Multiple sclerosis is My Living Hell

sick

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🕯️ About Me Old soul. Frayed nerves. Unapologetically alive.

I am not here to soothe you.

I write from the edge of something — something most people spend their lives running from. Illness. Silence. Being forgotten. The parts of life that don’t make polite conversation.

I live with Multiple Sclerosis, but MS is just the symptom. The real story is what it strips away — comfort, time, patience, pretence — until all that’s left is you. And then what do you do with that raw truth?

You write. You cast. You curse a little, love a little, and sit with things others fear. You feel people’s hearts before they speak. You laugh darkly at the ones who don't believe you’re really ill, and bless the ones who show up anyway.

I’ve got one foot in the mundane world and one in something stranger — older. I read people. I hear what they don’t say. I know when a storm is coming before the clouds break. And I’ve learned that the truth — however cracked, however strange — is worth writing down.

🌑 Welcome to My Living Hell Where the lights flicker, the truth slips out, and the fridge is always humming.

This blog is part journal, part ritual, part middle finger to a world that tries to polish pain into something palatable.

I don’t do toxic positivity. I do real. I do heatstroke visions in the conservatory. Conversations with the fridge. Ghosts of family past. Wheelchairs with homicidal tendencies. And moments of stillness so sharp they cut through the noise.

There’s love in here — somewhere beneath the salt and ash. But you’ll have to sit with the dark to find it. That’s the deal.

So if you’ve ever been made to feel like you were “too much,” “too complicated,” or “not enough” — come closer. But gently. The veil’s thin here. And I see straight through.

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

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

    In the season they call SAD, when the clouds refuse to blink, And rain is just sky sweat with delusions of grandeur, She came like a banshee on a Bonneville, Tyres hissing spells in the petrol dusk— A woman? No. A prophecy in leather and eyeliner, Named Albertine, Long-suffering wife of Death himself, Who sulks in a wheelchair and smokes cloves ironically.

    Her hair: a demi-wave abyss. Her smile: pure tarot seduction, One glance and even the moon blushed, Then wept behind cirrostratus shame.

    Oh, Albertine! You ride like prophecy, Read palms with a sneer, And throw cards with such venom They hit truths no therapy ever could.

    She is palmist, astrologer, Tarot priestess of all things doomed, With a Motorhead patch sewn onto her soul And eyeliner sharp enough to open portals.

    By her side, in his wheeled throne of bone, Death groans through another solstice, Wearing a “Don’t Talk To Me I’m Mourning” T-shirt. She calls him Mad Moon Ms. in public. He hates it. We love her more.

    They arrive at Ritual Panic, That sacred sabbat of forgetting where you put the damn wand. She lights incense that smells like resentment and rosemary. He levitates just to show off. She tells your future with a flick of the wrist And a voice that sounds like bourbon-soaked prophecy:

    “You’ll fall in love with a ghost and regret everything but the kissing.”

    Full Moon Tantrum follows, When the skies go hormonal And witches cry glitter. She dances. Oh gods, she dances. The kind of dance that ends marriages and starts cults.

    You ask,

    “Albertine, are you a goddess?” And she just laughs, Blows smoke in your face, And says, “No love. I’m worse. I’m aware.”

    Post-Script from Death (dictated, not written): “If you see her again, run. She’ll read your birth chart, your palm, your doom, and your libido. She’ll burn through your soul like it’s a sage bundle on discount. But gods... what a sexy ass.”

    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.”

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  • Posted on

    Let’s face it: the original Wheel of the Year is lovely and all, but it never quite captured the true essence of seasonal British existence—grey skies, passive-aggressive weather, and the looming existential dread of another trip around the sun.

    So I’ve created My Wheel of the Year, reimagined with all the grim hilarity and dark sarcasm you’ve come to expect. No fluffy bunnies or overenthusiastic flower crowns here. Just raw, seasonal truths filtered through a bottle of gin and a Spotify playlist called “Witchy Vibes & Regret.”

    The Sabbaths (or, “How I Learned to Hate the Sun”) January – “The Month of Lies” New Year, New You? Please. You’re still eating Christmas chocolates in your dressing gown and pretending it’s meal prep. This is not a fresh start—it’s an overhyped Monday with fireworks.

    February – “Cupid’s Fever Dream” Valentine’s? More like Singles Awareness Month. Light a red candle, write your ex’s name backwards, and curse the Hallmark industry. Repeat while crying into heart-shaped pizza.

    March – “Spring Tease” The equinox allegedly brings balance. Lies. It’s still raining sideways, your SAD lamp’s judging you, and you’re debating hexing the weather gods.

    April – “The Festival of Allergy” You awaken the land, and in return, it fills your sinuses with tree sperm. Bless the earth with antihistamines and sarcasm.

    May – “Beltane Burnout” Fire festivals? Yes. Bonfires of all your ambitions, mostly. Frolic responsibly, with one eye on the bail money.

    June – “Solstice of Delusion” The longest day of the year—and somehow, it’s still overcast. Celebrate the triumph of light with SPF 50, rain boots, and an existential scream into the hedge.

    August – “Lammas of Regret” The harvest begins. You reap what you sow. Which, let’s be honest, was mostly anxiety, bad decisions, and a dying houseplant.

    October – “Samhain or Bust” Ah, spooky season. Finally, an aesthetic you relate to. Dead leaves, dead people, dead hopes. Light your candles, talk to ghosts, avoid your family.

