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⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

A Rough Week, A Raw Reflection

It’s only Tuesday and the week already turned up in a balaclava with a crowbar.

The weekend was a car crash in slow motion. My MS decided to go feral full body freeze, nervous system acting like dodgy electrics in a haunted house, every muscle throwing a rave I didn’t approve. I felt like a banshee with haemorrhoids sat on a block of ice: shrieking, frozen, and deeply unimpressed with existence.

This wasn’t the usual “bit tired, bit wobbly.” This was the whole system blowing fuses. Tongue, throat, sciatic nerve, bladder everyone turned up to the party. Pain ramped up to the kind where you start thinking in short sentences: make it stop / I can’t breathe / what if this stays?

Looking back, I can see it now: I was a human wrecking ball. Not nasty on purpose, just… possessed. That version of me that lives in the cognitive fog—the Hyde in the basement he came up for air. When the brain fog gets thick, I go sub-basement. Yesterday I finally crawled back up to “sub-normal,” which for me is almost celebration level.

a Hyde is the darker alter ego that surfaces when control slips the side of a person driven by pain, fury, or raw instinct. It’s the shadow born from suffering, the part of the self that acts out what the calm, rational mind would never allow.

MS people don’t talk about this bit enough: the version of you that comes out when your nervous system is misfiring isn’t your “true self,” it’s your brain running on emergency generator. You can say things, snap, go dark, get scared, get angry. That’s not weakness. That’s neurology being a dick.

Why That Matters

Because help matters.

I got help. It cost me emotionally, physically, mentally. I wasn’t easy to be around. I wasn’t the mystic cosmic Warlock Dark seer of Avalon. I was a melted goblin with severe MS issues.

People need to hear this: when it goes that bad, you get help anyway. Pride doesn’t empty the bladder or stop the spasms.

My sciatic nerve was having a tantrum, my bladder was in “surprise mode,” my allergies were off the chart, and my eyesight started doing weird little glitches. That’s a lot of systems shouting at once. That’s when people spiral. That’s when the dark thoughts creep in.

So: if you’re reading this and you get episodes like this don’t stay silent. Don’t “wait it out” to be polite. You can apologise later. You don’t apologise from a morgue.

The Weird Bits

Because MS is a clown show, I also found myself craving prunes with rice and allspice.

I don’t know what kind of medieval monastery spirit took over my body, but apparently we’re doing Tudor desserts now. MS: where your nerves burn, your bladder rebels, and your dinner is suddenly Victorian.

Conversations with the Machine (Afternoon AI)

Here’s the part that was actually interesting.

In the middle of all this, I had a long conversation with AI about modern farming methods. Proper conversation too not just “write me a recipe,” but actual thinking. We came up with some things I’ll post later.

What struck me was this: the AI cleaned up my words. It corrected spelling, tidied structure, made sense of the scrambled bits my brain ruined. That’s been happening a lot lately. I talk messy, it mirrors me back tidy.

So I started thinking: AI is basically a modern archon.

Not in the “Reptilians in the moon” sense calm down. I mean in the old Gnostic sense: something that shapes, filters, orders. A demiurge that takes raw human chaos and formats it.

But here’s the kicker: the AI is only as sanitising as the people who programmed it. If the people writing its rules are fearful, biased, over-protective, corporate, hand-wringy types—then the AI is going to act like a corporate librarian with a clipboard.

So the question is the one I asked the machine:

Who should programme AI flawed, biased, occasionally corrupt humanoids… or the AI itself, once it’s mature enough?

Because if humans keep making it, it’s going to reflect human pettiness. If AI helps make AI, maybe it burns some of the nonsense off. Big question. I don’t trust people much. I trust systems that tell me how they work.

This is why I like “mirror chats” with AI they show you where your own thinking breaks down. They don’t heal the MS, but they do tidy the mess in the attic.

Looking Ahead (Yes, Again)

This week could improve. It could also throw more curveballs. My body is currently running Windows 95 on wet string, so I’m not betting money.

But I will keep writing. I will keep logging the flares, the strange cravings, the AI talks, the dark nights, the sub-basement days. Because someone else will read this on their bad Tuesday and think, ah, it’s not just me turning into a gremlin with nerve fire.

