Smart girls are really, really hot.

That is all.

Now I remember why I don't do mescaline very often. Takes forever to prepare and tastes like an incontinent hobo's anus—plus this is the first time I have ever fully power chucked or helicopter projectile vomited, covering R.'s toilet head-to-toe in red wine and the retch and gag of San Pedro cactus.

Still, the trip was pretty mint.

Like the brave & noble knights of bygone chivalric times, our heroes battle courageously against tyranny and oppression by boiling San Pedro cactus in a big fuck-off cooking pot

Photo by P.

Five fingers; on twelve triggers; and each weapon deadly accurate to at least a range of a thousand lies – maybe more, give or take a fiction or two—every single barrel pointed directly at the heart of things, locked, loaded, primed and ready to fire at the slightest twitch or trembling seizure of falsehood or deceit.

From here to eternity, I think I will always love you. Whatever that means. As ridiculous and as stupid as it sounds... and I guess I am really a total idiot, the readers digest; complete and condensed fool – a comprehensive farmers almanac of implausibly ridiculous home remedies and cures.

How many people ever say anything like this online? Seems tlike it's only ever just the one, just me, yours alone and truly.

Yours alone! And truly.

Considering my options I was thinking about opting out tonight. It's all a bit difficult. But then! But no. Motherfuckers can't get rid of me that easily. Slit throats always have a good gurgle before quiet time and the teacher reading.

My life is a history of lets-pretend, and I don't know about you but personally I like to make up my memories as I go along

Hello. It's me again, your old friend pedobear—you know? from your C:\Backups\Work\Tax_Returns\tmp\tmp\tmp\private folder? Ah so you do remember. Anyhow I just thought I'd pop in for a bit for a quiet cup of tea and a biscuit, and perhaps also to offer you a little piece of pedobear's patented unsolicited homespun advice.

Get an umbrella. Turds are going to rain from the sky.

On a lighter note, have some child pornography.

True maliciousness is quite uncommon, and it's very very rare that you'll ever stumble across pure unrefined evil in the wild. Instead, it's our simple forgiveable failings, our everyday ordinary flaws that seem to cause the majority of human misery.

Tonight I have been watching people grind themselves to pieces. And for what.

I don't know who to believe. I throw up my hands! I am moving to the moon to become a cheese miner, like my Dad, and his father before him. But for all you leftovers who remain on earth still gathering your gravy on the side of plate: try to keep your face to the sun.

Cos I am sick of seeing what people do to each other, and I am sick of doing it myself. Course, of course (a horse! of course) that won't stop nothing, I will continue regardless, spitting careless razorblades then cleaning the wounds with my dirty fingernails. You know I think it would be a lot more honest, or at least more noble if you guys just stabbed each other in the front, with actual knives, rather than using metaphorical line drawings and firing your volleys of proxies.

The duel is a grand tradition, one that desperately needs to be resurrected.

By the way, and I'm just saying it! I'm just saying so we all realise exactly where we stand, I am the kind of blade it really really doesn't pay to grab by the sharp end; handled without the correct respect and proper protocol I can just as easily cut you to shreds as your opponent.

I wouldn't even try. Cos playin me is kinda like sneezing next to nitroglycerin: GODDAMN FUCKING STUPID, AND ALSO A SERIOUS BREACH OF URINAL ETTIQUTE.

I am very disappointed, in each and every one of us. Somehow I expected better for some reason, despite experience, despite evidence and history and hearsay I was honestly waiting for you to surprise me, I wanted, I needed to be proven wrong. A cynic, I reckon, is anyone who swears black & blue he doesn't believe in Santa Claus, yet somehow still manages feel a bit downcast ever time Christmas rolls around, by the cookies Santa never seems to eat, or the letters he never gets round to answering.

Well, St. Nick, how about it? Rumour has it that you're magic and the papers say you give a shit so how about some general goodwill or just one single day of peace on earth you fat old impotent bastard. This Christmas how about you make everything work out for everyone.

I HATE ALL OF YOU... but every Christmas the mad rash hope remains, a flicker of childhood optimism, that maybe this is the time I'll finally finally get that bright red ten speed.

Just go ahead, go ahead kill each other. I'll send you a postcard, eager lunar hula girls bathing topless, legs spread open like melted butter across the sweet golden bread of the sun drenched sea of tranquillity

you goddamn fucking monsters.

I barely need to eat, in fact, I do not: being maintained purely by the (as yet) scientifically unproven yet still wildly plausible new age process of human-plant photosynthetic soul bonding, merely by fondling tree bark at the correct harmonic frequencies I can absorb the pure, natural energy of our Goddess Mother Earth. I require no sustenance! I am powered by nothing but the sun! plus additionally a clear conscience, clean living and the internal combustion of distilled ethyl alcohol. Reminds me of a short story by Kafka called “The Hunger Artist”, but then again I'm cheating with the appetite suppressants, not suffering enough, taking the tourist route and cutting off the sights and smells of the slaughterhouse in favour of sterile plastic wrapping and flavoured luncheon sausage. Smiling cartoon cows sing camp-fire songs urging me to eat more beef. A cherubic pig with a corkscrew tail winks suggestively and then helps himself to a juicy rasher of bacon. Even the chickens hawk their eggs on street corners.

