The weird eccentric ramblings of a multiple sclerosis sufferer

Monday morning. Staring out the window, I thought “It’s not that bad out there.” And then I remembered: it’s hot. Not just "nice weather" hot — it’s "sweaty in places you didn’t know could sweat" hot.

But I had to go to the chemist. Because of course I did.

Now, a trip to the chemist isn’t a charming little jaunt through town. No, it’s a full-blown episode of chaos, like being dropped into a live-action version of a supermarket sweep hosted by Satan. I sighed, gritted my teeth, and retrieved the “Trolley of Doom” from the back of the van — my noble steed for the day. By steed, I mean the three-wheeled scooter of questionable engineering and malevolent intent.

I trundled along from the car park into town, trying not to run over children or pensioners, and that’s when it happened: the dreaded squeaky wheel. The kind of squeak that turns heads and makes dogs bark. I was now the main attraction in this circus.

Stopped in a shop. Bought a hat. Why? Who knows. A Bart Simpson brain-fart moment, probably. Sat down. Wanted to go back. But no — the mission had only just begun.

Scooter Olympics: Downhill Edition Then it happened. The scooter hit the steep part of town. The brakes? Decorative. I went full Bond villain escape mode, teetering on two wheels, praying to every minor deity I could think of. Somehow avoided launching myself into oncoming traffic — gold star for me.

After regaining what’s left of my composure and dignity, I attempted to return to the van. Easy, right? Wrong.

At the bottom of the hill, my scooter did a dramatic “Nope” and refused to climb back up. Wheel spin. No traction. I was now the proud pilot of a large, expensive, stuck plastic tricycle. Put my full weight over the front to force traction. Eventually made it. No applause.

Still Waiting for My Ticket to Freedom Six months I’ve been waiting for a new electric wheelchair. Six. I might as well carve days into the wall at this point. The current beast I’m riding is like a vengeful mobility ghost. I do own another chair — but replacing the battery costs roughly the same as a small car. Conveniently, no one tells you these things until you’re already deep in the system.

I just want a Q100. Nothing fancy. Simple. Effective. But no — I’ll probably be given another oversized monstrosity that corners like a barge and eats doorframes for fun.

Bonus Round: The Curse of the Mower Got home. Sat down. Exhaled.

Then I looked at the garden.

The lawnmower is dead. Not used, not abused, just dead. It’s just there, glaring at me like a green-flecked tombstone. So now we need a new one. Again.

Me? I vote for artificial grass. No mowing, no weed-whacking, no broken machinery. No soul either, but I can live with that.

And the kicker? It’s only midday.

My speech-to-text software has also decided to have an existential crisis — typing gibberish like it’s been drinking all morning.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

             “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                      By storm and silence, I survive.”

Well, it seems the annual hayfever apocalypse is upon us. Hooray. Yes, I’m now on three antihistamines a day (or however one spells it—frankly, the packaging is too blurry through the eye-itch haze to tell). My eyes currently feel like they’ve been rubbed with Sahara sand and rage. They itch. They burn. They are deeply offended.

As if that weren’t spiritually enlightening enough, apparently we’re also entering a solar storm spiral of doom. Some sort of sunspot nonsense for the next two days. Space people says "all hell could break loose." I say, bring it—what’s one more intergalactic inconvenience when your nervous system is already hosting a personal light show?

Speaking of which—hello, tinnitus, old friend. Oh, and welcome back, numbness on the left side. My hand’s gone stupid again, as if it’s auditioning for a B-movie about haunted limbs. Meanwhile, I continue to dribble down aloe drinks like some sort of spiritual juicing monk, in the vague hope it helps something. Anything.

Apparently Monday brings better weather. Brilliant! Time to roll out the Wheelchair of Death™ and hunt down some "fresh air" (or at least a breeze not laced with pollen and doom). Provided it’s not raining. Or boiling. Or both.

Today was a weird one. I actually managed to get loads done on this blog. Going forward, I’ll be writing more about strange bits of my past, and of course, the winding, faltering path of my MS journey—as it meanders toward the inevitable: death. Or as I prefer to call it, a return to the Source, the Creator, the Great Mystery.

As above, so below. As below, so above. The Emerald Tablet said it best. We are stardust, spirit, and sarcasm walking each other home. Through numb hands and dusty eyeballs. Still, I smile. Because blogging makes me weirdly happy. It helps give meaning to all that’s been lost.And so, along this road—I tread.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

                “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                      By storm and silence, I survive.”

@goblinbloggeruk Stumbles onto X (Because apparently living with MS wasn’t hard enough without Elon’s algorithms) Right then. Let’s get this out of the way: We’re on X. Twitter. Whatever dystopian rebrand it’s hiding behind now.