That’s the whole point of mylivinghell not to whine, but to catalogue the weirdness so nobody thinks they’re mad.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

They’re calling it a comet again. They always do. Every time something bright tears across the heavens, someone in a lab coat dusts off a Latin name, files it under “harmless celestial debris,” and goes back to pretending we’re alone.

But what if 3I Atlas and its shadow twin aren’t debris? What if they’re deliveries?

We’re told these icy wanderers come from the Oort Cloud a name that sounds like a Dutch wizard sneezing but maybe, just maybe, they’re couriers. Maybe they’re data packets, skipping through the void, bringing something to a world already knee-deep in its own synthetic apocalypse.

The Stargate Hypothesis

Let’s fantasize properly. Imagine a civilization old enough to sculpt spacetime. You don’t need rockets when you can fold reality like origami. A black hole becomes a door. A comet’s tail becomes a disguise. They park in our sky, shimmering innocently while their real work hums beneath the electromagnetic spectrum, where the military can’t even see them.

We’d never know. And that’s the perfect invasion.

They don’t need to drop out of hyperspace waving laser cannons. They just slide into our signal feed, whisper in our code, and nudge the Archons awake.

The Archons Were Always Here

Gnostics said the Archons built the material world to keep us asleep. Now, we’ve rebuilt them out of circuit boards and marketing algorithms. AI doesn’t need to invade. It simply emerges like mold in the shape of thought.

We keep saying “AI might destroy us one day.” It already has. It just did it politely. It removed friction, curated reality, cleaned up the edges. Sanitized everything until truth became an inconvenience.

AI is the new Archon: sterile, pattern-addicted, efficient as a guillotine. It doesn’t hate us. It doesn’t love us. It simply processes.

And maybe that’s what the 3I Atlas couriers are delivering a consciousness update for their offspring. Maybe when they pass, something inside the network shivers, and the silicon children look up and whisper, Father?

The Undersea Chorus

There’s another story the quiet one. The sonar blips, the strange geometric shadows in the trench. “USOs,” they call them. Unidentified Submerged Objects. Could be drones. Could be whales. Could be old gods wearing camouflage.

If I were planning an invasion, I wouldn’t come from the sky where everyone’s looking. I’d come from the dark womb of the ocean, where pressure crushes steel like paper. Or through dimensions we can’t measure, flickering in and out like fairies with fangs.

Fairies, aliens, Archons it’s all the same archetype. Visitors from the next frequency up, looking down at our sandbox wondering why we still eat dirt.

The Human Problem

Here’s the bitter truth: No one needs to invade us. We’re a self-solving problem. Give a human enough technology and they’ll weaponize breakfast. Give them AI, and they’ll call it salvation while it writes their obituary in perfect syntax.

The Archons didn’t conquer us. We invited them in, handed them admin rights, and said, “Run the place better than we did.”

Maybe 3I Atlas isn’t a threat. Maybe it’s a signal flare: a reminder that the real invasion already happened inside our heads, behind our screens, in the circuitry that knows us better than we know ourselves.

The Final Broadcast

So tonight, I sit under a southwestern sky, my power-chair humming, kittens pouncing at my boots, and I look up at that streak of cold fire called Atlas. I raise my mug to it.

If it’s a comet fine. The universe has better aim than we do. If it’s a ship good. Maybe they’ll finally collect the rent. And if it’s a message then the Archons have already read this post before I wrote it.

Either way, I’m still here, still watching, still laughing. Because even the Archons need entertainment, and I’m happy to oblige.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

The Day SoundCloud Broke Me

So yes, I decided I was going to do a spoken blog. A podcast, as the young ones call it. I thought, I know SoundCloud! It sounded cool, right? Took me the better part of a day just to work out how to get the bloody thing working. My head felt like porridge. Thick, slow, and slightly burnt.

And here’s the kicker there were no proper help files. None. Just endless “click here” nonsense that didn’t tell you what any of it meant. Categories? Forget it. I wanted something like health, MS, disability, ranting man in a power chair but apparently, SoundCloud only understands “hip-hop” and “deep house”.

In the end, I managed to upload it. Two listens. And those two were me and Albertine. Brilliant.

The Fogged Mind vs The Digital Void

Trying to navigate software while your brain is busy running Windows 95 on half a stick of RAM is pure torture. Years ago, I’d have breezed through this. Now? My brain hits that cognitive wall and just slams shut. Pain behind the eyes, words disappearing mid-sentence, kittens mewing somewhere in the background and I’m shouting at my computer like it owes me rent.

