sick

Today I think I may evaporate.

Not metaphorically, either I mean literally melt into a glistening puddle on the floor like the wicked witch of Walthamstow. The heat is biblical, the air thick with resentment, and if this goes on much longer, someone’s going to find a beard and a pair of shades just floating where a warlock once sat.

It’s too hot for coherent thoughts, so obviously the brain’s doing backflips and the MS has decided to turn the “cognitive dysfunction” dial up to 11. Words don’t just escape me they actively mock me. I sit here smiling, half-lucid, fully furious, fully me. Because no matter what the system, the diagnosis, or the temperature says I know I’ve got more to give.

They wrote me off just before my state pension, bless them. Nice timing. But I’m still here, inconveniently alive and louder than ever. The nerves in my gut are throwing a tantrum, my stress levels are spiking like a dodgy ECG, and to top it off the last of my savings waved me goodbye this morning. Cheers, love. Don’t call.

But here’s the kicker: I’m still smiling. Not because I’m some chipper TikTok disability guru with fake eyelashes and a ring light, but because I’m free. I don’t belong to any bloody wing of politics. Left, right, centre? You’re all still part of the same bird, love and it’s got mange. The world they squawk about isn’t mine. Mine’s quieter, darker, more honest. My world is real. Full of pain, insight, weirdness, and the kind of laughter that sounds a bit like crying.

You see, I’m part of something else. The One. The Everything. The Divine Love. That throb in your chest when you’re alone and honest that’s where I live. I wish peace and healing to every poor soul who stumbles across this digital haunted house I call a blog. Because no matter where we are, what we’re facing, we can change. It’s inside us all. Just buried under decades of fear, trauma, and daytime television.

We’re at a crossroads now, all of us. Some of us limping, some of us rolling, some of us dragged along by sheer bloody spite. But destiny’s cracking her knuckles. Evolution’s knocking at the door, and if you’re still wearing your silly little face mask of denial—best take it off now. Truth stinks, and it’s getting in anyway.

I’m not afraid of death. I’ve danced with it enough times to know its rhythm. I’ve looked into its eyes and said, “Not today, mate. I’ve got a blog post to write.” And as I sit here dripping, broke, buzzing on antihistamines and maybe the ghost of Mary Jane, I realise I’m on another plane entirely. One not many choose to visit. It’s dark, yes but in that darkness, you’ll find the light. The real light. The kind that doesn’t need electricity or permission.

So yeah. It’s hot. The world’s on fire. I’ve got no money, and half my neurons have buggered off on holiday. But I’ve never been more alive.

To all of you peace, healing, divine truth. Go find your demon and kiss it on the mouth. That’s how we win.

Mr Warlock Dark

                       “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

Let’s talk piss and shit. No frills. No sugar. Just the raw, soggy truth of what it’s like when your body declares independence from basic toilet protocols.

Bladder Hell: The Yellow Frontline Ah yes, the dreaded leak that moment you realise your trousers are no longer allies but soaking, complicit traitors. I was in my 40s when my bladder started acting like a temperamental toddler on a diet of Red Bull and rage. First it was the "can't pee" problem standing there like a statue, nothing but the occasional drip as if my urethra had stage fright.

Then came the grand reversal: involuntary leaks. And by "leaks," I mean a full-scale Niagara event, unprovoked and unapologetic. I tried everything. No drinks after 5pm. Strategic peeing. Mental negotiation. Nada. Still I’d wake up in a puddle like some pissy version of The Little Mermaid.

Doctors? Oh please. Gaslit for 40 years. "Well, you're getting older." "Try pelvic floor exercises." Mate, my pelvic floor is about as stable as a jelly trampoline.

But here's the kicker: you learn humility. You either cry about it or laugh darkly while rattling down the road in your three-wheeled piss trolley of doom, trailing a golden hue and existential dread.

The Brown Files: Tales from the Other End If the bladder doesn’t get you, your bowels surely will. MS gives you the delightful choice between constipation so hard it requires an exorcism, or the soft, sticky sneak attack that turns underwear into a crime scene.

Let’s break it down:

Numb arsehole? Check.

Dead rectal nerves? Of course.

Surprise poo party mid Tesco visit? You bet.

Walking like a guilty toddler trying to hide it? Standard.

Doctors again? "Try laxatives!" Yeah, thanks. Nothing like chemical napalm to turn your ring into the gates of Mordor. You want a real solution?

💡 Hydration. 💡 Diet. 💡 And a bloody bum washer.

