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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