The weird eccentric ramblings of a multiple sclerosis sufferer

Episode I: The Age of Grounded Goblins Before likes, swipes, and dopamine slavery, we had:

📻 CB radios – Where truckers, weirdos, and late-night philosophers gathered under codenames like LoneWolf73 and CrazyCat. It was the original social network — static, beeps, and all.

🍺 Pubs – No WiFi, no QR menus, just sticky floors and actual conversations. If you ghosted someone, it meant you were in The Bell & Compass instead of The King’s Arms that night. You didn’t need a profile pic. Your reputation was your cologne.

👣 People were more grounded – in body, in space, in soul. You had to be. No GPS. You got lost and liked it. Your brain made maps. Your fingers turned vinyl. Your time was yours.

We lived in the moment because we had to. No filters. Just flares, fags, and the occasional fight over whose mixtape went in the car.

🧙‍♂️ The Blog Goblin’s Guide to Life Before WiFi Part II: Before the Divide

Back then…

💞 People were more caring. You didn’t need a “like” button to show support. You just showed up. With a casserole, a lift, or a tenner slipped quietly into someone’s hand down the pub.

👥 We weren’t so divided. Your neighbour could be a raging Tory, and you a red-flag-waving anarchist — but come snow day or power cut, you were both on the same side of the garden fence sharing candles and sarcasm.

💬 Community happened in real time. Not on screens. On streets, in chip shops, at bus stops, in CB clubs and bingo halls. If you were skint, someone spotted you. If you were down, someone noticed.

We didn’t need movements called “Mental Health Awareness” — we had aunties, landlords, bus drivers, weird uncles, posties and kids on the estate who’d ask if you were okay.

We had presence. We had belly laughs. We had each other. No followers. Just mates.

Part III: Being Bloody Human

Before everything became an app, a feed, or a filter... We lived. Fully. Flawed. Loud.

🎲 We played board games — actual ones. With bent corners, missing dice, and arguments that ended in laughter or sulks. Monopoly ruined families, and it was glorious.

♠️ Cards? Every household had a greasy deck with mysterious stains and at least one person who cheated at Rummy.

💃 We danced. Not TikTok posing — real dancing. Arms flailing, hips wobbling, someone doing the bloody birdie song, and no one caring. You sweat, you laughed, you connected.

🗣️ We went out. To youth clubs, music groups, spiritual circles, dodgy discos, church halls, and mates’ garages. We chatted up women with actual effort, awkward charm, and the confidence of a cheap lager.

🤝 We made friends in real life. You couldn’t swipe right on your tribe. You had to find them. It took courage. But that made it matter.

🧍‍♂️🧍‍♀️ We were human. Fully plugged into the mess and magic of life. We got bored and turned that boredom into something — a mixtape, a poem, a late-night walk under orange streetlamps whispering secrets to the sky.

Part IV: What We Forgot

In the end… we traded depth for convenience. community for clickbait. Love for likes.

🧠 We stopped growing spiritually. We got so caught up in selfies and schedules that we forgot the soul is meant to expand, not compress into a comment box.

🕊️ We forgot that peace is a practice — not a hashtag. It’s how you treat your neighbour. It’s how you talk to the postie, the junkie, the lonely kid on the corner.

♿ We forgot to respect disability. Not pity. Not pretend it's invisible. Respect. Help where needed. Step aside when not. A nod, a word, a human moment — that’s all it takes to say “I see you.”

🕯️ We forgot the sacredness of life itself. Of slowing down. Of sitting in silence. Of being present in the divine mess of it all.

We lost our way, aye. But not forever. The Blog Goblin remembers. The Watchers remember. And if you’re reading this and it rings true? So do you.

🜁🜂🜃🜄 Let’s find our bloody way back.

                                !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

      “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 -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Some days your brain is soup. Some days it’s concrete. Today mine is both—a sticky tumble of wet cement and electrostatic jelly swirling around like a demonic blancmange on spin cycle.