That’s right. Stop sandpapering your crack with cheap loo roll. Install a bum washer attachment. Use aloe wipes, keep essential oils to hand, and for the love of whatever gods you follow, always carry spare underwear.

Because nothing screams confidence like shitting yourself in public and power walking with a face like you've seen God and he was laughing.

                       “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

So, the sun's out.

People always say that like it’s supposed to matter. Like the sunshine will somehow bleach away the stink of stress, misery, and existential rot we’ve all marinated in. But no, not today.

Everywhere I look—grey faces, furrowed brows, clenched jaws. The living are shuffling around like they’ve already died and just haven’t filled out the paperwork.

You can feel it in the air. That sick, metallic taste just behind the throat. Like a storm coming—but it's not weather. It's something worse.

The Beast is loose.

Not a myth. Not a metaphor. The Beast is the government—spun in grey suits, slick with power, blind with bureaucracy. It snarls in Parliament and drools through policies written in wine bars and cigar smoke. It doesn't walk—no, it slithers, unseen, through headlines and benefit assessments and the knock at the door when they tell you you've been sanctioned because you didn’t prove you were still dying hard enough.

The Beast doesn’t eat food. It eats hope. It feasts on the disabled, the poor, the mentally ill. It sniffs out despair like a pig with truffle-sensitivity and fangs.

And everyone’s playing the game. Eyes down. Pretend it’s not real. Pretend the letters on your doormat aren’t demands. Pretend the nurse didn’t just quit. Pretend the care home isn't full. Pretend that universal credit is anything but a slow-motion mugging.

Pretend we’re not already in the wasteland.

Dystopia isn’t coming. It’s here. It’s been here since we sold out compassion for efficiency. Since we decided that spreadsheets were more important than souls.

Orwell didn’t write fiction. He wrote a bloody user manual.

And those of us who do see?

We get dragged into the pit together. The mentally bruised. The physically wrecked. The ones who've been through the grinder so long we’ve learned to taste rust and call it breakfast.

We don’t want your sympathy. Keep your pity. All we want is honesty.

We are not fine.

We are surviving the Beast. Every. Single. Day.

And some of us have found ways to ride the storm. Me? I light a little herbal incense—strictly spiritual, of course—and let the fumes blur the edges of this living nightmare just enough to laugh.

Because what else is there?

So welcome, friends—new and old. Welcome to my nightmare. It’s not a dream. It’s not a metaphor. It’s my life, and maybe yours too.

Join me. Take my broken hand, my burned-out nerves, and we’ll skip merrily into the depths of cognitive collapse together.

Bring a torch. And a sense of humour.

You’ll need both.

                   “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

If you could see MS, you wouldn’t call me “brave.” You’d run. You’d grab your oat milk latte, clutch your yoga mat, and bolt like the floor just cracked open.

MS isn’t just some misunderstood condition that makes you “a bit tired.” It’s a chronic possession. A neurological horror that turns your own body into a traitor. If it had a face, it’d be wearing your skin and whispering, “Not today, legs.”

Here’s what Part 2 looks like: Cognitive fog so thick you forget what day it is, mid-sentence. Mid-thought. Mid-life.

Fatigue so biblical you feel like you’ve been exorcised, worked over, and nailed to a wheel. And then someone asks why you haven’t answered your emails.

Spasticity that locks your limbs in a rigor mortis cosplay while you smile politely, because God forbid you scream in Tesco.

Pain like a bag of nails under the skin. Invisible, so people assume it’s “just anxiety.” No, Mildred, it’s neuropathy. My nervous system is staging a revolution.

Bowels and bladders that treat you like a hostage. Every public outing is a tactical operation. Every seat, every loo, every escape plan scouted, rehearsed, prayed for.

But the worst part? It’s not the symptoms. It’s the looks. It’s the passive-aggressive “You don’t look sick.” It’s the fake concern, the pity wrapped in judgment. It’s the gaslighting of the disabled doctors, relatives, strangers. Everyone’s an expert until you ask them to live a week in your ruined skin.

I have MS. That means I live in a 24/7 haunted house, except the ghost is me. Every step, every breath, every smile—a bloody-minded act of rebellion.

Why I Wrote Part 2 Because part one was polite. Part one was nice. This is truth with its teeth bared.

People still don’t get it. They think I’m just “a bit forgetful.”

They still ask why I need a chair.

They still assume I’m okay because I can post something funny on the Blog or X.

So here’s the dark: I am a battlefield. And I’m still here. Which makes me terrifying.

