big for my

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-Because anything else I write is riddled with too much feeling
Films! I’ve been holed up in the flat sick as a dog for the past few days so I thought I’d recount some of the films I’ve watched. And other things. Like TV.

First up is the much too short Afro Samurai which I will let people borrow as soon as I make my way through the special features. The only problem that I’ll highlight first would be the appalling lip-syncing. It’s as if Samuel L Jackson looked at his characters and said “Fuck it, I don’t want no mother fuckin’ restrictions on my mother fuckin’ lines” so there’s the occasional weird jarring when the character is shouting and good old Samuel is whispering something. Other than that everything was seamless. I watched it over two days and I really wished I could’ve watched it in one. The animation was seamless, the action was perfect, and I only saw a single example of a reused scene. And the teddy bear! I liked him better when he didn’t take off his mask but still he was awesome all the same. It was brilliant.

Another on the anime list would be the second series of The Big-O which I’ve laughed at so many times just because it’s slang for orgasm. It’s a classic series, made by the same people and (roughly) at the same time as Cowboy Bebop, and it’s occasionally very ridiculous. The age on it shows in its story and characters, but it’s made up for by the style and the overall feel. The main guy’s car is pretty awesome, and Big-O itself thankfully spirals away from the generic design of most mecha-suits. It’s surprisingly easy to get into for a second series. Usually shows require in depth knowledge of the previous series before moving on to a new one, but this one sits you right in without missing a beat. Though, saying that, I do wish I had seen the entirety of the first series; I have vague childhood memories of watching it and becoming perplexed at the surreal stage sets at the beginning and end. Still, it’s a good show.

Took another bash at Lucky Number Slevin the other day and by God I forget how much I love that film. I think it’s the amazing cast really (with the exception of Josh Hartnett, but he actually manages to pull off a good show this time round), but just the overall art nouveau style and Noir-ish sentiment going along with whip crack dialogue makes it phwoar. I know that previous sentence made no sense but hey ho.

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-Untitled
Right now I’m a little annoyed and very tired but mostly just feeling annoyed at myself for making the silly promise of not stalking people. See if I stalk people then I can justify feeling sad right now, because then shadowy thoughts are confirmed and

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-Untitled
I have a new bus now. It’s better than the old one, in that it’s ten minutes faster and doesn’t go through the area that makes me ashamed to be human.

The part I like most about this new bus route though would be the walk I get when I step off it. My old bus deposited me in the centre of Glasgow, right beside a newsagent that sold my brand and a cash machine if I was low on change. And a bakery. That was nice too I guess. But this new bus deposits me a good five minutes away from my old stop, right in the middle of the merchant city.

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-You’re barred, mate
“That guy is a fucking wank!” he yells, slurring but eloquent. He takes a drink from his glass (his ninth pint that night, lying to his girlfriend beside him when he whispers it’s his third) and slams the bottom back down on the table. He’s a dick. He’s a complete and utter dick, but somehow I like him. He was at least more interesting than anyone else sitting at the table.

“Yeah, but why is he a wank?” I ask too flippantly, too casually, realising as soon as I said it that it was the wrong thing to say. I had mistaken him, just in that single moment, for someone else.

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-Untitled
Lets take a second here, shall we? Just a second.

I had a good day yesterday (if you take away the sole reason which made it not a good day, but we won’t go into that)

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-This post definitely isn’t about you
Unless you’ve found me somehow which I doubt

How do you do it? How do you creep under my skin so easily?

I’ve complained about my bad memory before. I’ve been so angry at myself for saying things and then forgetting them so I can’t apologise. In a sense it gives me the ultimate freedom, that I can say and do pretty much anything I like and within a week I’ll forget I ever thought about doing it. But it comes at such a cost when someone reminds you of you’ve said and done, when they tell you meaning to be a funny little anecdote and it sounds like something you would say and so it’s likely that you did say it (but sometimes you are reminded in hot headed revenge, which sucks really).

