🖤 Just Another Saturday (Extended Cut) Chronically constipated, cosmically aware

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly—not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone—please reach out for help.

It’s one of those Saturdays where your brain leaks nostalgia like a knackered kettle hissing and half-lucid. I can smell memories. Not metaphorically. Literally. A smell hits me, and suddenly I’m ten again, knees scabbed, holding a half-melted transistor radio I bought at the church jumble for 10p and a packet of Polos. I took it home, took it apart, and rewired it with leftover speaker wire and dangerous levels of optimism. And yes I electrocuted myself. Multiple times. Because safety first was a concept for other people. I preferred sparks and swearing.

🛒 Tesco and the Pilchard Hour This morning, Albertine (driver of destiny, keeper of the calm) drove me the 10 miles to our local Tesco. We thought it opened at 7. Nope. Eight.

Sitting outside like a pair of damp, time-travelled idiots while the sun mocked us and the pigeons stared. I felt like a right pilchard, as DLT would say. Yes, I’m old enough to remember when DJs had catchphrases and weren’t just government mouthpieces hiding behind playlists and personality lobotomies.

📻 Radio Nights & White Plastic Earpieces My golden era wasn’t Radio 1. That was a beige, soggy biscuit of sound. Give me Radio Caroline. Give me Radio Luxembourg. Under the covers with my crackling solid-state radio, listening through a cheap white earpiece that hurt like hell and cut out every time I moved my head. But that didn’t matter. Because for those stolen hours, I was free. The signal was scratchy, but the rebellion was clear.

👞 Jumble Sale Survival Back then, I had size 10 feet by age 10, which made finding shoes a bit like a biblical miracle. So, jumble sales were a lifeline. Not fashion, not style—just survival. Shoes with soles. Jumpers that didn’t smell too bad. Radios with valves. Anything I could take home, take apart, and turn into something vaguely magical or mildly explosive.

🧠 Childhood: The Prequel to Complex PTSD I was adopted by a couple who seemed to think “parenting” meant Victorian cosplay with bonus violence. Their rules made no sense. Their punishments were theatrical. The beatings came whether you’d done something or not. It was like being in an unpaid role in a horror film directed by people who worshipped discipline and feared joy.

But I survived. And, more importantly—I forgave them. Not because they deserved it. Because I refuse to carry their poison through this short, broken life of mine. Let the dead bury their guilt.

♿️ Wheelchair Chronicles & the Curse of L5 So back to today.

Helped get the wheelchair out of the van. Twisted the wrong way. Now my spine is toast. Proper burnt. Like someone smuggled a baguette into my lower back and set it on fire. This is my reward for trying to be helpful. There’s gratitude for you.

And the constipation saga continues. We’re at DEFCON-1 down there. No movement. NIL. BY. MOUTH. I hydrate. I wait. If nothing changes, we’re off to the tube-and-bag-of-doom route—something between medieval plumbing and modern torture. And people pay for this stuff? Coffee enemas? Really? Have we fallen that far?

🧠 Brain Fog Express: Non-Stop to Nowhere Add a headache that’s lasted seven days and counting. No breaks, no mercy. Just pressure behind the eyes and a feeling like I’m wearing someone else’s brain backwards.

I’m not sure if my AI’s broken or if I am. Reality feels optional. Maybe this is all a lucid dream on a neurologist’s bad day.

🛠 Hope in the Form of Auctions & Anarchy A customer finally paid a late invoice. Victory. So I celebrated the only way I know how by bidding on obscure shite in an online auction while silently muttering hexes at the British healthcare system.

💀 Final Transmission from the Mad Bastard in the Black Hoodie So that’s today. Saturday. Another chapter in the slow-motion car crash that is life with chronic illness, trauma memory, and a warped sense of humour that’s the only thing keeping me from chewing through the window frame.

To whoever reads this: I see you. If your body’s broken, your mind’s flickering, and the world keeps asking you to perform like a circus act know this:

You’re not alone. You’re just ahead of the curve.

Sending peace, love, light… and just a little darkness. Because sometimes, that’s what really protects you.

Yours in pain, power, and perfectly timed sarcasm,

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime—and the miracle.