BloggersWithMS

Another system rebuild. Another round of pretending this time it’ll work, that nothing vital will vanish into digital smoke. Maybe I’ll stick with Windows 11—just long enough to hate it all over again. Or maybe, finally, I’ll throw myself into Linux like a man falling from a burning building. Kodachi. Mint. Whonix. Take your pick, all flavours of escape.

The plan? Dual life. Linux on a pen drive for when I need stealth and sanity. Custom Windows on the main drive for when I need chaos and legacy apps. But before anything happens, it’s backups. Backups of backups. Then backup the backup of the backup.

I’ve lost too much already. Files. Art. Music. Decades of moments. Things that mattered. Gone because I trusted the wrong hard drive, or hit “yes” on a prompt I didn’t read at 4am because I couldn’t sleep from the pain—or the thoughts. Terabytes lost to time and stupidity.

I’ve been part of this madness since the early 80s. When computing still felt like rebellion. When you could feel the electricity in the keys. Back when 40GB was god-tier and 32MB of RAM could change your life. When you didn’t need permission from five corporations to run software.

Today, I did get out. Ended up at Fat Tony’s. Sex toys, incense, grinders, masks, and the surreal scent of liberation in the air. I could feel the laughter in my bones. Albertine grabbed a few curious bits and pieces. Good man behind the counter. Real. No masks. No script. Not like the world outside. Not like doctors.

Came back home. Wheelchair of death started vibrating like it had unfinished business with the earth’s core. Loud enough to wake the ghosts I wish I could forget.

The jam was a mistake. No sleep. Peeing every hour. Kidney screaming. Bladder playing drums. Night’s silence broken by the symphony of my body's decline.

I asked the doctor for sleeping tablets. He laughed. Said I might sleep through an accident. “What,” I asked, “like shit myself?” He didn’t laugh back. Just stared at me like a creature in a tank. Something dying slowly behind glass.

That same doctor once told me there was nothing more they could do. I rolled out of that office in my chair and into the hallway of despair. Slammed into the door just to feel something. I wasn’t a person to him—just another file closed. “Mr Goblin,” he said. As if I wasn’t already invisible.

You think it ends there?

I got a phone call years ago. I was stressed. The voice on the line? A GP. He tells me, flatly: “Oh yeah, you had a heart attack at some point.” Like it was the weather. Then the line goes dead.

I went ice cold. Started spasming. Couldn’t breathe. Ambulance was called. Paramedics came. One looked like death in a hi-vis vest. He barked at me about not labelling my door clearly enough. I nearly told him to check my pulse and guess the address that way.

ECG said yes, it happened. A “heart event.” Another ambulance came. The serious kind. They jabbed, they drugged, they stabilized the mess I was.

But in that moment, on the floor, shaking and half-naked, I thought: So this is how it ends. Alone, misunderstood, staring at the cracked ceiling while the world rushes by outside.

But no. I lived. Again. Like I always bloody do.

And still my mind drifts. My half-sister. It’s been 10 years. Maybe she thinks of me. My older sister? Try 30. A lifetime of silence.

Being adopted is a lifelong mind-fuck. You're the cuckoo in someone else’s nest. A mistake nobody admits. A problem to be hidden in a file folder somewhere.

My family judged me because I lived in a council house. Because I was disabled. Because I wasn’t their version of clean or proper.

But when they gave me a chance, I proved them wrong. Every time.

Still… no calls. No letters. No visits.

I wonder if my brothers are still alive. I wonder if they’d remember my voice.

But hope is a slow suicide. So I smile instead. Laugh when I can. Back up my data like I’m guarding a soul in binary. Sit in my chair and watch the world pretend to care.

I’m not done yet.

Not by a long shot.

Goblin still here

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

looking to buy a second hand q100 wheelcair or similar in the south west 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.”

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.”

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.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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