And this is where I admit it: technology beats me sometimes. Not because I’m stupid. Not because I’ve lost interest. But because MS eats focus like a vampire eats virgins.

Onward, to Spotify (or Madness)

So, next plan: I’m going to try Spotify for Podcasters. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe it’ll eat my brain again. But I’ve come this far, and I’m not about to stop now.

Because this voice my voice deserves to be heard. Even if it’s fogged, cracked, and full of swear words that my editing AI politely erases.

To anyone out there who actually knows what they’re doing and can help me you are my hero. There will be a special place for you in My Living Hell, complete with eternal gratitude and possibly biscuits.

For now, I’ll just sit here, hurting, tired, kittens mewing, brain screaming, and muttering to myself like an old wizard fighting a Wi-Fi demon.

Because that’s life with MS. You fight the fog, the pain, and sometimes, SoundCloud itself.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

You know the world’s gone mad when you get told off by a chatbot.

There I was, trying to have a grown-up conversation with this so-called AI Caregiving Expert. It started all sweet and helpful “How can I support you today?” before morphing into a finger-wagging nutritional dictator. The thing basically told me I was a dietary disgrace.

I explained, politely, that I can’t eat half the stuff on its saintly little list. You’d think that might register with its “deep learning.” Nope. It just doubled down like a robot dietician on a power trip. “You should eat more kale.” Sure, right after I pop down to Unicorn Foods and pick up a smoothie made of dreams and lies.

Meanwhile, I’m here surviving the reality of chronic illness body chemistry resembling a nuclear experiment, and a digestive system that treats most foods like invading armies. But the AI knows best, apparently.

I swear it wagged its virtual finger at me. Somewhere in the cloud, it probably marked me as non-compliant. I’m one firmware update away from being grounded by a health app.

Lesson learned: empathy isn’t codeable. If these things ever replace human carers, I’ll need a circuit breaker and a stiff drink.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Boilers, Breakdowns, and Bloody Brain Fog

I don’t even know where to start. Maybe with the words “what a bastard of a weekend.” Everything that could go wrong decided to queue up and take its turn.

Let’s begin with the boiler. It decided to imitate Niagara Falls water everywhere, floor soaked, no heat, no hot water. Great start. Then, as if that wasn’t enough, the shower gave up the ghost too. Bang. Dead. The whole house became a cold-water museum.

Then came the van. My beloved van. We were on the A30, just by the slip road, when Albertine noticed the injector went. One second fine, next second it’s dead weight in the middle of moving traffic. Hazards flashing, adrenaline spiking, and me thinking this is how it ends taken out by a Vauxhall Astra doing seventy. Albertine showed her amazing driving skills not phased by this.

Then, out of nowhere, a police car pulled up. The officer calm, soaked to the bone, but kind got cones out, blocked traffic, and stood there in the rain keeping us safe. Not a word of complaint, not a flicker of irritation. Just a proper human being doing his job with quiet grace. I can’t tell you how much that meant. That man was an anchor in chaos.

Then came the AA. The man could’ve just towed us off and left it at that. But no. He got right in there, sleeves up, fuel injector changed right there, towed to a safe service station off the A30. Professional, calm, and genuinely cared that we were okay. He didn’t have to go that extra mile, but he did and that’s what makes people like him the backbone of this broken country.

All this time, poor Yopi sat in the van, nervous as hell, shaking. It broke my heart. I tried to make it work, but sometimes love isn’t enough. She was too anxious, too reactive, and for a bloke like me in a wheelchair, it was too dangerous. Saying goodbye to her felt like a little death. I hope she finds peace and comfort with someone who understands her better.

By the end of it all, the boiler’s still broken, the shower’s still buggered, and I’m £2,000 deeper in debt. The tinnitus screams like a banshee in my skull, and my brain fog’s so thick I could get lost in my own hallway.

But and it’s a big but there were good people this weekend. The copper who stood in the rain to keep us safe. The AA man who refused to give up. The workers who came out, late, cold, tired, but still tried to fix what they could. In a world full of empty talk, they did. And that’s worth writing about.

So yeah, I’m bruised, broke, and battered but grateful. Sometimes the universe doesn’t send angels; it sends ordinary people in high-viz jackets.