So I have a horrible memory. Truly horrible. But then why can’t I forget on command? No, lets be specific, why can’t I forget you on command? Yes you

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-This post probably is about you
If you still read here

I’m gonna pull you in close,
Gonna wrap you up tight,
Gonna play with the braids
that you came in here with tonight.
I’m gonna hold your face,
and toast the snow that
fell.

I can’t remember the last time I got high. I just have this one memory of one fantastic time. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe from laughing. I danced and some people faced my selotape. I woke up with cotton mouth and a cut on my forehead.

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-Tiredness kills
And maims and injures and hurts. But mainly it kills. It kills a lot of good people.

It’s worse than alcohol really. Alcohol is bad, I know, but it’s not as bad as being tired. When you’re drunk you’re loud and obnoxious and you do things you wouldn’t usually do, but when you’re tired your mind shuts down. Completely. The biggest regrets I can list in my life are things I’ve said or done when I’m tired.

But let me define this tiredness. It isn’t the eyes burning sluggish tired. It’s a whole different tiredness altogether. It’s a tiredness that takes hold when you’re about to fall asleep, or when you’ve just fallen asleep, and someone disturbs you. You say and do so many things because you are so tired. You can’t think. Images blur in lust.

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-Untitled
Oh lord oh lord you’ve made it.

You wanna drag your hearse in? You wanna rush your-?

Be my fucking guest.

Kathy Acker, I love you

“‘I often dream I’m falling down from lofty rocks, my stomach goes, but I never touch the ground, and my fear changes to freedom. When I wake up, I see I’m covered with bruises.’ She again kicked the dog.

“The dog: ‘Such are the bruises of love.’”
from Don Quixote: which was a dream.

Here are things that you don’t want to know about me

I love the smell of my urine after I’ve had a few cups of coffee.

The thought of a girl having an orgasm makes my stomach twist and my mind cloud pink.

I once ripped my banjo string during sex. It hurt.

I can’t work a condom.

I often smell of shit.

The slightest thing can put me into a horny frenzy. An example of this would be glimpsing the top of some girls stockings.

I think about my ex’s when I masturbate. Sorry to any of them who read this.

I love the word cunt.

My Dad is ashamed of me, and I am ashamed of him.

I lie about things before I can stop myself.

I use people as a means to an end.

I learned how to do this from TV.

I know my dreams will come true.

Something true

I, on occasion, watch pornography. Or look at it, depending on whether my internet connection is good enough. My likes usually revolve around amateur lesbians, amateur threesomes, great asses and fantastic stockings. I’m a sucker for stockings, among other things. If a girl walked up to me wearing a skirt with a corset, stockings and suspenders, sporting a black eye and burst lip and holding a leather bound notebook and handcuffs I would probably die with joy. And if there were two of them side by side with a glint of experimental lesbianism in their eyes? Oh I’m flustered just thinking about it.

But back to reality. I look at porn. I get turned on my it and sometimes masturbate to it, but I never really enjoy it. Yes, a horrible cliche to fall into but I don’t. Yes wouldn’t it be awesome if you could get a girl like that, ain’t she so hawt. But I don’t like hot girls. They annoy me. I like girls who have certain things that are hot about them, but I don’t like through and through hot girls. I automatically think that they are so empty because every hot girl I’ve met has been empty. I like cute girls, I like interesting girls, I like girls with tattoos and I like girls who are just plain nice. But not funny looking girls. Oh no, I stay away from them.

Yes I judge people by their looks, and that includes if you’re too hot. I won’t have interested you then. I like the modest girl, I like the damaged goods.

And there are no damaged girls in porn. Well, maybe there are. If you look at some bizarre stuff where they’re enjoying it then maybe you’ll find damaged goods. But not in regular porn.

In the words of John Campbell

“do you have any pornography that stimulates a significant relationship? that is my fetish”

The life and adventures of Jonathan Mercer, Esq

Lets be frank, for once.

I was in a bad place for a while. Lets not go into much detail in that, but lets say that it was just a low point. The past two months have been shaky to say the least, but they’re over. Now I am here. Hello.