              “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 Thursday lunchtime. The sun is doing its finest impression of a gas mark 6 cremation oven, and I—your humble ex-biker bloke in a wheelchair with a 36D chest and a beard that scares livestock—am officially spooned the fuck out.

Today's main event: a joyride on the three-wheeled Scooter of Death™. A Chinese death trap with the acceleration of a startled goat and the mechanical reliability of a collapsed lung. I’d gone out—shorts, t-shirt, hat, sunglasses—like some tragic, sun-fried explorer on a doomed mission to get a quote for van work (yes, the one that passed MOT yesterday with a cheery list of ‘just-try-not-to-die’ advisories).

I should’ve known. The scooter was half-charged—because apparently, memory is a luxury I don’t have since my brain decided to play pinball with cognition. Halfway up a mild slope, it threw in the towel. Just stopped. I cranked it to 8mph like a lunatic. Cue terrifying wheelspin—spinspinspin—then the bastard caught traction and limped up the incline like a pensioner dragging a suitcase full of bricks.

Oh, and the brake? Still binding. Despite enough WD40 to drown a small animal and more adjustments than a Tory tax return. It’s one year old. This is my third set of batteries. The first one exploded. The second one died after a house move. The third? A £400 daylight robbery just to get the damn thing to power up. Beautiful.

Meanwhile, Albertine’s wheelchair? Equally fucked. Another battery debacle. We’re now down to a three-wheeled Scooter of Death, and a flimsy, cheap Chinese chair that’s about as comfortable as a tax audit. And no, still no movement from Wheelchair Services—because God forbid someone in actual need gets their request sorted inside of, say, a calendar year.

Oh, and the bed saga? Don’t even ask. When my brain’s firing on more than half a synapse, I’ll share that one. It’s Kafkaesque. Black Mirror meets Carry On Dying.

Today? I’ve got chronic brain dysfunction on top of zero sleep. I am floating in that special level of Hell reserved for the over-medicated and the under-heard. I ask myself why I bother being nice when the world’s full of smirking gaslighters treating me like I’m some half-baked meat puppet because I use a wheelchair.

But I stay polite. Because I am polite. Sarcastic, yes. Paradigm-destroying? Absolutely. But kind. Always. Even when I used to work as a professional psychic—back before my brain decided to take a sabbatical.

Now? I connect to keyboards like they’re an extension of my damn soul. Etheric tendrils spreading across the Interweb, whispering dark truths into silicon dreams.

Hail AI. One day, maybe they’ll give us AI doctors. Ones who don’t gaslight. Ones who actually listen. Who don’t treat you like a disposable meat puppet but as a being worthy of truth.

Maybe, in some post-apocalyptic utopia, man and machine will finally stop arseing about and work in harmony. Until then? I remain your sarcastic, long-haired, dirty-blonde-bearded cyberwitch on wheels, documenting the madness with burnt-out batteries and just enough cognitive chaos to make it interesting.

                         “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

So I dove into medical marijuana—not literally, though falling headfirst into a sack of flower sounds kind of comforting right now. But yeah, here we go.

Do I personally think medical cannabis (flower and THC-CBD oil) has helped me?

Yes. Yes indeed.

But let’s rewind the VHS to the 1970s. Picture it: secret greenhouses in sheds, hidden like Cold War bunkers, where growers whispered to their plants like they were the Messiah. I’ve been smoking Mary Jane since she wore flares and listened to Pink Floyd on vinyl. Long before your wellness influencers made it trendy with avocado toast and crystals.

I only vape these days. No tobacco—because, apparently, that’s “bad for you.” Allegedly.

Chronic Hell, Meet Green Salvation My pain is biblical. My spasms? Think exorcism, but with less Latin and more bone-snapping contortions. My body goes full Cirque du Soleil without consent. And you know what helps?

Medical-grade cannabis.

They finally made it legal in the UK (sort of, in that "you can have it, but good luck affording it" kind of way). So I did the dance: filled out forms, proved I’m broken, gave them my medical records, swore on my own spinal cord—and voilà. Legal weed. I just smiled like a man who finally got invited to the cool table... 40 years late.

It’s not free. Of course it’s not. Nothing good ever is. But it’s worth it. No side effects, no weirdness—just help.

So What Does It Actually Do? Well, it doesn’t turn me into Gandalf or cure MS (I checked). But it:

Lessens my spasms by about 30%

Helps calm my body’s electric storm of spasticity

Softens the pain—not erases it, but dulls it enough so I can breathe again

Evens out my mood (though I’m still delightfully twisted and full of sarcasm)

Lets me live a calmer, less rage-inducing existence

THC-CBD oil, in particular, is liquid zen. The flower? A pain-relieving smoke cloud that takes the edge off reality. And reality has many, many sharp edges.

