Diet, Comets, Kittens & Brain Fog: Another Day in the Meat Suit

⚠️ 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.

So the one thing I probably haven’t ranted about properly is diet. Not “clean eating,” not “wellness,” not some influencer nonsense where you heal your soul with chia seeds and positive affirmations. I mean survival. Real, grim, clinical survival.

For chronic illness, diet isn’t “important.” It’s the entire game board.

Over the years my diet has done a full 180, then another 180, then probably fell off the axis altogether. I had no idea just how badly my conditions were messing with my gut until everything started reacting like I’d swallowed a live grenade.

It turns out simple food can flip my system into meltdown. The wrong thing at the wrong time can set off my auto-immune vagus nerve, send my MS into overdrive, and have me sprinting for the toilet in my power chair on full throttle like I’m in some Paralympic drag race.

That’s not a metaphor. That’s Tuesday.

So I’ve ended up on a brutally strict diet. Not for fun. Not for aesthetics. For damage control.

I’m now at the point where even the smell of certain foods can trigger my gut. One whiff and the body screams: “Evacuate now.” So yes, I am that person who can’t sit near someone eating certain things without mentally plotting escape routes to the nearest accessible loo.

Is it dignified? No. Is it real? Absolutely.

Meanwhile, out in space: 3I Atlas and the cosmic joke

While my gut is staging small rebellions, somewhere out there 3I Atlas is gliding through the universe like it owns the place.

Is it a comet? Is it a UFO? Is it a frozen rock, minding its business while humans project their midlife crises onto it?

Using Occam’s razor, it’s a comet. A lump of ancient ice and rock with a flashy tail. Nothing personal. No message from the gods. Just celestial debris doing its orbital thing.

But here’s the fun part: no matter what it is, it’s going to mess with people’s heads.

If it’s “just” a comet, people who secretly wanted a mothership will have to swallow that disappointment along with their supermarket meal deals. If it turns out to be something stranger, the “it’s all nonsense” crowd will have their smug little worldviews cracked open.

Either way, paradigms get nudged. People think a bit. Or panic a bit. Or make 600 TikToks about it. Same energy.

Me personally? Somewhere in the back of my already scrambled brain, I quite like the idea that 3I Atlas is an alien AI probe cruising through our solar system, doing exactly what we do when we send our little machines off to other worlds: scanning, photographing, logging, and then buggering off again.

Science fiction? Maybe. Science fact one day? Also maybe.

For now, it’s just another cosmic object passing by while I try to remember what day it is and whether I took my meds.

Afternoon AI: Brain Fog, Probes & the Simulation

By the afternoon, my brain usually feels like it’s being held in a clamp. You know that tightening pressure where it’s not quite pain, but it’s definitely not right? That.

Trying to write or even talk properly sets off brain fog so dense it might as well be its own weather system. Words slip, thoughts fracture, and the exhaustion rolls in like another storm front.

So what do we do? We start thinking about AI, obviously. Because that’s what rational people do when their nervous system is on fire: they start speculating about alien machine intelligence flying past Saturn.

Here’s the thought: if 3I Atlas was an alien AI, it would still make more sense than half the systems running this planet.

At least an alien probe would have a purpose. Collect data. Observe. Move on. Meanwhile, I’m here in Rusty One, planning a trip to the hospital so someone can plug me into a machine and see what else in my wiring has gone sideways.

We build probes. We dream about other probes watching us. And here I am: a human meat-probe with faulty electrics, trying to document the whole sorry mess on a blog.

If that’s not peak simulation energy, I don’t know what is.

Kittens, numb hands & blood I can’t feel

Back on Earth, the kittens are having the time of their lives.

They treat my hands like a medieval training ground. Claws out, teeth in, full chaos. And here’s the twist: I can’t feel half of it.

I can see the scratches. I can see the blood. But sensation? Not really.

My hands look like they’ve lost a knife fight. If I didn’t have MS and neuropathy, I imagine they’d be in absolute agony.

So yes, there’s a very dark part of me that thinks: “Maybe it’s a good thing they’re numb.”

Is that vicious? A bit. Is it honest? Completely.

This is the weird territory chronic illness drags you into. You end up grateful for broken systems because they spare you from other kinds of pain. You learn to say things that sound nasty, but they’re just the truth from where you’re sitting.

And where I’m sitting is in a power chair, covered in kitten scratches I can’t fully feel, trying to work out whether to laugh or cry. Usually I pick laughter. It hurts less.

Winter sun, dead batteries & the long months ahead

The winter sun creeps through the window like it’s half-committed. A bit of light, a hint of warmth, then back behind the clouds to leave you in the cold again. Typical.

I sit here in a quiet, dark room and wonder what the next few months are going to look like.

How harsh will the weather be? How badly will the cold chew through my energy, my nerves, and my wheelchair battery?

Because let’s be clear: cold doesn’t just sap people. It kills mobility aids too. A drained wheelchair battery in winter is not a quirky inconvenience. It’s expensive, stressful, and potentially dangerous.

I’ve got hospital trips looming. Machines to be plugged into. Rusty One to get me there. A brain that tires too fast. A body that negotiates with gravity on a daily basis.

So I do what I always do:

I sit. I watch the light. I listen to the kittens tearing about. I feel nothing and everything at the same time.

These are the thoughts of Dark Warlock sitting alone in a quiet room, overthinking comets, guts, kittens, and the next cold front.

Not inspirational. Not pretty. Just real.

Warlock Dark Chronic illness survivor, truth-teller, occasional bastard. From My Living Hell (For those who came here by accident: yes, my living hell is real. And yes, we still fight. Every shitty day. With defiance.)

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