The other day I watched an angel scorch the feathers from her wings, and by her side were loaves and loaves and loaves of the most wonderful wonderful magical bread, baked slowly at room temperature for a period of several days, and left totally unmixed , so that the flour, having no real alternative, had simply poured itself into shapeless piles on the floor, and I remember a bowl of plucked toenails, most tastefully arranged, shoulder to shoulder, like a little flower garden of petrified infants, and steaming rice pudding with a sprig of fresh mercury.

I could take you! I could show you! All this feast. All this food on offer – the naked angel, the piles and piles of unbaked bread - the toe nails, not easy to obtain—the sixty four busted household thermometers I had to buy and smash wide open just so that everything would be absolutely surgically fucking perfect

AND YOU DON'T EVEN WANT TO COME.

My teeth are rotting in my mouth, and all about me flash the ominous comets and unfortunate omens and the potent stinking entrails of disaster. Still I guess, it could be worse; I could be drinking chartreuse, or else be one of those poor wretches so crushed by social expectation they are unable to express their personal twisted kinks and peculiar and very private infatuations with life. Never been much of a problem for this particular storm cellar obviously—I am incorrigibly unable to keep my trap shut even in the best of weather.

What is really happening? When did things go so horribly wrong? Gangs of impolite youths now roam our suburban shopping malls begging for cigarettes and bus money. Ordinary, decent, law-abiding citizens are afraid to go to sleep at night for fear of having nightmares. Something should be done. I say we hold a town meeting, host a seminar, inform the parents of the potential moral dangers possibly involved. The necessary steps must be taken, a bristle of far harsher penalties drafted into law, strict curfews enacted and social responsibility enforced and absolutely no broken rules or broken windows or any smiling on a school day allowed! without explicit permission from the governor or his closest deputised relative.

Grass won't grow on concrete, only in it's cracks. Wild, multicoloured growths tend to flourish only around the edges of things, clinging to the gaps, concealed nooks and overlooked crannies.

Lying awake at night, too wired to sleep, too fried to write, my thousand yard star fixed blankly at the back of my eyelids.

In the morning I wake up and have to cut another hole in my belt cos my pants beginning to fall down. Still quite a fat fuck overall but noticeably a lot less corpulent than I used to be. Regular doses of pharmaceutical grade central nervous stimulants are certainly not the healthiest way to lose weight but they're definitely extremely effective. Speeds up your metabolism, acts as an appetite suppressant and keeps your brain sharp. A little too sharp sometimes, liable to cut yourself up with all that hyperactive mental trembling. A small price to pay I reckon, guess I'm getting a bit sick of having a “great personality” People self-report that they value all kinds of crazy feel-good disney qualities in a partner: intelligence, a sense of humour, compassion and kindness yadda yadda yadda but scientific studies have shown the reality is much simpler and also far more shallow.

The rules might suck, but if you want to win the prize then playing the game seems like the only option available.

If only: but otherwise

If you haven't read it already I totally recommend Joseph Conrad's "Heart of Darkness"

If you are heading to the film festival I totally recommend "Sukiyaki Western Djanjo"

Recommence me shit.

I invented a new cocktail, pretty much you just have to grab all the drugs within reach and shove them down your gullet. I am scorchingly messed up right now. I've been kinda wondering why it is I can't write sober, I look at the page and all I see is potential inadequacy. Same when I re-read stuff; flaw flaw flaw chomping through to the end of the sentence. Could have done with a solid forty-eight hours enforced bed rest and a judicial poke with replica grade bleeding lance if you ask me, but it's well past pre-school big clock hand points to tiny-bit-fucking-late-now, the element of surprise has been lost.

A friend of mine tells me I'm at my lyrical best when I'm writing about women I can't have. While this maybe true, I'm kinda getting sick of it. Limerance is not a pleasant place to even for a overnight holiday, let alone the kind of location you'd ever want to consider building any sort of permanent structure on, but still! still! I made a tumbledown shack outta shells and pieces of driftwood and decided to take up residency on that harsh and barren rock.

All that happens when I have a crush is that it sucks and hurts, and inevitably I end up making a giant dick of myself in some spectacularly disastrous and also very public fashion. It's like being pulled down into a dark Ukranian meatpacking factory by an invisible nose-ring: you know it's fucking dumb idea but you can't just can't seem to stop yourself.

Sometimes I wish it would all go away. I mean, it's good to have a muse, she's amazing inspiration obviously, but still it's like your guts are all wound up in electromagentic coils and they're getting tighter and strangling. There are the dizzy heights, a particular facial expression, the sloping cadence of her words is enough sometimes to make me think: dear god! you're stunning. But the rapid downhill slide is a long one over rugged and abrasive terrain.

When the depression hits hard, mainly it's when I'm alone, I feel like a total loser, unlovable and worthless.

After Erin it never seemed to ever work out. With anyone.

I want to give up but I can't.