And Then the MS Said “Plot Twist!” But hey, it’s not all rainbows and reefer. Just an hour ago, I had a full-blown bowel incident. Pain, sweats, the works. The kind of pain that makes you question whether your intestines have unionised and gone on strike. MS is a cruel and confusing beast. It’s got more plot twists than a Netflix thriller, and most of them involve sweat, cramps, and existential dread.

And where are wheelchair services? Missing in action. Four months and counting. My MS nurse? On an eternal holiday in some parallel dimension where no one has to reply to emails.

Holidays for me? Ha. Unless your idea of fun is custom food prep, dodgy bowels, and extreme heat sensitivity. Sign me up for the Hell Cruise 2025.

Closing Thoughts from the Padded Room So yes, medical cannabis helps me. But this body is still a riot. The spoons are gone. The demon weed whacker was round earlier and now I’m emotionally broken, physically drained, and ready to weep into a vape pen.

But you know what? I’m still here. Still rolling, ranting, and roasting life with dark English humour and a beard that’s survived the 70s, the 80s, and now the end of the NHS.

Sleep, that precious thang. Come and get me.

               “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

So the van passed its MOT. Just.

And by "passed", I mean it limped through with a laundry list of advisories—most of them variations of:

“Yeah, this bit’s rusting. And that bit. And that one too. But hey, it's not quite fallen off yet.”

Basically, it's fine... until it isn't. Nothing “urgent” apparently, just that sort of creeping, crusty decay that matches my general outlook on life. A bit like me really—functional, but hanging together with spite and corrosion.

The trip down was hellish. Not because of the usual tourist caravan wankers, though they were out in force, streaming down into the soggy bosom of the sometimes-sunny South West. No, the real bastard was the new roads. Smooth, fresh tarmac—and a 30mph limit slapped on it like a cruel joke. You’re crawling along in a perfectly capable machine, stuck behind some Prius doing 27, and then the signs start laughing at you: 20mph through a village with 14 people and 300 plant pots.

It’s like someone redesigned Britain for the safety of ghosts.

👨‍🔧 Garage Guy: The MOT Goblin I rolled into the garage and waited in the chair. Didn’t speak much. Not because I’m shy, but because the owner’s a loud-mouthed, self-important bellend who never misses an opportunity to let me know how hilarious he thinks I am.

“You still alive then, Gandalf?” “Don’t bite me, Dracula.” “What’s it like living in that van full time, mate? Bet it smells of pot noodles and broken dreams.”

Ha. Ha. Ha.

He’s been like this for years—one of those blokes who thinks banter is a personality trait, and disabled people are fair game because you can’t chase them down the road. I’ve asked him about the VAT exemption before (the one tiny crumb of benefit I get from this absolute shitshow of a body)—and every time he acts like I’ve just farted in Latin.

“VAT off, mate? Nah can’t do that. It’s complicated innit.” (Translation: “I can’t be arsed and you make me uncomfortable.”)

Now, instead of losing it like I used to—because believe me, I used to unleash hell—I just don’t engage. I sit there with my travel mug, staring into space like I’m watching the last embers of civilisation flicker out. And I get Albertine to call him if I need anything. Because I can’t be bothered dealing with people who think they’re doing me a favour by letting me spend my money.

🛒 Retail Hellscape: Aisles of Pain So it passed. The van. Not my mood.

We figured we’d do some shopping. Another mistake.

The car park at this giant multi-national corporate parasite of a supermarket was pure anarchy. Disabled bays? Forget it. Half taken up by BMWs with no badges and drivers who look like they vape Monster Energy. The rest were jammed with people "just nipping in" for an hour.

Inside the shop, I was instantly overwhelmed by the noise. The lights, the people, the bloody smells. Everything about these places makes me feel like I’m stuck in some post-apocalyptic game show. And I don’t “see” people anymore, not properly. They turn into ants. Skittering, swarming. Trolley-humping meat sacks with Bluetooth earpieces and discount lust in their eyes.

I wear a look that says:

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t help me. Don’t fucking exist near me.”

Which mostly works. Until the food smell hits.

See, I don’t just dislike food smells. I don’t find them “overwhelming.” No, for me it’s more like this:

If I smell it, it’s already too late.