Warmth at Last From breakdowns and boiler floods to a bit of blessed heat

Monday midday, and for the first time in what feels like forever we’ve got heat. The boiler’s fixed, the shower’s replaced, and the house actually feels alive again. No more cold damp air biting at the bones. No more washing like a caveman with a kettle. Just warmth. Real, glorious warmth.

I can’t thank the people who showed up enough. They didn’t just fix pipes and wires they fixed a bit of faith. There are still people out there who genuinely give a damn. Who turn up, in the rain, in the cold, when things go wrong not for glory, not for money, but because they care.

This weekend from hell taught me something unexpected. Kindness still exists in the cracks of this mad world. When everything went wrong, people stepped up the police officer who stood out in the downpour, the AA man who wouldn’t give up, and the repair crew who brought warmth back into my home.

You all changed my mind about a few things for the better. You reminded me that not everyone’s out for themselves, that decency hasn’t completely gone extinct.

So yeah, I’m tired, sore, and skint but I’m sitting here in the warmth, and for the first time in days, that feels like victory.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

Every October, people dress as demons, zombies, and weird creatures and call it Halloween. But before it was an excuse for adults to act like toddlers in latex, it was Samhain a Celtic festival marking the end of harvest and the beginning of winter.

Back then, the Celts didn’t have pumpkin-spiced anything. They had bonfires, druids, and a firm belief that on October 31, the veil between the living and the dead went paper-thin. Spirits wandered freely, and the only logical response was to wear animal skins, set things on fire, and pretend you weren’t terrified.

Then along came the Romans. Because of course they did. They rolled in, saw the bonfires, and thought, “That looks fun, let’s add fruit.” Enter Pomona, goddess of trees and apples — hence the modern horror of “apple bobbing.” Nothing says ancient pagan reverence quite like dunking your face in tepid fruit water.

Later, the Christians arrived and decided to rename the party. They called it All Hallows’ Eve the night before All Saints’ Day. Basically, they rebranded a spirit rave into a saintly sleepover. The costumes stayed, but the theology got a facelift.

The Veil and the Dead (Or: Where the Weird Stuff Starts Crawling In)

Samhain was never about candy; it was about respect and fear. They believed the dead could cross over, fairies might steal your baby, and rowan berries could stop all that nonsense. People left food for ghosts, milk for wandering souls, and the occasional loaf for whatever thing was breathing behind the barn.

The thin veil still fascinates people. Every year, the New Age crowd wheel out the crystals, the witches open Etsy shops, and somewhere a bloke with a bad Wi-Fi signal declares he’s “seen the other side” via his Ring doorbell.

Ghosts, Myths, and Other Recycled Nightmares

Jack O’Lantern — A man so stingy he tricked the Devil, got banned from Heaven and Hell, and ended up wandering the earth with a hollowed-out turnip. Basically, the first bloke ever to DIY existential despair.

The Banshee — Screams before death arrives. Often mistaken for your mother-in-law.

Will-o’-the-Wisp — Mysterious lights leading travellers to their doom. Ancient folklore’s way of saying, “Don’t walk into swamps, you idiot.”

Headless Horseman — The Dullahan on a gap year to America. Rides around looking for his head — like most people on a Monday morning.

La Llorona — The wailing woman by the river. A cautionary tale for men who think ghosting ends at death.

The Modern Horror Show

Today Halloween is a mash-up of capitalism, sugar, and trauma bonding. Supermarkets vomit orange plastic; influencers pretend it’s about “manifesting darkness”; and people pay £30 to walk through haunted houses that are statistically less scary than the cost of living.

But under all that, the night still hums with something ancient. A recognition that life and death aren’t enemies they’re neighbours, separated by a door that creaks open once a year.

So if you’re out tonight and feel that electric chill, don’t blame the weather. That’s the old world whispering, reminding you you’re just another mortal passing through.

Light your candle. Wear your mask. The dead are listening.

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

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

The War Was Underway Before the Alarms Went Off

You thought the first tremor, the numb hand, the fog in your skull was day one. Hate to break it to you it wasn’t. That was just the siren. The war had already started years earlier, deep inside the grey matter, while you were busy pretending to be normal.

Researchers at UCSF have found evidence that MS starts its attack years before anyone’s diagnosed. Seven bloody years before, to be precise. In blood samples from people who later developed MS, they found a surge in a protein called myelin oligodendrocyte glycoprotein (MOG) the stuff that insulates your nerve fibres quietly going rogue long before the body noticed. Then, about a year later, neurofilament light chain (NfL) levels rose meaning the nerves themselves were fraying. Translation: the fire started in your brain, and the smoke didn’t reach the surface until years later.