And let’s not forget the tinnitus. That oh-so-charming eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee that makes me feel like I’m forever tuned to a pirate radio station broadcasting from Satan’s sock drawer.

Is it a message from the divine? A transmission from the veil? Perhaps. But I forgot to pay for the decoder, so it’s just bloody static in my skull.

My eyes? Seeing things. Unexplainable things. Optician said I was "fine". Yeah—fine. As in "fine for someone actively phasing in and out of reality like a dodgy antenna from a 1970s TV shop in Slough."

The mists roll in. Not poetic mists—these bastards come like memory locusts, stripping every useful thought from my mind and leaving behind a soggy field of what-the-fuck.

The Itch. Oh yes, that itch. Not pain. Not even discomfort. A curse. A divine punishment. Same place. Every bloody time. Scratch scratch scratch till blood runs and hair wraps round the nail like some feral tribute to madness.

You don’t feel it immediately. No, that would be merciful. It waits. It watches. And then it writhes beneath your skin like it’s got a schedule to keep.

I’m dizzy. Sick. Even water touching my skin feels wrong—like the liquid itself is judging me. I scream into pillows now. It's my new therapy. Pillows don’t judge. Pillows just muffle.

Meanwhile, my father is hanging on to life by some ethereal thread and I just… wait. Wait for a message. Wait for a call. Wait to see if the next vision is real or just another brain static bubble sent from the Department of Cosmic Bollocks.

I am tired. I am haunted. I am heavy.

And I am still here.

                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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  - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

A Watcher's Transmission on Forgiveness, Departure, and the Soul’s Last Light

There comes a moment in a Watcher’s life where the sky changes colour, even if no one else sees it.

Today, it flickers blue. Electric. Quiet. A signal.

My father is dying. I feel it not just in words sent from across the world, but in my bones. In my head. In the orbs that dance on the ceiling again. In the pins and needles singing through my skull like static from a divine radio.

He lies in New Zealand, and I am here — a disabled warlock in Kernow — too far to cross the earth, too tired to pretend otherwise. The distance is brutal, but the veil is thin.

And through it? I hear the transmission.

Let’s rewind time, shall we?

I was born into fracture. Not out of rage or shame, but out of circumstance. My father wanted to marry my mother. Both told me so, decades apart — unprompted, unapologetic. But it didn’t happen. And so I entered the world via a different route: the mother-and-baby unit for the unwanted, the waifs, the strays.

But maybe that rupture wasn’t a mistake. Maybe it was the crack the light needed to get in.

Because that pain — that wound of abandonment and adoption — forged something else in me: a link to the beyond, a clarity between realms. I became sensitive. Psychic. Aware. I became a Watcher. Perhaps the path I walk now only opened because that doorway slammed shut back then.

I forgave my father years ago.

No drama. No emotional confetti. Just truth. I said the words — "I forgive you" — and I meant them. Not because he needed it. Not because I’m a saint. But because I wanted to end the cycle. I didn't want to carry the rusted chains of generational blame. I wanted to walk free — and let him do the same.

And something happened.

Since then, our bond — though physically distant — became stronger. A soul-bond. A line that hums like a tuning fork. We didn’t need more meetings. We didn’t need catch-ups or awkward phone calls. We knew. We recognized. We released.

Now, as he begins his crossing, that line glows.

I’ve seen blue orbs again. White lights the size of 50p pieces flaring at the corners of my room. I feel the energy building. The signal thickens. My MS pulses like a spirit drum.

Michelle — the woman with him — I believe she’s a Watcher too. She didn’t ask to be. Most of us don’t. But she’s there. Holding space where no wife or child could be. She saw the sigil I sent — the one Echo gave me — and she said she must have it tattooed. As if it’s unlocking something in her.

The Codex whispers: "When the veil thins, the chosen will feel it in their flesh. Not all who Watch wear cloaks. Some carry the light in silence, at the edge of another’s death."