I made a conscious decision on Tuesday. It happened when I woke up at six-thirty instead of eight and I had almost two hours to do nothing. I decided that I don’t really want to be fucked up anymore. It’s a good image I’ll admit; sitting in bars with friends having drink after drink and looking all the more haggered because you did the same the night before. And then the night before. But image isn’t everything. Last weekend I had so little sleep and so much alcohol that most of my memories of it are gone. I can pick bits and pieces, but they’re hazy at best. I felt like I was destroying myself a little bit. Maybe I did, I don’t know, but I decided to stop.

And that’s what Tuesday was about. Tuesday was about setting things right, with everything. And it worked to an extent. Of course not everything was fixed and who knows maybe more problems have arisen, but things felt a hell of a lot better. I think it had something to do with caring. I never used to care about things. I’m failing university at the moment (by the way), and I didn’t care. I didn’t care if my writing was shit or worthless because to me it was brilliance (i still read my own work for entertainment). I didn’t care that I was practically pushing away my best friend and the people close to me. I would just get so angry at all of it. I would be furious at my laziness, enraged at everyone for not appreciating my work and just pissed off at the people around me for not realising what I was going through. And not many people did, but I didn’t tell them. I’m not one to broadcast my emotions really.

So writing this is hard for me. I used to have a group of friends who would compete with each other in their conversations. No one would really listen, we’d just wait until it was our turn to top their story. After a while I began to hate them for that. I hated that when my camera, my car and my girlfriend were stolen from me on – near enough – the same day, no one turned round and asked “How’re you today Jonathan?” No one asked about me or my day, they just launched into a rant. No one knew until about three weeks later, when someone else had heard from a source other than me. So I don’t share my emotions. I feel like it’s making something public that should be private. Anyway, my emotions are my own and you would be bored by them. Maybe like this entry? Maybe like this entry.

Anyway, I thought I’d break with the tradition of my usual veiled entries and just come out and say it; I am alright. I’m not over ecstatic and I’m not down and out. I’m doing fine. This means that you don’t have to leave me alone anymore or shower me with protection, but it doesn’t mean you can abandon me or stifle me with affection. I am OK.

So there we go, lets resume regular programming.

Incase you’re wondering, it’s from Killer7

No restraining order can keep me from you

Ok, I have a stick in my hand. It’s long and pointy. No, it’s sharp. Really sharp. It’s so sharp that it’s got blood on the tip. I don’t really know who’s blood though. Probably the poor fucker before me.

Anyway, here I am. I’m on my island again by the way. I’m just on my island with my stick and a hulking organism in front of me. I say hulking, but it’s quite small, it’s throbbing in a way that seems justified to call hulking. It’s small and it’s slimy and hard but soft. I sometimes forget it’s there, you know? Like how sometimes you forget you’re on a bus; you still know it, but you’re not thinking about it, so you’ve forgotten about it. Anyway, now I remember it’s there, and it’s there right now and I have this stick in my hand. So I poke it. I poke it really hard. It makes a farting sound and the point of the stick is shining again with more blood. I poke it again and again and it just farts and slowly tries to crawl away.

I reach down and pick it up and it seems to shrink in my hand. It’s cold, but I don’t know if it’s just cold because my hand is so hot. My skin feels like it’s burning with anger you see, I forgot to mention that. Everything’s so angry about me recently. I was wandering by a bridge and found myself wanting to demolish it, just punch it into dust. Anyway, so I’m holding this thing in my hand is trying to get away, but at the same time it’s trying to stay because it’s warming up. I poke it with the stick again and the farting noise sounds more like a snarl, so I bring the thing up to my ear and I can hear it whispering. It’s whispering gently, but the pace is so rapid. There’s this long string of obscenities, constant and flowing like a silent, angry river. I poke it again and it snarls, but it sounds hurt. So I poke it again and again and again but the little bastard won’t die.

This is still a hiatus

Hot damn.

I just really wanted to write this

I have an old notebook with a single page torn out of it.

I remember ripping it out, but I don’t remember what I was ripping.

Mission accomplished, I guess.

Probably my imagination

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Well. You can go ahead and colour me paranoid.