    December – “Yule Fuel” Pagan Christmas before it was cool. Stockpile mead, fake joy, and ritual candles like it’s the apocalypse. Because, let’s face it, it probably is.

    In Conclusion: Spiritual? Yes. Cynical? Absolutely. This is a wheel that turns not with divine grace but with the sarcastic grinding of a society clinging to ritual and wine in equal measure. Join me. Or don’t. Time is a flat circle and I’m late anyway.

            "SAD Season," "Ritual Panic," "Full Moon Tantrum"

    🧌 @goblinbloggeruk — Witchy, Weird, and Just a Bit Unstable 🔮 Read the blog, question your life.

    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.”

    enter image description here

  • Posted on

    It’s funny, isn’t it? You’re in a room with one other person. Just the two of you. You speak. Your mouth moves. Actual words come out. But somehow… nothing lands. It's like you're a ghost, a passing breeze, or worse — background noise to someone else's ego monologue.

    Welcome to my reality: Selective bloody hearing.

    Let me paint the scene. You're fighting off a brutal illness, spasms hit like a freight train, your brain fogs up like a broken kettle left out in the English drizzle, and then comes the cherry on top — people don’t listen. Not can’t. Won’t. They avert their eyes, mumble condescending clichés, or — the fan favourite — promise they’ll “call you soon.” (Spoiler: they won’t.)

    Is it the wheelchair? The drooping face? The occasional dribble? Or do they just prefer their disabled friends silent, motionless, and conveniently non-existent?

    Maybe They’re Just Uncomfortable? Oh yes. Heaven forbid they feel awkward while you’re being eaten alive by something terminal and nightmarish.

    I started calling them out. Can you imagine the chaos? Apparently, honesty from the terminally ill is too real. It makes dinner parties awkward. And honestly, I’m well past the point of caring. If I’m going to be ignored, I might as well scream in Black Sabbath and let Ozzy do the talking.

    Paranoid? Nah. At first, I thought maybe it was just me. A bad day. A misread signal. But no. There’s a pattern. The looks. The empty promises. The slow fade-outs. The way friends evaporate like cheap aftershave. You become a "thing," a problem they can't fix and don't want to look at. I didn’t ask to be a medical freakshow — but here I am, feeling like the last carnie in a ghost-town circus.

    It's Raining, I'm Buzzing Brain fog is a beast. Been digging into DNA research (who was I before this monster arrived?), but my head’s a bag of wet socks lately. Tingling lips. Numb tongue. Probably allergic to the air again. And that damn straw — it always goes missing, like some household Bermuda Triangle.

    Wrestling Is My Religion Say what you want — yes, it’s “fake” — but pro wrestling is realer than most people I know. There’s truth in the ring. Pain. Theatre. Keyfabe. Art. The ghosts of the squared circle still dance under the spotlights in my head. And let’s be honest, “Real life is fake. Wrestling is real.” That’s my gospel. That’s truth.

    📢 Follow me on X/Twitter: 💀 “If you like your humour dark and your truth darker, come hang out with a chronically ill goblin on a ranting mission of mayhem. Pro wrestling, spirituality, weirdness,disability, sarcasm, and survival served raw.”

    🧠 @GoblinBloggerUK 📍 Because somebody's got to say it...

                  “REALITY IS FAKE. WRESTLING IS REAL.”
                            — @GoblinBloggerUK

    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.”

    enter image description here

  • Posted on

    So I’ve been digging through the digital attic of my mind—aka my ancient text files—and it turns out I’ve been documenting my strange little existence for quite some time. Lucky you.

    Expect a handful of funny, weird, and possibly unhinged blog posts coming soon. There's going to be everything: chronic illness, unbearable despair, overcoming adversity, and that one time I almost became just another gravestone in the plague pit thanks to a brush with COVID.

    Spoiler: I survived. Obviously.

    Now, I don’t like to brag (I love to brag), but MS has never managed to take me down. I’ve clawed, dragged, and side-eyed my way through everything life has lobbed at me. From the murky dungeons of fatigue to the unholy bureaucracy of the NHS, I’ve stood tall (ish) and refused to go quietly.

    Then COVID showed up. It was hell. And not the “bad curry” kind. The “gasping for air, praying to every god you don’t believe in” kind. I was this close to joining the worm buffet.

    But I fought back with what I like to call Kitchen Alchemy and Sheer Bloody-Mindedness.

    Trusty onion – peeled like a warrior's weapon. Ever smelled like a casserole while crying? That's strength.

    Colloidal silver – controversial, yes, but so am I.

    Vitamin C and D – so much C I nearly pooed myself into another dimension. Worth it.

    Ginger shots – made me feel alive and like I was being punched in the throat.

    Turmeric, black pepper, and coconut oil – aka The Golden Bullet. Sounds like a mystical remedy, tastes like regret.

    But I made it. Again. Because the moral of my life is simple: never underestimate someone who’s already been to hell and keeps receipts.

    More soon. Possibly with more onions. And fewer near-death experiences.

    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.”

    enter image description here

  • Posted on

    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.”

    enter image description here

  • Posted on

    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.”

    enter image description here

  • Posted on

    @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.”

    enter image description here

  • Posted on

    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.”
  • Posted on

    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.”
  • Posted on

    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.

    enter image description here

    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.”