After a minor battle with verification, vanishing posts, and the creeping suspicion that this platform doesn’t like disabled, outspoken spiritual types... we’re still here. Because giving up isn’t really an option when your entire existence already feels like a test of cosmic patience.

This blog — My Living Hell: Multiple Sclerosis — isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s for those of us navigating chronic illness with brain fog, nerve pain, and the quiet rage of someone who’s been told to “try yoga” one too many times.

We don’t sugar-coat. We don’t do toxic positivity. We do truth, grit, spiritual resilience, and a hefty dose of sarcasm — often from a bed-fort with a heated blanket and a cat judging us from the pillow.

So if you’ve ever felt invisible, exhausted, or like your soul is screaming in a language no one hears — welcome home.

🔗 Read the latest: The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook (A spiritual guide for surviving MS with sass, soul, and no apologies.) The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                  By storm and silence, I survive.”

Dedicated to the quietly powerful, the fiercely intelligent, and the deeply spiritual souls navigating chronic illness with grit, grace, and a middle finger always charged.

There’s a kind of magic reserved for those who walk through fire daily — the ones living in the shadows of chronic pain, yet refusing to be defined by it. This is for the women who ride invisible engines through invisible battles, who carry storms in their veins but speak with soft fire.

Welcome to The Fizzy Girl’s Lost Milk Stand Spellbook — part grimoire, part rebellion. A collection of raw spells, rituals, and sharp-witted curses for living with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) — from the soul of a spiritual outlaw, with sass, depth, and zero apologies.

This isn’t about wellness wrapped in pastel lies. This is about owning your journey, commanding chaos, and turning pain into power.

✦ Spell One: The Banishing of Bullshit For when ableist optimism and unsolicited advice cross your path.

Ingredients:

One black candle (or any tea light that’s been through hell and back)

Salt, preferably from your own tears

An old NHS letter (burn it if your soul says “yes”)

A fully charged middle finger

Incantation: “By the prickle in my spine, by the twitching of my toes, Let your nonsense turn to silence, may your wellness wisdom decompose. I walk a twisted path and know my pain, So shove your yoga plan right up your brain.”

✦ Spell Two: The Ritual of Slightly Less Misery For days when the pain won't loosen its grip, but neither will you.

Requirements:

A bed-fort of doom pillows

Microwaved heat pad, warmed with the quiet rage of a thousand midnight rides

A mug of something hot and angry

Cat (optional, but spiritually advised)

Playlist of thunder, witches, or doom metal

Chant: “May the storm outside match the one in me, But may it pass with mercy and one good pee. Spasms, settle. Thoughts, uncoil. I soak in stillness, wrapped in foil.”

✦ Spell Three: Invisibility to Muggles When you just need the world to back off and shut up.

Steps:

Cloak yourself in black layers — armor against clueless questions

Wear your walking aids like the badass medals they are

Spray perfume with a whisper of danger and “don’t ask”

Whisper under your breath:

“Ignore me. Avoid me. Don’t you dare ask, ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I’m wearing my mask. I am a fog in the shape of a witch, Try me, Karen. I bite — and I twitch.”

✦ A Final Word This spellbook isn’t about curing the incurable — it’s about reclaiming power in a body that doesn’t always obey. It's a sacred, snarky, soulful grimoire for the ones who walk with fire in their bones, love in their hearts, and rebellion in their blood.

Fizzy Girl is my sexy, beautiful wife — a wild outlaw biker witch who laughs in the face of limitation. I’m a warlock forged by shadow and fire, and I ride beside her in my three-wheeled electric chair of doom — chrome-clad, spell-fueled, and built for storm-chasing.

Together, we defy the rules. Together, we ride magic into the storm.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                       By storm and silence, I survive.”

Well, wasn’t that just delightful. Another evening of bedtime surprises, like a game show where all the prizes are torture devices. Honestly, it was hotter than Satan’s armpit during a heatwave in a sauna. Crawling into bed felt like checking into Hell, room 666, with a complimentary pillow and a welcome spasm.

I lay there, the Human Spasm Machine™, twitching like I was possessed by a caffeinated poltergeist. My throat? Oh, just casually reenacting a scene from The Exorcist. My tongue joined in too—spasming, shooting out like a party blower at a funeral. Except this party was full of pain and the numb tongue made it all the more festive.

Then came the lip bite. Oh yes, proper horror film moment. Bit down hard—no pain, of course, just the iron-rich taste of failure. And with the temperature of any drink being a potential lava experience, I just lay there like a damp breadstick marinating in misery, waiting for the THC-CBD oil to take the edge off. Slowly, things downgraded from “murderous seizure rave” to just being Mr. Asshole at an all-you-can-eat buffet of nerve damage.