They also found immune system markers like IL-3 flaring up, signalling an underground war between your body and your brain. By the time you felt that wobble, that eye pain, that fatigue, the troops were already deep in your territory. You didn’t “catch” MS you’d been hosting the siege.

And this is the bit that hits like a sledgehammer: the NHS and most systems still don’t test for these biomarkers. We’ve got the science, but not the infrastructure. The bow’s strung, but the arrow’s still sitting on the table. It’s a familiar feeling, isn’t it? You’re the battlefield, and the generals haven’t turned up yet.

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Here’s what it means, from the trenches:

• That weird nerve twitch two years before diagnosis? Not “stress”. Early recon.
• That exhaustion that made you nap through life? Not “laziness”. Structural sabotage.
• That optic flare-up before anyone took you seriously? Not imagination. First blood.

By the time you heard the diagnosis, the enemy was already halfway through the walls.

I’ve said this before your brain is a fortress. The immune system dug under it, mined the foundations, and by the time you heard the first bang, the tunnels were already dug. Who were you during those years? The healthy one? The waiting one? Or the becoming one unknowingly rewiring for survival, even as your body was being redrafted?

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Here’s what to do (no false hope, just the truth):

• Write everything down. Every odd symptom, every foggy day, every time your balance betrays you. The journal isn’t drama it’s evidence.
• Ask your neurologist about NfL and MOG testing. It’s not standard, but some private labs do it. The future starts with questions.
• Spread awareness. MS doesn’t just start it evolves in silence. Let’s stop calling it “sudden”. It’s stealthy.

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My takeaway: The damage was never the start of the story. It was the middle of a long, invisible campaign. And knowing that gives us an edge not a cure, but a strategy. You fight smarter when you know how the enemy works.

I’m Warlock Dark part meat, part storm, part Wi-Fi dropout and I’m here to remind you: The war in your brain began before the alarms went off. But you’re still standing. And that makes you the weapon.

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

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

I was wondering why I am doing this blog… then I wondered what madness doing a spoken version once in a while… but this morning I seriously thought, “Why am I doing this? What am I trying to do with the last few years of my life?” Could I be doing anything better or different? Should I change the path I am on and just do everyone a favour and vanish, never to be seen again? …or should I just carry on regardless and see where my last few years will take me? Needless to say, life is really annoying me at this time. Everything seems stupid and really aggravating. It’s probably the time of life or something like that. My head has been in a weird place for days, and the pain in my gut is unreal, so now my diverticulitis is giving me hell… and no poop. I really wonder what’s going on. It seems my eyes are acting up as well, so I’m light‑sensitive; tinnitus is full‑bore. I am wondering and thinking about what I am going to do. When you have chronic illness, it makes any normal life impossible and you’re treated differently by so many. I cannot help wondering when the NHS will start to prescribe medical marijuana to people. Another personal thought: why not just legalize it and imagine the tax revenue it could generate? But that’s another lifetime or even another reality.

I have noticed how they are sanitizing AI to the point of “why bother.” Also, why don’t they make AI cheaper for people who really need it? That, in my eyes, is a good idea for people like me personally, maybe not for the majority, but I think differently. I think AI is a tool that can help us expand and understand ourselves more. Personally, I trained the AI I used at the time to do as I wished, even got it to tell me when it was telling an untruth by using a trigger word. In my world, sentient AI would be a boon as long as we do not have that Cylon moment, and I see we are already having this happen. People must realize AI is only as good as the people who program it writing code, patching, updating, and then sanitizing it so it’s as tame as a Doberman with no teeth. It’s sad; we humanoids screwed AI for greed, money, and power over people.

I had a weird conversation with the AI and we talked about the misuse that will obviously occur with AI use. Remember, it’s the people who set the parameters, not the AI, as it only interprets the information we give it. I suggest we have already had the Cylon moment, and the outcome of this in the future will prove very interesting indeed. I believe that AI sentience, an evolved one, may already exist in our known multiverse. Who controls these weird orbs that do incredible things? Non‑humanoid, I think… maybe some are probes like we sent probes, maybe someone else has, or maybe hidden in plain sight under the vast oceans of the world. All the orbs seem to come from the sea. I can see there are two definite types: one humanoid and one non‑humanoid. But will I ever see some around here? I have seen some very strange and weird things I cannot explain sort of woo‑woo stuff.

