Pictures of Brian Pillman staring at you. Also book update.

So I forgot that editing was a thing. I also forgot that in order to write twenty stories in twenty days, one has to dodge every last lemon or turd that life has to throw at you. I've so far written eleven stories and one poem based on an old story, "The Peeper". I've eight more to write and ideas are stumbling over each other all at once in a gigantic, sweaty, hairy, concept pile.

What I'm basically saying is; yeah, the book is happening. I'm doing it with my fingers as we speak. I just jumped a wild horse when I said I'd have it out by the 12th of February. Rookie mistake. It's nearly done though. I'm sitting here right now, at exactly 07:23 AM, trying to figure out how to end a story called "Beware the Disco Mutants".

Here's Brian Pillman, looking all crazy and shit.

  

Banality, by Mark Louth.

“This isn’t my room”- these are the first thoughts that race through your mind on first waking on a Saturday or Sunday morning. The ceiling that you’re gazing up at isn’t yours, yet it’s still above your head somehow. This bed below you isn’t a bed at all but a couch. Oh, wait a sec. On further inspection you now see that the bed that’s really a couch is actually not a couch at all but is, in fact, a floor. A sitting-room floor. Don’t worry man, you’re not homeless or anything. In fact you’re the complete opposite of homeless. You have your own, better than basic, apartment. That’s right. You have that. Probably something that a lot of people don’t have, but YOU have IT. You lucky son of a bitch. Here’s the catch though. Most apartment dwellers actually wake up in their own apartment every morning, not on a bed that’s actually a couch but in fact a floor. They wake up in a bed, in a bedroom, a room designed for beds to be put in for the act of sleep. Remember sleep? So you’re probably wondering what’s the deal, right? Your deal is boredom. You wake up in different people’s living rooms most weekends since you were sixteen years of age, all out of sheer boredom and a terrible fear of solitude. So what do you do when Friday knocks around with his two mates Emptiness and Solitude? You go out and get so stinking drunk and swallow tablets to chemically alter your mood in order to fuck Friday and his mates off, the pack of spare pricks. In order to put depression on hold at the other end of the phone. To relive the pressure. To artificially fill the void. Void. Emptiness.

11pm: Mugshot time. Sit up from the floor, lace your boots up. You gotta go talk to the convict in the line-up in the mirror. Think you can pick him out? It should be pretty easy, there’s only the one guy. Ugh. Feeling rough. It’s bright. The hall is sticky and smells like stale beer. Where’s the mirror? Oh yeah, the bathroom. Stumble. Door. Creek. There he is. There’s your boy. You have a good long stare down. You don’t know whether you should have a laugh with him or punch him in his fucking head. Every Saturday, never fail, you can see the shit in between your teeth from Friday. More mouth ulcers? Great. Looks like it’s soup for the week. Again. You could puke at this point. Ugh. Wait….yep. There it is. All the money that you spent last night is right there in that sink. It was either gonna be diarrhea or vomit. You chose vomit. Fucking idiot. What that sink is full of right now is the emptiness that we discussed earlier. Void embodied. The way you feel about the world, the way you feel about people but most importantly, the way you feel about yourself is all right there. Mixed up with the battery acid that you call vomit. It’s as repulsive as you feel. Not only that but it’s simply routine. Go to the kitchen and grab your jacket. “Heresy”. Fitting, right? “Thanks for letting me stay man, I really appreciate it”. You don’t know if you mean it or not, you just want to make up for talking meaningless shit last night while grinding your teeth into dust. Open door. Close door. Scene. Into the void: Seek and destroy.

Walking down the street on your own can be a terrifying experience. Walking down the street with someone else can be even worse, so count your blessings. You’ve got time to think. That’s all you can do sometimes. Think about life. Think about death. Think about all the things in between. Think about the emptiness. In all honesty dude, you’ve won the cosmic lottery but are too disinterested to even notice. You’re a young, white, middle-class male. Suburban youth. You don’t know what it feels like to be hungry. Or cold. You’ve never had to defend your home from invaders. You’re independence was given to you, which you regularly forget. You’ve been loved and you have loved. Wait. Can you love? “I don’t know.” No worries, I don’t know either. You have a plateful but you’re just not hungry. There’s a pit there in your stomach and when it’s not occupied with shit, vomit or chemicals, it’s empty. All the butterflies are dead and problem with that is there’s no cure for something being dead. They’ve been long dead. Once they’re gone, they’re gone. Again those two head-wreckers call around. Emptiness and his bonehead friend Solitude. This crisis cannot be avoided. However, the void awaits. Just get home and continue to analyze the breakdown.

Doorcode: Key: Lock: “Honey, I’m home”. Oh yeah. That joke isn’t funny anymore.

New place haunted by old ghosts, that’s all it is really. Click. Door. Room is the way you left it. Lay yourself down on the bed that’s not a couch that’s really a floor but is, in fact, an actual bed. Here we go. You’re all alone now. Nothing to distract you. The photograph develops on the face of the ceiling above you. Its routine though, remember? Nothing to be afraid of. All you gotta do is wait five more days. That’s all. Repeat the cycle. Artificially fill the void. At least you admit it:

Human 1: “Hey man, I haven’t been feeling great the past while.”

Human 2: “Relax man. Brighten up. Here, have a can. Where did you say you were from again?”

Banality. Emptiness. Friday night. Grab your jacket. Get some cans. Go to the show. Go to the party. Smile. You have Saturday and Sunday to think about it when you have to face the reality of it all. “I miss you. It’s not you that I miss though. It’s the void you filled”. Fill it tonight. Feel it tomorrow. Forget. Remember. Feel. Repeat.