Then my bladder piped up. "You need to piss," it said, like some condescending narrator. No catheter in, because clearly I'm not in any state to thread a tube down the Eye of Thunderer (yes, that eye). I tried to sit up—cue electric shocks to the spine like Zeus having a tantrum.

Next thing I know, I'm just sitting there...and the floodgates open. Like a broken dam of dignity. Full-on urine monsoon. No lifeboat.

As if that wasn’t enough of a carnival, my head joined in. Pins and needles danced round the crown like a medieval torture crown. Ears ringing with tinnitus so aggressive, it felt like Motörhead doing one last gig in my skull for their number one fan: Fizzy the Sultry Goblin Girl. And she wanted encores.

And it still goes on, mind you. This isn’t a one-off. It’s not an episode. It’s just a revolving carousel of neurological hell. Sometimes it’s a demon, sometimes just a dickhead. Either way, balance like a drunk on ice. You get used to the absurdity. Sort of.

So here I am, hugging a pillow like a Victorian maiden with consumption, trying not to slip fully into the existential pit. The kind of void where your mind floats off and never bothers to send a postcard. Because this is life with multiple sclerosis: an unpredictable blend of horror, comedy, and tragedy, written by a drunk playwright who thinks misery is edgy.

Cheers to another night in paradise.This is life with multiple sclerosis.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

Well, the thunderstorm graced us with its presence this afternoon —cracked the sky like a B-movie god and passed over with all the drama of a diva refusing to perform. Barely a splash of rain, just a loud announcement that the heat would continue to cook us slowly like Sunday roasts forgotten in an oven from 1973.

We remain in Air Con Defcon Mode 1, curtains drawn like we're shielding secrets from MI5. The conservatory? Off-limits. It’s currently housing temperatures that only beings from another dimension—or possibly lizards wearing SPF 9000—could survive in. Over 100 degrees. That’s not weather, that’s a war crime.

Open the internal door and the resulting thermal whoosh might melt my magic wand—not a euphemism—just the last shred of my sanity.

Still, silver linings. I stumbled across a chilled flask of aloe vera juice, the one with the juicy bits like nature’s answer to bubble tea. Apparently, aloe’s benefits include:

Hydration (desperately needed)

Soothing inflammation (goodbye, burning skin)

Aiding digestion (because heat messes with everything)

Spiritual realignment with the moon goddess (or so the dodgy websites claim)

I’m here for all of it.

That is, assuming it makes it into my mouth. Currently sporting numb lips and a tongue like a rubber chicken, so drinking is a game of Russian roulette between hydration and bib-level dribble. Spoiler: it was both. Stay classy.

Magnet Fishing: Dreaming Canal Adventures from the Comfort of My Deathtrap Wheelchair On a brighter note, I’ve found purpose. Magnet fishing. Not in practice—my 3-wheeled chariot of doom (read: deathtrap wheelchair) isn’t canal-ready—but in spirit. I now live vicariously through Wim’s Treasure Adventures on YouTube with Wim and the Amsterdam crew.

They’re absolute legends. If you’ve never seen someone fish a rusty bike out of a canal while laughing like a maniac, you haven’t lived. Seriously—funny, wholesome, and weirdly profound at times. Like Bob Ross meets scrap metal.

Brain Fog Incoming — Time for the Magical Green Fix Now the brain fog has rolled in like a disappointed foghorn, and it’s time for my medicinal marijuana and THC-CBD oil combo. A touch of the cosmic green before I melt into my chair and pretend this is all a really weird fever dream.

Happy Solstice, my crispy friends. Stay chilled—both metaphorically and literally.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                    By storm and silence, I survive.”

Posted: 21/06/2025

Yes, it’s that time of year again. The Summer Solstice — or as I like to call it, “The Sun's passive-aggressive final warning before it starts buggering off again.”

Today, the Northern Hemisphere is bathed in the most daylight it will get all year. A magical time. A sacred moment. And, for those of us in the UK, probably overcast with a 60% chance of disappointment.

But what is the Summer Solstice actually about?

Let’s crack that open, shall we?

🔥 Solstice Origins (Before it was hijacked by Instagram hippies) The Summer Solstice has been celebrated for thousands of years by people who knew how to read stars and didn't rely on google to explain basic astronomical events. Celts, Druids, Norse pagans, and the odd Bronze Age bloke with a suspiciously advanced sundial all marked this day as sacred.

