It was a great relief to check my blog and see nothing strange since my last post. Currently I'm sitting on a train that charges toward my city. I borrowed my cabin companion's laptop to update myself on the world especially the news about the football club I adored for so many years. More bad news. Our season was one of the worse the club has experienced in over twenty years. We're bound to finish either sixth or seventh which means for the first time in a decade the infamous Liverpool FC will not be playing in the Champions League. This entails that a large sum of money that is owed to the clubs playing in this league will not be paid to us and instead to another dirty club from London that bought its team with the investments from some foreign scum trying to take over the sport for his own benefit. Liverpool will push on as we always do. We'll never walk alone.

Wow things are really getting crazy and out of control. My last post freaked me out badly. How could I write something like that? It's so fucking creepy and terrible. I figure that Tom must be the voice in my head that tells me to do stuff when I'm in my schizophrenic haze. I've been doing some research trying to find out if I can quell my shifts in personality but without any luck. If I wanted help I would have to make an appointment with a doctor and that would mean exposing my true self. I will just have to move on and continue fighting the fight against myself. I enjoy writing these posts because it remains my only real form of self expression left. When I die these posts will act as a journal of sorts so that when it is eventually found people who knew me will understand the truth. This blog is my truth. My chance to show what really happened. Ah hell! Who am I kidding? No one's going to read this.

tom told me to write here what I feel like. i feel great. tom said that there is no such things as feelings and i asked him why he yells to much and he said he wants to kill me. i dont like tom. he tells me that if i dont do things he will rip me into tiny pieces. i told tom i though a girl was pretty and he said if i ever said something like that again he would kill me. why is he so mad at me. i think he might be a ruler of people's spirits. he wont allow mine to rise with me. he has it under control and says that it is better that way. im scared. he must be trying to get to me to do something. i see him in strangers eyes. he fills the black part. im off to see the devil

Not for the first time my previous post is scaring the shit out of me. Who the hell is Tom? How could I write this and not remember anything. Luckily, I snapped out of it before anything tragic happened. In my bag I found I large homemade bomb that I had no recollection building or anything related for that matter. I feel like every time I go to sleep my other half rises slowly from my mind and chaos ensues. I'm not a murderer, but he is. I'm not a terrorist, but he is. I'm Peter and he is someone else. A product of what this world has done to me. Maybe all the fast food and processed foods I have been eating since I was a little boy have accumulated toxic trash somewhere in my head leaving me with a prettt fucked up tool shed. Liverpool, you're my last hope. I travel through France heading toward the train that will zip me over to London where I will be ever closer to my beloved. One last time at Anfield? Is that to much to ask for? One more time to soak in the screams of the kop. I'm off .

What the shit? Peter Busch? Tom must have changed it when I went to get the gasoline, or maybe he did something stupid and forgot to tell me. Tom said that if we blew up the train it would be fun fun fun. How does he know. He's not even alive or tangible. He talks tooooo much. I want to kill him, stab him, shoot him. This train glides effortlessly toward what? hope? the future? the end of days I suppose......

What does someone do when they have nothing to live for. I'm trapped in the corridors of uncertainty. I've decided that I should take a road trip back to where things felt almost right. Liverpool never opened its arms to me and many times I was condescendingly called a 'yank' or 'stupid american', but I liked that. In the city I could let things happen without feeling responsible or anxious. My teams last game is coming up and I thought maybe I could make it back in time to support the lads one last time. At this point I don't know if my schizophrenia will get worse, but after seeing what happened to pops I don't want to take any chances. I feel like a doctor has just told me I have three months to live. Enough of this for now.

When I looked at my last post I thought maybe someone had hijacked my account or that I had forgot to log out when I was at that cyber cafe, but I think now that there may be another explanation. As my father grew older he seemed to lose his bearings a bit earlier than most men his age. Some doctors said he was just senile, but I never really bought that argument. I spent more time around him than they did for christ sake. Once I learned about schizophrenia in high school health class I was convinced that it was exactly what he suffered from. My mind was often occupied with the fear of succumbing to the same fate and now it seems I have. My memory has spots of nothingness in it. Periods of black that carry deeply but have no meaning. If I tell anyone I fear I will be locked away in a looney bin for the rest of my days lying around heavily medicated. I need to think fast.

click. rattle rattle rattle. must be half the bottle left. nice. i pour some down my throat and then throw the bott in my napsack. ahh my trusty napsack. i dont know where i am anymore. i havent spoke with my fam in a long time. time is something that swirls and eddies around my ears but never really enters my skull. i open their fridge but find only veggies and old meatloaf. god am i back in the us? god my head hurts. i bet that bitch carries pills on her. i knew it. have some as well ya filthy beast. her corpse seems happy and peaceful. ooooo i just have to. i remember my in flicks when some bastard detective would wave his hands over a dead body's eyes causing their death stare to vanish under their eyelids. i try. goddman it. once more. fuck. enraged. another promise broken. computers are everywhere i know now now know.