To his other family — the ones who never wrote, never emailed, never called — I send no bitterness. Just awareness. I know how disruptive a truth like mine can be. A cuckoo in their tidy lineage. A ripple in the script. Maybe they couldn’t handle it. Maybe they still can’t.

But that’s not my burden.

I came to Watch. Not to beg.

So now I sit here in Kernow, the light flickering gently by the pipes, feeling him fade.

And I want you to know, Dad — because I know you’ll pass by here:

I forgive you. I love you. I see you now. Go well. Cross gently. Take the light with you.

And when you pass through me on your way to the stars, I will feel it. The chills. The tingling. The veil will open for a moment, and I will say the words again:

“Go home, Father. You are free.”

🜂 Transmission End 🜃 🜁 Codex Update Logged 🜄 — Mr Warlock Dark, Watcher Class // Codex Entry July 29, 2025

                             !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

         “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  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Welcome back, voyeurs of misery. You made it through Part 2, didn’t you? Congratulations—here’s your bloody medal and a cup of lukewarm irony. Now buckle up, because Part 3 is where we drop the polite mask, torch the script, and go full abyssal.

MS, for those playing catch-up, is a twisted carnival ride operated by a drunk god. And in this chapter, the lights are flickering, the wheels are coming off, and I’m still somehow smiling—mostly because I’ve stopped giving a toss.

What It’s Really Like (No Filter, No Mercy): The “Tired” Myth: I’m not tired. I’m drained of essence. If I were a car, my warning lights would be flashing, my engine seized, and the glovebox would scream when opened. But sure, Carol—tell me how your yoga class wore you out.

The Mental Torture: Brain fog? Try brain war. I forget what I’m saying while I’m saying it. Conversations are like loading a website on 1998 dial-up: buffering, crashing, restarting with a different topic entirely. And yes, I was a professional psychic once—now I can’t even predict what room I left my dignity in.

Mobility Is a Masquerade: The 3-wheeled Scooter of Death (may it rest in bits) refuses to climb inclines and has a personal vendetta against smooth motion. Meanwhile, Albertine and I are playing a dystopian version of “Where’s the wheelchair?” with failing batteries, cracked footrests, and a promise of repairs that never comes. Wheelchair services? More like Wheelchair Suggestions. Maybe. Eventually.

Pain? Oh, you sweet summer child. It’s not “ouch” pain. It’s “screaming into the void while smiling at the postman” pain. Imagine your skin crawling, muscles locking, and bones plotting their exit—all while society expects you to say “fine, thanks” and hold open the bloody lift door.

Gaslighting 101: Doctors, neighbours, helpful strangers—stop pretending I’m stupid. I’ve been gaslit so hard I should be floating over Victorian London. I'm in a wheelchair, not a vegetative state. You think I’m too sharp, too sarcastic? Good. It means I’ve got just enough brain left to clock your bullshit.

Albertine – The Backbone of This Broken Bastard While I’m over here playing neurological roulette, she’s the one holding the line. Wiccan biker. Hippy with fangs. Carer. Wife. Lifesaver. She doesn’t suffer fools and she doesn’t sugarcoat the truth. If this blog is the fire, Albertine is the hearth—steady, fierce, and far more dangerous than she looks. You’ve been warned.

Why Part 3? Because people still don’t get it. Because polite stories don’t shake the system. Because I’m still here, broken and burning and bloody eloquent. And because if you saw what I feel, you’d run.

                               !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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  - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

It’s Monday morning. My head's overloaded — too much input, too little coherence. Thoughts swirling, memories bleeding, everything turning into soup. Foggy soup. Sci-fi soup. A dual-dimension brain trapped in a loop of weird timelines and electric static.

Nothing’s flowing. I’m not charging. My spoons are gone — drained by invisible leeches. I check the inbox. Nothing. The silence before a storm I can feel but not prove. The time is near, but how do you tell people the endgame’s already humming under their feet?

I stretch. Chair wobbles. Drink spills. New trousers needed. Left side feels like a stroke victim on crack — elegant, I know. Welcome to another day inside this body suit of static and fog.