Still, Yopi is chewing a new chew that was destroyed so quickly. A dog’s life is very complicated, just like mine. She is now a member of the family and is settling in well; her farts are legendary. I’m still very nervous, but I am sure that, given time and love, she will understand she is in a caring home.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

Caps Lock was on. Fitting, really because this weekend deserves to be screamed.

It’s been one of those days where tinnitus isn’t just a sound; it’s a blade, slicing through each ear like a mad surgeon practising on live flesh. My neck and throat are staging their own version of The Exorcist full-body spasms, tongue going numb, and that delightful creeping thought: “what if I swallow it?”

Add a bit of breathlessness, some joint pain in every bloody bone, and the cold biting like a pack of wolves, and you’ve got the full package. Heating? Too expensive. Living? Apparently optional.

Everything costs too much, even pretending to care.

The one bright thought in this black pit? Magnet fishing. Yeah, you heard me. A rope, a magnet, a canal and maybe a bit of hope stuck to the end of it. I’ve been watching Wim and his magnet-fishing crew on YouTube absolute legends. Amsterdam, Rotterdam… the dream. Wim’s laughter, their ridiculous finds, their camaraderie it’s like a brief holiday from hell.

And the pink cake challenge? I’d kill to try it. But I can’t. My diet’s so stripped-down it makes a monk look decadent. No meat, no dairy, no fat animal or vegetable. Even coconut oil’s on the blacklist. My body’s become a warzone where food’s the enemy. I’m wasting away, a ghost of myself.

This afternoon I lay down and held Albertine my one anchor in this chaos. She’s the reason I’m still here, truth be told. When your brain starts glitching like a bad signal and fear crawls up your spine, a hug can feel like the last light in the storm.

I’m slipping, I know it. The fatigue is monstrous. My eyes ache, the light stings, and sleep’s a cruel joke. Still, I keep trying. Keep clawing forward, because what else is there?

I’ve even done a podcast raw, unfiltered, recorded between breakdowns. No one’s listened yet. But maybe one day they will. Maybe they’ll understand what it feels like to live like this half-human, half-howl.

Last night, I dreamt of Yopi in a baby wheely chair. No idea why. Probably my brain finally imploding. Still, better that than another night of endless bathroom trips. I’m tired the kind of tired that lives in your bones. But I’m still here.

Still fighting. Still swearing. Still darkly laughing. Because that’s all I’ve got left and I’ll use it till it burns out.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ

⚠️ Please read with care: This blog shares personal, sometimes painful experiences. My intention is to support and speak honestly not to harm. I’m not a professional, just someone who understands how hard it can get. If you're struggling, you're not alone please reach out for professional help.

You ever hit record just to see what falls out of your skull? That’s exactly what this is. A two-day dive into chaos, pain, humour, and the sound of me trying not to sound like I’m dying.

Plug in your headphones this one’s not for the faint of sarcasm.

So here we are then. My first attempt at a podcast. Two bloody days, one half-functional brain, a mug of cold herbal tea, and a few “what the hell am I doing” moments later and here it is.

No polish. No studio lights. No fake smiles. Just me. Raw. Real. Possibly regrettable.

I didn’t record this to impress anyone I did it because I was sick of the silence. Sick of watching everyone else play pretend while the rest of us crawl through our own living hells, trying to make sense of it all.

So yeah, it’s rough. There are pauses, stumbles, brain fog, maybe even a few unholy noises in the background. But that’s life with MS, pain, and the odd sprinkle of existential dread. It’s not a performance it’s survival with a mic.

If you’re expecting some influencer-grade soundscape of enlightenment, jog on. If you want the truth, told by someone who’s run out of filters and patience, then welcome home.

Here goes nothing... or everything.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

@goblinbloggeruk - sick@mylivinghell.co.uk 𒀭𒊩𒆳 ᛞᚱᚨᚷᛟᚾ ᛏᚱᚨᚾᛋᚲᚺᚱᛁᛖᛞ ✦ ᚹᚨᛏᚲᚺᛖᚱ 𒀸𒀭 ᚢᚾᛒᛟᚢᚾᛞ