People tell me, when I ask: that their life is pretty much the same as it was yesterday, there is nothing new to tell. Now, personally, I know this isn't true. Things change extremely rapidly. That proud sandbar we like to stand so solid on is quickly worn away by the calculated drift of decimal approximation and the necessity of rounding errors. You think things will last forever, but they don't, really it doesn't. Every situation seems to come pre-packaged with it's best-before date stamped indelibly on the plastic.

All leaves, autumn or otherwise, are washed downwards by the rain, forever towards the gutter and out into the sea.

We could be, you and me, a compliment of opposites: like sweet'n'sour pork... or salt & vinegar crisps. The first time I ever saw you I felt like a stuck pig, bleeding out in pure bliss on the knife edge of your sweetness. You cut me to the quick. No industrial apple corer could ever leave me feeling more hollow, so deliciously empty, full of wanting and wanton desire than you left me, left completely breathless, asphyxiated by your trace.

This is the kind of lunacy that could tear a man to scraps and pieces, but, honestly, would you swap it? Seems to me people always tend to complain more about their aches than they do about their amputations, but as for me: I already cut off all my limbs in advance.

Individual moments of pure madness, unadulterated by common-sense and then stacked each on top of one another, falling over, eventually they make up a life.

If only I was ever more than words, my turns of phrase only ever seem to lasso smoke, my nets catch nothing but water. Anyway... aaaanyway, many years of experience have made me pretty good at this whole unrequited thing, but my point is, you will always be beautiful regardless.

You got that with you, it's yours forever, nobody can steal it. Maybe Jupiter slipped a slice of moon in your mouth, who knows.

Anyway, I'll never get to say this to your face: I hear they admire sunsets even in the ghettos of Calcutta—I think you are possibly the brightest star in the entire planetarium.

Anyway, sorry it had to come from me.

On occasion: I am overwhelmed by everything. It all gets a bit too much and the only thing I want to do is build an impenetrable fort in my mind out of blankets and then go try and fit my head inside it.

I feel like a cloud impaled on a speck of dust.

I had an honest to god good time tonight. I feel like everybody is my friend.

I know I'm an ugly motherfucker and all—I mean: I do glow with kind of tarnished inner beauty—but damn! maaaaan! WOMEN, sweet jesus - LORD HAVE MERCY!

After everything said, after is everything done, I think grew up to be the kind of person that I wanted to be. I mean: dear god, I actually do like being Caleb Jonathan Anderson, and I honestly wouldn't accept a swapsies for any other life in the entire range of catalogues available.

I reckon you gotta follow the smell of blood in your nostrils, eventually it lead you (by many twists and turns) straight to wherever, whatever compass your heart is set to. Now I'm no angel! but to me she always wore her halo like a tight dress, voluptuous, full of shadows and curve, to me, at least, she's as vibrant as a plucked harp, but then against at most! at most! she hurts my eyes – she's far too bright! to look at directly without some kind of smoked glass, or other eye protection.

I have to turn my head away; I cup my gaze, because it's like looking into a precious metal being heated bright white hot inside the burning foundry of the sun. It's too much, it cuts, too beautiful.

Probably just my issue. I do tend to think every woman I meet spits full-stops.

The world needs idiots—at least as entertainment.

What the fuck are you staring at?

Antonie Dixon: attacked two women with a samurai sword while under the influence of "P" (methamphetamine), severing one of their hands, before shooting a stranger in the back with a machine gun, killing him.

Not having written for a while (or indeed having anything worthwhile to say really) I thought I'd make one of those trashy substandard what-am-I-up-to entries just like every other boring motherfucker out there. Been working very very hard, and also paradoxically slacking off as much as humanly possible. Ostensibly I am working right now. See how this works?

Loving stencilling, I can't draw at all and this is the first time I've ever been able to express myself visually. Not that I'm super good or anything, but it's fun and makes me think that even though not everyone can be the next Leonardo Van Gough or whatever... whatever! so what! art really is for everybody, and everybody should get the chance and seize the moment and take a can of spraypaint to the nearest wall or billboard.

The devil quotes scripture, and nowhere is this more true than with the Christian right. I've been wondering why Christians come across as such absolute cunts, why it is that the clubs or cudgels of self-righteous legalism should be such a constant trump card over the more compassionate suit of hearts.

I could take the time to tear apart the ridiculous BERL drug harm study commissioned by the NZ police, but all you need to know is that, as Russell Brown astutely pointed out, the study includes the cost of prohibition as part of social harm. This means that for every dollar spent on more enforcement the drug harm index also rises by exactly one dollar, while at the same time enabling the police to count a proportion of this increased cost as a “saving” from each successful drug seizure. Sounds pretty scientific. Yeah, it's total bullshit, but you can bet your sweet cherry ass that they'll be quoting all kinds of comforting (or frightening) statistics from this “research” as the occasion demands.

The devil quotes scripture, at length and in depth, and the unfortunate thing is that people often listen.

Caught up with Mel & Sass & Caroline & Brian and got ridiculously drunk, good to catch up—good times, crazy days, one for the photo album.