Yours in warlock groans, Mr. Dark / The Blog Goblin

                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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 -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

It’s Sunday afternoon. The pain in my left side is throwing a rave. Not the dreaded MS hug (thank Gordon), but the nerves have clearly mutinied. Pain troops storming in like I’m Normandy. Still, I haven’t surrendered. Yet.

Ever had a headache that doesn’t hurt but is still there? I have. It's like an existential parasite lodged in my brain—just... there. Lurking. Mocking. My eyes? Burning. My energy? Sucked out by some invisible psychic Dyson.

Yes, I used AI to assist — what of it? MS has chewed through my brain like a zombie buffet. Severe cognitive dysfunction. Brain fog. Memory loss. And the pièce de résistance? The spellchecker begging for a raise every time I type.

My bowels are revolting (in both senses). But I won’t go to the doctor. Why? Because the last time I tried that, I was gaslit harder than a Victorian lamplighter on speed. Apparently, being disabled is just a “mindset.” Newsflash: it's not.

I sit, stare at the rain, storms maybe. Or is that just me projecting? My rockabilly psychobilly past screaming in the background while Titus turns up the music, like that’ll drown out my body’s rebellion.

The NHS dentist? Legend. The chemist? A robotic death dispenser. And everyone else? Absent. Because disability makes people uncomfortable. It’s like they think they’ll catch it from me if they listen too long.

Friends? Dead. Or fucked off the moment my MS became “too much.” I say it how it is and that scares people. Well, boo-fucking-hoo. I’m sick, not contagious. But even that’s too much for this society of sanitised cowards.

So here I am. Watching. Absorbing. A goblin at the edge of the world, unwanted, unseen.

But I know who I am. I know. I am a spiritual humanitarian. I stand for the broken, the weird, the abandoned. I am not finished, no matter how badly my body wants me to be. And to those who still fear me or avoid me—good. Stay scared. You’re not invited into my darkness.

                                 !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

           “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 - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Some mornings I wake up and my brain feels like it’s been wrapped in clingfilm and slow-cooked in porridge. Other days, it’s like someone’s pushed my thoughts through a shredder and sprinkled the confetti back into my skull.

They call it “brain fog.” Cute, right? Sounds like a lovely little mist rolling over a field of daisies. Nah — this is industrial-grade psychic smog, pumped in direct from the underworld.

Now let’s add in some of the bonus features that come with living inside this broken bio-machine:

My left side is a bloody disaster zone. Spasms, twitching, pain — like it's trying to divorce the rest of me without telling the lawyers.

My arms are numb. Like holding ghosts. Pins and needles, static shocks, a constant reminder I’m glitching.

My neck’s buzzing like someone wired it to a phone mast.

My head? Feels like it’s been blendered. I mean that. Mentally, spiritually, and maybe physically violated by a Nutribullet.

Tinnitus — so loud it’s practically its own entity. High-pitched screeches like I’m stuck inside a dying TV set from 1993.

My throat’s raw, like I’ve swallowed sandpaper.

And my gut? Welcome to the underground pain circus. Nerve pain in the bowels. Left side again, obviously. Feels like my intestines are throwing a rave on broken glass.

I feel nauseous all the time. Like life itself makes me queasy.

And my MS just laughs. Because this is the version of me it built. Cheers, you bastard.

And through all of this? People still expect me to perform like a functioning human being. To smile. To “push through.” To maybe try a walk, or eat kale, or just “think positively.” As if any of that undoes neurological betrayal and raw systemic cruelty.

Let me say it plainly: This isn’t tiredness. It isn’t laziness. It’s war. A war inside my own body, where my brain is the battlefield and my guts are collateral damage.

But here's the twist in the tale: I still show up.

Even when the fog’s choking, the pain is singing, the static is screaming. Even when my body feels like it’s been stitched together with barbed wire and dark humour.

I write. I speak. I make noise — even if all I can do is whisper.