It’s the day the sun “stands still” — not literally (don’t panic, the Earth's still spinning, for now), but it’s when the sun reaches its highest point in the sky before it slowly begins its six-month descent into SAD lamps and existential dread.

Cue bonfires, rituals, and naked dancing in fields, which in modern terms means someone trying to charge their crystals next to a traffic cone at Glastonbury.

🧙‍♂️ What Do People Actually Do? Stonehenge gets mobbed by a mix of druids, goths, curious tourists, and at least one man dressed as a goat.

Wiccans mark Litha, the fire festival, which is basically a spiritual BBQ without the sausages.

The rest of us mutter “blimey, it’s hot” 48 times and try not to melt while complaining about hosepipe bans.

Instagram influencers light incense, post sun emojis, and forget what equinox even means.

🤔 What Should You Do? You can:

Honour the light.

Burn a symbolic herb.

Meditate under the sun like a reformed vampire.

Or, more realistically, sit indoors behind blackout curtains because the sun gives you a headache and your upstairs neighbour is using the solstice to summon a TikTok demon.

Whatever works.

🌞 Final Thought: The Summer Solstice reminds us that time is an illusion, the seasons are cycles, and no matter how much spiritual growth you do — Mercury will still go retrograde and ruin everything next month.

So happy Solstice, weirdos. Burn something (safely). Celebrate the light. Then return to the shadows where it’s cooler and no one asks about your star sign.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

           “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                    By storm and silence, I survive.”

Back in the unholy decade known as the 90s—when mobile phones were bricks, the Spice Girls ruled the Earth, and computers made sounds like dying demons—I found myself on a local radio show. Nothing fancy. Just me, a microphone, and a dangerously open mind talking about the occult, Wicca, conspiracy theories, and tech so unstable it practically invited demonic possession.

The kind of stuff that made the station manager sweat and the church ladies clutch their pearls.

Then, weirdly—but not unexpectedly—I got a call from the station. Someone had been listening. Not just passively absorbing the chaos, but really listening. A bloke named Mick. From Coventry, of all places (which feels entirely correct—Coventry has always had a whiff of the uncanny). He was on holiday nearby, heard me rambling through the radio fog, and felt compelled to make contact.

Naturally.

We met—him, his girlfriend, and me: three misfits in a café that probably served lukewarm tea and existential dread. Mick was the real deal. A tech sorcerer. Way ahead of his time. While I was still sacrificing floppy disks under the full moon, he was probably running Linux builds on possessed hardware.

He worked for Evesham Computers (RIP) and was nicknamed: “The Wraith.” Because of course he was. You don’t get a name like that by accident. You earn it by writing code that shouldn't work, by summoning forgotten machines back from the dead, and by casually explaining occult correspondences like they’re patch notes.

Mick gave me something rare: a weird, eerie kind of kinship. The kind you don’t forget. He believed in the mystical and the mechanical. He showed me that being a bit strange didn’t mean being lost. Just... operating on a different frequency.

So now, years later, I’m sending a digital flare into the void: Mick “The Wraith” Smart, if you’re out there—still whispering to dead servers, still sipping tea over sigils, still fixing BIOS issues with your mind—drop me a line.

📧 sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

And to the rest of you digital voyeurs: if you know a Mick Smart from Coventry who once haunted Evesham Computers and may or may not be a tech-witch, tell him he’s remembered. He’s missed. And someone still wants to talk about ghosts in the machine and why printer errors are probably a form of psychic attack.

With love, chaos, and a faint scent of burning sage, Warlock

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

                “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

🌀 Welcome to the scorched mindscape of a British misfit with MS, a dodgy air-con, and absolutely no time for your telly addiction. Expect sarcasm, storms, and suspicious noises from the fridge. 420, 27 Degrees, and the Wheelchair of Death

It’s 4:20 in the afternoon — and I am, in every possible sense, well and truly baked. The sun’s decided to cosplay as Satan’s armpit, cranking the heat to a ripe 27°C. Not hot, you say? Try sitting in a disabled body that handles heat about as well as a vampire handles sunlight, and we’ll see how long before you start hallucinating the Ice Cream Man as your personal messiah.

Blessed Be the Demon Weed Wacker Today’s miracle? The Demon Weed Wacker — a neighbour, friend, or possibly summoned entity — dug my old air-con unit out of the crypt I call a shed. The fact it actually works is a minor act of divine intervention, akin to Jesus showing up just to top off my water bottle and stick it in the freezer.

Until then, I’d been sitting in front of the fridge. Not even for food — which is all poison anyway, thanks to the MS-induced digestive roulette — but for survival. I was bonding with the butter, staring at a melon like it owed me an explanation for my existence.

