Title: Brain Fog, Buffers, and the Glorious Descent into System Failure (Now with Bonus MS Features)

Today’s ride? Oh, only the finest in terrifying neurological tourism. Think: one-way ticket to Neuro-Nowhere on the fastest fracking ghost train the NHS never ordered. It started subtly, like all horror stories do — a bit of brain fog, just a hint. You know, that charming little mental haze where you try to remember why you walked into the kitchen and end up staring into the fridge wondering if milk is a concept. But then, WHAM — the fog rolls in thick, like some straight-to-DVD horror film, complete with dodgy scenery and a soundtrack composed entirely of your own tinnitus. My head? Once a finely tuned Ryzen processor — top-spec, liquid-cooled brilliance. Now? I’m a dusty old 486 with a cracked fan and a hard drive that sounds like it’s trying to speak in Morse code. Bad sectors? More like bad everything. And then came the glorious MS parade. Step right up for numbness in places you didn’t even know could feel numb. Whole left side: offline. Zero coordination. Like a wet sock full of jelly. That’s the hand I used to write with — now it flops around like it's trying to start a fight with gravity and losing. Muscle spasms? Oh, darling. I'm twitching like a freshly electrocuted squirrel. My legs feel like overcooked spaghetti, while my arms do an interpretive dance I didn’t choreograph. Meanwhile, pins and needles prance up and down my limbs like they’ve got somewhere better to be. Then there’s the tremors — the sort that make you question whether you’re anxious or auditioning to be a malfunctioning animatronic at a forgotten seaside theme park. Add in fatigue so heavy it could anchor the Titanic, and you’ve got yourself a full-house bingo card of chronic chaos. Let’s not forget vision problems. My eyes are doing a sexy little in-and-out-of-focus routine, because who needs depth perception when you can feel like you're watching your life through a bootleg VR headset taped to a microwave? Balance? Coordination? Gone. I'm walking like a baby giraffe on a treadmill greased with WD-40 and regret. Gravity has declared war on me. I’ve fallen over more times today than a British politician answering a straight question. Oh and the bladder — everyone's favourite. It’s like a confused toddler. Sometimes silent. Sometimes shouting. Never at the right moment. Cheers for that. Of course, I had the nausea, too — and when I say "had," I mean projectile vomited like Satan’s own party cannon. Took a nice 20-minute break to redecorate the bathroom in eau de horror, came back covered in the stuff, laughing like a drunk banshee at a funeral disco. Shaking, sweating, spasming, blind-ish, numb-ish, and emotionally somewhere between existential dread and dark comedy gold. If Kafka and Monty Python had a lovechild with a neurological disorder, I’d be the script. Am I worried? Nah. This is Britain. We don’t panic. We just make sarcastic blog posts while quietly falling apart, perhaps accompanied by a lukewarm cuppa and the creeping suspicion that our body's warranty expired three years ago. So here I am. Still riding the neurocoaster. Still laughing. Still shaking like a ferret on MDMA. If this is hell, at least it’s got character. Back soon. Or not. Depends if my right leg decides to go on strike next.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

       “The views in this post are based on my personal  
          experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”