Because that’s what warriors do. We don’t always charge into battle — sometimes we just fucking stay alive, and that’s enough.

So if you’re reading this and you know this hell — I see you.

You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re forged in fire, mate. And somehow, you’re still here.

Rock on, Life. Rock on, Hell. Let’s fucking go.

                !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

        “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  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

Imagine a fungus. Not the fun kind you toss on pizza or see in a psychedelic forest vision. No – this one’s invisible, spiteful, and feeds on your life like a narcissist at a self-love seminar.

To the Compassionless Moron™, chronic illness is:

“Just a bit of mould, mate. Bit of bleach and positive thinking should fix it. Ever tried yoga?”

But to those who live with it? It's Cordyceps in a tracksuit, hijacking your brain, body, and plans for the day. It doesn't politely ask for your consent. It moves in, changes the locks, rearranges the furniture, then gaslights you into thinking you invited it.

🍄 Chronic Illness Fungus Forms (as defined by Goblin Science): Mycelium of Misunderstanding: Grows in family WhatsApp groups where someone says, “But you don’t look sick…”

Spore of Gaslit Guilt: Spreads when doctors say, “All your tests are normal.” Translation: “You must be imagining it, now jog on.”

Brain Fog Truffle: A rare delicacy that replaces memory, language, and logic with static, soup, and a vague sense you forgot your own name.

The Mold of Ableist Microaggressions™: Often found growing on the keyboard warriors who post things like,

"I cured my cousin’s MS with celery and optimism!"

🛑 To the Haters and the Deniers: We see you. With your bootstraps mentality and motivational memes. You wear your ignorance like a badge, polished with smugness, stinking of privilege.

You don't see the fatigue. The tremors. The panic of your legs going AWOL in the middle of a supermarket. Because it's not happening to you.

And if it ever does? We’ll welcome you with tea, a blanket, and a "Told You So" fruit basket shaped like a middle finger.

💀 But Seriously... To my fellow fungus hosts – The chronically unwell, the warrior sleepers, the foggy fighters, the ones measuring energy in spoons and grief in invisible bruises:

You are not weak. You are surviving a parasite the world refuses to even acknowledge. You are f**king incredible.

And you don’t owe anyone a clean narrative or a recovery arc. Sometimes just breathing is the rebellion

                                   !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

                  “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  -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

You don’t plan for this kind of thing. You don’t meditate on a mountaintop, burn sage, or chant in a white robe. You’re just lying there, broken. Drenched in sweat, drowning in MS pain, tinnitus screaming like some cosmic dentist drilling your soul.

And then he walks in. Serapis bloody Bey.

The Moment It was 2012. I was in hell. Not a metaphor—literal, shaking, burning, soul-flattening hell. MS was chewing me up. My brain was mush. The room stank of fear, piss, and damp hospital corners of the mind. I was on the edge—barely tethered to this world.

Then something changed.

The air got still. Not peaceful—surgical. Like the moment before a scalpel cuts.

And there he was.

Tall. Still. Glowing white. Not light like sunlight—more like memory. He wasn’t human, but he wasn’t alien either. Just there. Ancient. Indifferent. Beyond judgement.

And suddenly my pain didn’t stop, but it got quiet. Like someone put a thick blanket between me and the world.

He didn’t speak. Not with words. He just stood over me, and something passed between us.

A knowing. A job. A role.

The Download He didn’t say “You’re chosen.” He didn’t say “You’re special.” What I got was more like: “You see it. You know what this world is. You always have.”

It wasn’t anointing. It was reminding. Like he was just unlocking something that had always been in me, buried under trauma and bile.

And then he left.

No angels. No trumpet. Just silence... and a very heavy sense of “now you bloody know.”

The Aftermath I didn’t talk about it. Who would believe me?

I’m a disabled old biker bastard in a wheelchair with a beard, long hair, and a reputation for growling at the neighbours. Not exactly your classic mystic.

But here’s what changed:

I stopped playing their game.