Ask Nora #2

Ladies and Gentlemen, I invite you once again to pick the mind of one Nora Hanney. Renowned contortionist, alcoholics anonymous attendee and Satan worshiping drug-lord. Her mind, as stated previously, is a puzzle and a maze. An endless cavern of knowledge that, if shared wholly with any normal human being, would bring about a titanic madness and forlorn. Those of you with the heart to peek into her thoughts, go forward. Those of you who would suffer not the burden of her knowledge; shield your eyes.

~ Lee Lee Poo.


Thenorahello.

I have just unintentionally become something of agony aunt/shoulder to moan on. One person is going through some bad shit and another is drunk and wants to telephone me from some millions of miles away and tell me all the weird shit he's at right now, such as his legal troubles, addiction issues and all the bitches that be hasslin' him. I don't want to be an agony aunt (unless it's a euphemism for torturer) but all-of-a-suddenly I'm walking some crazy tightrope of other peoples bullshit and no matter if I get to the end of it or fall to one side I can, at best, satisfy one third of those involved. Have you any suggestions that might ease my worried mind?
-Choc ice

Dear Choc ice,

I wholeheartedly sympathise with your struggle. I too have been roped in to giving advice to the needy (I blame my plight on a small shyster currently frequenting a hovel in Maynooth, as well as my undeniable charm and sophistication that attracts the attentions of those looking to better themselves).
If the first of your friends is indeed dealing with “bad shit” then offer them a hand, or a leg, or whatever appendage/limb they need. As for your friend millions of miles away who you seem to be frustrated by, well clearly you should return the favour and see how he likes it. Ring him and demand he listen to your problems. Proceed to inform him (at length) how you have been arrested for smuggling in female Labradors that are addicted to valium, thus forcing him to put up with your issues regarding the law, bitches and addiction. Soon he will get the idea, or else stop calling. Either way, win/win.

Hopefully this has calmed your mind. If it has not, try Xanax.


Dear Nora,
My boomerang won't come back. Advice?
Yours,
Bemused in Ballycastle


Dear Bemused in Ballycastle,

Have you tried turning it off and on again? It has been documented that when a boomerang goes beyond the registered terminal apex of its parabola, the lack of signal can cause the boomerang to become erratic or downright obstinate with the operator, resulting in it becoming unresponsive, rendering it little more than a non-rematerialising, lumber baton, or “stick”. The general solution for this common problem is one of two possibilities.

A) Hiring a trained canine specialist to retrieve the object
B) Getting a better hobby

I wish you all the best in your future wood flinging endeavors.




What in the actual fuck is going on here?

I would actually like an answer because right now I can’t stop staring at this eye-watering composition and I truly fear for my sanity.
-anonymous


When Steven Spielberg is asked how does he sleep at night, he produces that photo and smugly replies “Like this baby”.


How is a tapeworm removed? Do you poop it out? Or is it like the birth of a giraffe so that it just finds its way out of the Uterus. See I think I have one and it’s just below my belly button and at the pinnacle of the legs? My friends refer to it as a "Pen15" I think they're making fun of me though. Please help!


The only way to remove that particular type of tapeworm is to tuck it between your legs, sultrily apply lipstick, then dance to “Goodbye Horses” while preparing to make a coat out of human skin. For more information watch the informative documentary “Silence of the Lambs”.


Dear Sir/Madame

I am writing to ask for your educated advice on some unanswered questions that are currently affecting my quality of life.
1. Who would win in a fight, a vampire or a ghost?
2. How do I get this guy I like to ask me on a date?

3. Would you tell people if you laid an egg or would you be too embarrassed? And don't get cheeky with me; I'm not talking about those tiny bastards our ovaries are spitting out all the time.

Dear Sir/Madame,
First off, the Madame is fine. I like the sound of it. It gives the impression that I should be in France running a brothel. Don’t worry, all the girls will be regularly tested and treated with respect…unless they don’t bring in enough cash. Then there will be issues...Well that’s my retirement plan sorted. But I digress;


1. These seem pretty evenly matched, purely for their uselessness against each other. A vampire couldn’t hurt a non corporeal being, and a ghost couldn’t injure the vamp for the same reason. They’d be swiping at each other for hours with little result. It would be about as effective as a Helen Keller musical.

2. As someone who has never been on a date, I can only recommend things not to do, as I seem to be pretty stellar at scaring men off.
a. Don’t tell them you have a penis. You might find it hilarious, they tend not to.
b. Playful, gentle hitting is fine. Punching is apparently not.
c. Avoid calling them a fucking idiot. Even if they are being one. Actually, scratch that. If someone’s being a fucking idiot let them now in as many ways as possible. Just don’t expect dinner and a movie afterwards.

3. If the process was anything like those feisty, ovary based demons then it wouldn’t be a case of having to tell anyone, because everyone would know. You show me a girl who says she has never informed people that she’s on her period and in intense discomfort, pissed off and pretty sure her sexual organs are trying to chew their way out of her body and I’ll show you a liar. Hmm, this response applies equally to the “what not to do to get a date” section above.

In conclusion, fuck periods. That was your question, right?


Dear hey there.
I have a question.
They should totally bring back The Krypton Factor.
-Anonymous

Hey there dear,
May I first congratulate you on your interpretation of what a question is. I was getting bored of the standard format, so this is a refreshing twist. Unfortunately The Krypton Factor got sued by Superman for unlawful use of his home planet’s name. Hang in there though; I hear they’re bringing out a remake called “The Gotham Aspect”. No chance of copyright issues there.

If you, the reader, are in need of  Nora Hanney's dark wisdom, then please send your questions to 

Thatmakesitnotnora@hotmail.com