Reflective Sunday: Blue Staffy Manifestation, Insomnia Roulette, and Goblin Logic

⚠️ 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 professional help.

I’m sat here waiting for an email about my impending dog acquisition a blue Staffy, ideally female, spayed, two to four years old, preferably capable of tolerating my questionable music taste and my powerchair’s death-rattle. Partner in crime (metaphorical, calm down, officer). If luck behaves for once, we’ll be doing miles me in the chair, her with ears like satellite dishes, both of us pretending we’ve got our act together.

I’ve trawled rescue sites and breeder pages like a raccoon in a bin and found exactly three things: (1) everyone wants a Staffy, (2) the good ones vanish faster than my patience, and (3) every “available now!” looks suspiciously like “available yesterday, sorry, already gone.” Still hope’s a stubborn little weed.

Sleep has become a rumour. Nights blur into days; days smell like old coffee and medical admin. I feel weird (weirder than my baseline, which is impressive), and I’m listening to John Cooper Clarke because if you’re going to spiral, do it with better metaphors. Meanwhile I’m eating the same “safe” foods on loop like a hostage in my own kitchen. Even the rice is giving me side-eye. Who do I complain to? The beetroot?

This is where people chime in with “stay positive” and try to pat me on the head. Here’s a better idea: keep your hand clear of the goblin. Bite radius is expanding with age.

And before the chorus pipes up yes, I remember the glory days: hot rods, fast bikes, Santa Pod Raceway, petrol in the blood and tinnitus for dessert. Now it’s tyres on pavement and a battery gauge I stare at like an anxious parent. Same wind in the hair. Different horsepower.

If you’re wondering why I talk to AI so much, it’s because it actually answers. No waiting room Muzak. No being told I’m “overreacting.” Just: here’s what’s likely true, here’s what’s probably nonsense, here’s what to try next. Brutal honesty without the bored shrug. That’ll do, shard. That’ll do.

Affirmations for the ethically jaded:

If someone pats you on the head, bite the hand (metaphorically unless they insist).

If the world gaslights you, light your own damn torch.

If your food gaslights you, eat it anyway, glare at it, and write a poem about revenge.

Blue Staffy Manifestation Checklist (from the goblin to the universe):

Female, 2–4 years, spayed, local enough not to require a pilgrimage.

Good with powerchairs, swearing, and poetry.

Enjoys long rolls, short bursts of chaos, and snacks that don’t argue back.

Until the email lands, I’ll be here wired, tired, and mildly feral building the next mile with a dog I haven’t met yet.

Goblin logic of the day: positivity isn’t pretending it’s fine; it’s grinning while you sharpen the axe.

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