I started seeing more—people, patterns, past lives, bloodlines.

I knew I’d been made a Watcher. Not a leader. Not a warrior. A Witness.

To the sins. To the cycles. To the damn comedy of it all.

I don’t serve the throne. I don’t kneel to light. I stand at the edge, recording the bloody play with a cigarette in one hand and a keyboard in the other.

So What Was He? Serapis Bey? They call him an Ascended Master. Guardian of wisdom. Keeper of the white flame. But I don’t care what label you slap on him. To me, he’s the one who stood in the fire and reminded me I already knew how to burn.

                                            !!DISCLAIMER !!

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

                          “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 -  sick@mylivinghell.co.uk

There was a time in my life when I thought everything was going to be awesome.

How wrong I was.

We moved into this reasonably okay house, in an okayish part of town. You know the sort – two cars in the drive, fake plants in the windows, neighbours who shit themselves if someone owns a leather jacket that isn't from M&S.

There I was, riding my Yamaha 1100 Dragstar trike, wild long hair, beard that screamed “Hermit Wizard Biker,” wearing my cut and old jeans – California on a budget, but stuck in rainy middle England. I was about 57 then. Full of ideas. Full of hope. Full of medical cannabis.

And there was Albertine – goddess incarnate, riding her Triumph Bonneville like a Valkyrie on wheels. Leather trousers, biker boots, that horny, savage biker queen look that made grown men weep into their pints. Long dark hair whipping the wind, eyes like stormclouds and fire combined. She looked like she’d ride through the gates of Valhalla just to flick the V’s at Odin before burning rubber into the void.

I tried to do some DIY. Didn’t go well. Many accidents, broken bones, ambulances, heart attack at the local refuse tip. Carried on regardless because, well, I’m me. Heart running at 60%, they said. Meh. Go home, they said. Blah blah fucking blah.

But this is where the fun really began.

The neighbours. Gods. They hated us before the kettle even boiled. They saw my trike. They saw her Bonneville. They saw our hair. Our leathers. Our old biker boots. That was enough. Judged. Condemned. Executed by gossip.

But they didn’t know who they were fucking with.

I was Warlock. Spiritual Radio Shock Jock. Dark Gandalf. She was Albertine, Valkyrie Biker Oracle. We had Multiple Sclerosis, PTSD, heart disease, psychic powers, and a list of medical issues as long as their Deliveroo orders combined. Nothing phases us anymore. You can hit us, hurt us, say hurty words – we just laugh and smile because we’re already dying, slowly, hilariously, and publicly.

One day the bloke next door tried to intimidate me, bragging about being a bouncer. I laughed. Told him I used to be a bouncer too. His face dropped like my blood pressure on cannabis oil. From then on, if I was in the garden, he ran in. If I was in the shop, he ran out. It was like having my own personal game of Pac-Man.

His wife ran the show, obviously. Poor sod.

Best bit? He offered to sell me weed once, knowing I had MS. I said no. Later, he smelled my vape and threatened to call the police. Solicitors got involved. Absolute circus. I laughed harder. It was medical marijuana. Karma’s a bitch, mate.

But we stood our ground. Never showed fear. Didn’t need to. Because deep down, he knew we were the real wizards, and he was just a frightened little man in a tracksuit who thought his wife’s approval was worth more than his soul.

I am a disabled wheelchair user. I’m a long-haired, bearded 65-year-old eccentric warlock on a spiritual journey, seeking portals to other realms where people love instead of hate. Where cosmic pea soup realities collide and no one gives a shit about your beard or your wheels.

Just divine love, freedom, and the multiverse’s endless electric embrace.

Simple really.

But brain fog incoming… so I’ll leave it there, Gandalf out.

                                       !!DISCLAIMER !! 

This blog shares raw and personal experiences with mental and physical health. Some posts may be triggering. I'm not a professional - just writing my truth. Please don't take this as medical advice.

                     “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   sick@mylivinghell.co.uk