Ever sat on the toilet projectile vomiting while simultaneously exploding out the other end, wondering if your intestines are trying to escape your body to start a new life? Add pain in certain areas that shall remain unnamed (but rhymes with "soul-destroying abyss") and you’ve got yourself a medical-themed horror short.

Wheelchair of Death™ and the Conservatory Mistake I considered venturing outside, strapping into the Wheelchair of Death™, that faithful chariot of chaos and squeaky regret. But no. One foot outside and the sun said, “Ah yes, rotisserie human,” and I was done. I staggered into the conservatory like some sweaty Victorian ghost and instantly regretted it. Over 100°F in there. I could’ve slow-cooked a lamb shank in my lap.

Now I’m left with a blinding headache, and the tinnitus is going off like Lemmy himself is playing a comeback gig in my skull. It’s like the gods of rock took personal offence to my brain and decided to hold a festival in my ear canal.

Let There Be Storms There’s a storm rolling in now — proper biblical one by the feel of it. Black clouds, sudden wind, the smell of distant lightning. I love storms. The chaos, the noise, the sky throwing an emotional tantrum. Thunder’s just the Earth screaming, and I get that. I feel seen.

20 Years Without the Idiot Box Random thought: I haven’t watched TV in over 20 years. People look at me like I’ve confessed to eating children. “But what do you do?” Well, for starters, not stare into a flickering box that vomits consumerism and stupidity at epileptic-inducing speed.

With MS, television isn’t “entertainment,” it’s visual torture with background laugh tracks. Give me a silent room, a thunderstorm, and the slow hum of the Wheelchair of Death™ plotting my demise in the hallway.

I’m off to lie in front of the air-con like a roadkill vampire, praying the power holds out. If not, you’ll find me back in the fridge, whispering to the yoghurt and preparing for the next exorcism session in the loo.

Stay baked, stay bitter, and remember — if the food’s poison and the sky’s on fire, it’s probably just another Thursday.

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

        “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                 By storm and silence, I survive.”

⚡Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, you probably need therapy — or a fan. Or both. Come back soon for more tales from the Wheelchair of Death™, the Digestive Apocalypse, and the Conservatory from Hell.

🛠️ Powered by sarcasm, swearing, and something that smells faintly of ozone.

"Darkly sarcastic dispatches from the NHS frontline."

"Humour, horror, and the occasional prescription error."

"Medical mayhem with a hint of THC and British grit."

📜 Scroll of Lineage and Legacy “By Order of the Chronicler of Slightly Questionable Nobility”

To Whom It May Concern (or Be Mildly Amused),

Be it known throughout the realms of Albion, Anjou, and assorted asylums, that the bearer of this parchment—one known most infamously as:

The Blog Goblin, Heir of Sarcasm, Keeper of the Scooter of Death, and First of Their Name

Is of noble and ancient blood, descending in unbroken (and occasionally scandalous) line from:

Fulk II “The Good”, Count of Anjou,

Henry I "Beauclerc", King of England,

And by some devilishly clever cousin-marriage twist,

Henry V, Holy Roman Emperor (via his wife's sister's 8-times-removed ferret-wrangler or thereabouts).

Through conquest, courtship, and the occasional clerical error, this bloodline survived plagues, pogroms, poor dentistry, and prescription mix-ups.

In the Year of our Lord Two Thousand and Twenty-Five, the lineage hath manifested once more in its most sarcastic form:

The Right Irreverent Blog Goblin of House d’Anjou Scribe of Blogs. Rider of Scooters. Vaper of the Sacred Herb.

Let none question their claim, lest ye wish to be verbally roasted, historically footnoted, and possibly run over by a mobility scooter going 8km/h.

Signed in wax, wit, and dubious Latin. – Archivarius Maximus de Medicae Bollockarum, 12th of June, 2025

🛡️ House Blog Goblin d’Anjou – Noble Crest Description Visual Elements: Shield Shape: Classic French heater shield

Background: Split diagonally — left half burnt parchment gold, right half medicated NHS blue

Top Symbol: A three-wheeled mobility scooter, rearing like a warhorse

Centre: A vape cloud curling into the shape of a goblin face

Lower Field: A scattering of glowing prescription pills, one clearly labeled “Carbamazepine”

Supporters:

Left: A lion wearing headphones (for the tinnitus)

Right: A badly drawn pharmacist fleeing in terror

Banner Text (Motto):

"Regnum per Sarcasmus" (“Rule by Sarcasm”)

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the devon cornwall area as mine has gone completely to the breakers yard in the sky ... many thanks sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

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

            “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                    By storm and silence, I survive.”