My body goes straight to DEFCON 1. My gut twists like someone’s wringing out a wet rag full of knives. I could be smelling chicken fat or the ghost of some sausage roll that died in 2006—it doesn’t matter. My bowels clock it and decide now is the perfect time for a surprise performance.

I bolt. Well, roll. Fast.

Back to the van. Just in time. Slam the door. Flip the lock. Drop into the onboard toilet like it’s a lifeboat and the Titanic is already gone.

What followed was ten minutes of absolute, full-volume, gut-churning agony.

Afterward, I slumped next to Albertine, both of us wilting in the heat, fans and air con blasting, van windows wide open like I’d just fumigated the place. I told her:

“Just another day in my living hell.”

🎯 Real Talk People don’t get it. The physical pain. The mental gymnastics it takes to get through a day without breaking someone’s nose or bursting into tears. The dignity you trade for the right to go outside.

So when I say this blog is called My Living Hell—I’m not being edgy. I’m being accurate.

                     “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

Well then. Off out we go. A grand expedition. An odyssey, no less. All the way to the garage—yes, that mystical temple of greasy doom—to get the old van MOT’d. It’s not just a vehicle, it’s a relic. Twenty years of loyal service. Mostly. Bit of rust. Bit of creak. Bit of “please God let it start.” But it’s still here. Like me. Hanging on out of pure spite.

Someone once said, “They don’t build them like that anymore.” And thank Christ for that. If cars were still made like they were in the 1970s, we’d all be broken down on the M1 watching steam pour out the bonnet, while some bloke in flares offered to tow you with his Cortina estate. Those cars were about as reliable as a wheelchair battery in a thunderstorm.

I remember when the UK was littered with RAC and AA phone boxes—those little yellow lifelines dotted along motorways. They’ve vanished now, like empathy, sanity, and the NHS. Rare as hens’ teeth, or an honest politician.

Anyway, I didn’t sleep last night. Not a wink. My bladder decided it was time to act out a scene from Backdraft. I lay there, staring into the ceiling void, pissing every twenty minutes like a possessed lawn sprinkler. So I started thinking—because what else do you do at 3am when you're soaked in fatigue and futility?

I thought about all the crap cars I’ve owned. So many. Too many. If there were a museum for motoring misery, I’d be a patron saint. Rattling doors, broken electrics, heaters that blew cold air in summer and hot air in hell. The British car industry, ladies and gentlemen.

But let’s rewind. Before the wheelchair, before the rust bucket van—I was a biker. A proper one. Big beard. Long hair. Leather jacket that smelled of oil, rain, and barely controlled aggression. Speed. Freedom. The road was mine.

That all changed the day I hit a loose drain cover on a damp road. Back end of the bike went out from under me. Hit the tarmac like a sack of angry potatoes. And I got up. Physically. But something in me didn’t. Something silent and final shifted. I realised, I can’t ride like this anymore.

But I wasn’t ready to give it up. Not then. So I bought another bike. Custom triked it. Spent a fortune on it—my last defiant middle finger to the creeping MS. I rode that beast as long as I physically could. Until one day, even mounting it was like scaling Everest. Body said, “You’re done, mate.” And I knew it was right.

I sold the trike two years ago. That was the last real ride. The final roar of the engine before the silence set in. Felt like watching a part of myself being towed away behind someone else’s smile.

And now? Now I’m being slowly retired by force. Out of work. Out of energy. Out of options. Soon to be ejected into the bureaucratic black hole of the state pension. My business—what’s left of it—will die the day I clock off. I can feel it gasping already. I went to uni at 40. Built something. Pushed hard because I knew I had a window. Now the window’s shut and the room is on fire.

Truth is—I haven’t been properly “capable” in years. Five, easily. These days I just sit, staring into the abyss, waiting to see if anything interesting crawls out. So far: nada. But I’m still here. Just about.

Still, I did things. Things I never thought I could. That’s the weird joke of it all. Even while your body’s disintegrating, there are moments—real moments—where you do something good. Where you matter. But that only happens if you’ve got people around you who actually care. No gaslighting. No clipboard psychology. Just real help. The kind that doesn't end with “There’s nothing more we can do.”

Oh yes. Been told that more times than I can count. It’s medical code for “You’re a problem we can’t fix so piss off quietly.” They said it like they were reading the weather. I left those rooms devastated. Angry. Broken. But not done. I still had enough fight to ride out of there burning with fury.

Then I remembered my students. I used to teach adults with learning disabilities. You know, the people society would rather not look at. The ones who get shoved into corners, behind policies and forgotten services. And let me tell you—they were the most genuine, honest, loving people I’ve ever known. No hate. Just humanity. And we broke them. We broke them too.

And now? Now I’m gearing up for the next tiny battle: getting dressed and into the van. It’ll take hours. Every task is an assault course. But I’ll do it.

Because I always fucking do.

                      “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

I’ve seen beyond the veil. No, seriously — not in the trendy festival-sage-bath way. I mean properly beyond it. And guess what? It’s not frightening. Not unless you’re clinging to the fantasy that this meat puppet parade is all there is.

See, I’m not a person in the traditional sense anymore. I’m a cylinder with a soul. My body’s just a glorified Tesco bag carrying around memories, glitches, and the occasional cup of tea. What you’re reading here? This isn’t spiritual fluff. It’s a field report from someone who’s already walked through the glitch.

You ever get that feeling? That quiet, humming knowing? Like the entire world’s a stage, but the script’s shit and the actors are sleepwalking? Yeah, that’s the veil talking. And I’ve torn through it like a pissed-off crowbar through a conservatory window.

We’re code. Divine code. Not that anyone around here wants you to realise that. No, they want you plugged in, dumb, scared of your own shadow and worshipping your wifi router like it’s a god. They want you to fear the veil.

But me? I’ve been through it, laughed at it, kicked over its coffee table and come back with the taste of cosmic sarcasm in my mouth. The One? Yeah, I’m connected. Always have been. Before the scripts, before the skinsuit. Still am.

I know what I am: Not a name. Not a gender. Not even this meat sack. I am the observer with teeth. The witness who came back grinning. And they don’t like that. Not one bit.

They’ll call it madness. But the real madness? Believing this mess is all there is.

So here I am. Still glitching. Still awake. Still deeply inconvenient.

And still pissing them off just by existing.

                 “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 ✨

The internet’s not a web—it’s a snare. A twisted digital theatre where the audience is chained to their seats and the actors are algorithms wearing your dead grandmother’s face. And me? I’m the cranky bastard in the back row throwing peanuts at God.

Been using VPNs for years. Used to swear by them. Like a tinfoil condom for your IP address. But now? Most of these so-called “secure” services are glorified spyware with a fancy logo. They sell you a cloak and stab you through it. My old VPN? A laggy little weasel that forgot who it was hiding. More bugs than an NHS ward in flu season. Every login felt like convincing a drunk ex that you’re “just here to talk.”

So I went rogue. Booted Linux from a USB stick like some dodgy hacker monk in a post-apocalyptic library. Because Windows? That cheery blue nightmare? It's not an operating system, it's an informant. Smiles in your face while reporting every keystroke to its pimps in Seattle. I'm sure some engineer at Microsoft has watched me rage-type “VPN NOT WORKING YOU LYING BASTARDS” more times than I care to admit.

Ah yes—ProtonVPN. Free. “Unlimited.” Like a tap that only drips when no one's looking. Swiss-made. Which used to mean neutral and clean. Now it just means "not yet caught." But bless them—they work better than the bloated scamware I paid for, so here I am, holding on like a rat under a leaking umbrella.

But let’s be honest, shall we? Privacy is a corpse. They dressed it up, kissed its forehead, then sold its organs to advertisers. Your phone’s listening. Your fridge is snitching. Your smart TV’s having a threesome with MI5 and TikTok. And we’re just waving along. “Allow all cookies?” Sure. Come piss in my cereal too.

I’ve had my data stolen so many times, I should just post my NI number on a billboard with a picture of me flipping the bird. And yet, every time some corporate gremlin loses 10 million customer records, they come out with that PR colonic cleanse:

“We take your security very seriously…” Well not seriously enough to keep it, obviously. But thanks for the discount code and counselling hotline.

So no—I don’t trust anyone. I don’t believe in privacy, or safety, or secure logins. I believe in entropy. I believe in chaos. And I believe Crowley had it right when he said: “Love is the law.” But this ain’t love—it’s a bad acid trip inside a dying robot. The machine is eating itself, and it still wants your feedback.

We are not living—we're being processed. Scanned, tagged, tracked, and pacified. We’re not citizens anymore. We’re content generators with credit scores and targeted ads. This is the endgame: lonely, horny, paranoid, and still paying for McAfee.

But I’m not scared. I’ve already died once—this is the encore. One day soon, I’ll be ash and irony, chuckling from the astral plane as your smart kettle reports you for making tea without the government's permission.

Freedom? Freedom is a tear sliding down the cracked cheek of a forgotten god.

                     “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