dark humour

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 ✨

Well, what a week it's been. I'm currently sat here talking to my speech-to-text app like some deranged oracle.

Battery life? Liar. Sporadic power at best. This so-called “smartphone” isn’t smart at all. I tell it to power down—it sends me to a bloody help page. In the end, I worked out a hack to switch it off. Because apparently, being disabled means needing a PhD to press a button.

My fingers are numb. Hands barely functional. Tactile feedback? Gone. Tiny buttons are useless ornaments to me. Touchscreens are a little better—still a pain, but I don't need to perform a séance just to answer a call.

I keep the phone in a Faraday bag overnight. No signals in, no signals out. Paranoid? No. Realistic. I don’t need Alexa learning how many antihistamines I pop daily.

Speaking of which—my allergies are off the fucking chart. Hay fever is now a cosmic entity. Took so many antihistamines, I’m practically embalmed. Side effects? Mild haunting. Random dissociation. Full-body brain fog. But hey, better than full-on freak-out.

MS loves to sprinkle in a panic attack for seasoning. The good kind—the ones that make you curl into a corner and question whether you’re even a person anymore. And if I forget my pills? Cue existential hell.

The electrical storms in my brain? Picture a lightning bolt shagging a power station. BANG. That’s what my neurons do for fun.

Today? Balance gone. No walking. Grabbed furniture, ended up grabbing air. Wheelchair day. Again. Will I never learn?

Overdid it. Spoons: gone. Days or weeks until I get them back. It’s raining. Of course it is. Put on some music to distract myself from my collapsing nervous system.

My throat’s spasming. Too much talking. Break.

Haha—just transferred this to my PC and the spellchecker is climaxing with all the red lines. Absolute filth. Press the magic button—bam, respectable writing.

Took some oil. Spasms eased. Neck still hurts. Tongue’s numb. Mouth’s a dead zone. Remember novocaine? It’s like that 24/7. Eating is a carnival of self-harm. Choking daily. Cheeks bitten.

And that feeling—bone-deep weirdness. Invisible sprites stabbing needles in a crown around my head. Madness, right?

If I posted this raw, people might think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have. Cognitive decline has me screaming at walls. Memory? What memory.

I stare at what I’ve written and it’s just a tangled mess of frustration, grief, and fuckery. But I still have something to give, even if the delivery system is fucked.

Maybe I’ll keep doing this. Write from my broken, unhinged, seen-too-much mind.

I want to talk about MS. I want to talk about other things too. Will that confuse people? Maybe. Do I care? Less and less.

I just hope someone out there—another broken soul with a half-working body and a mind full of static—reads this and feels seen.

Life is for living, no matter how fucked up you are.

All you need is love.

Love is divine.

The universe is love.

The One is love.

But that’s just me.

— End transmission.

        “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 ✨🧌

Myself and Albertine braved the outside world this morning. It’s been some time since I’ve actually wanted to go out—so naturally, the universe decided to make it weird.

I dragged myself to the WAV. A WAV? Oh, just a terrifying machine of fraud and deception. It’s a van with a ramp. You know, so us wheelchair folk can daringly leave the house. But sure, call the cops. A disabled person going outside must be running a benefits racket.

Albertine, ever observant, pointed out a sad little scene nearby: a VW Transporter clamped and stickered with a huge “NO TAX PAID” label slapped across it like the scarlet letter. I thought, poor bastard—he's not going to have a good day. Judy Tzuke came on the radio, and I promptly drifted off into a cloud of melancholy '80s nostalgia. Classic distraction technique.

We were off early to dodge the traffic. That failed. We ended up 15 miles down the road to drop off a parcel at a UPS pickup point. We had all the paperwork—like law-abiding goblins—but of course, they wouldn't accept it. Apparently, logic has been abolished. Albertine was not amused. Neither was I.

So off we went in search of a broom and some blood, fish and bone (don’t ask). Jim’s store was next—where they usually stock everything including the Ark of the Covenant and possibly a spare Dalek. Staff there? Absolute legends. Cheerful, helpful, and oddly rock-and-roll. I’m convinced the guy who served me was in The Cult.

By this point, the heat was medieval, and my legs started their traditional performance of “Jelly in a Wind Tunnel.” We turned back for home—well, 15 miles back, as you do. I wasn't driving by then. I felt like death but with worse skin.

We spent the journey dodging speed cameras and holiday invaders. Then came the ambulance incident: some driver got scared, panicked at a crossing with one of those traffic bollards, pulled over, and the ambulance ended up overtaking on our side. Straight at us. We’ve got it on dash cam. Lovely.

And then... ah yes. The infamous chemist.

I rolled up to the giant vending machine of doom, typed in my little code, and the robot began its business. Fun fact: My local chemist now has a drug-dispensing robot. It quietly hands out morphine with a beep and a spin. But god forbid I need pain relief—then it’s forms, suspicion, and a full background check. The machine is trusted. I am not.

Anyway, the carousel spun, made strange noises, and then freaked out. Loud grinding, beeping, flashing lights—like R2-D2 on crack. The pharmacist shouted, “You’ve broken my machine!”

I just looked at her. And laughed. Of course I did. The Goblin strikes again.

To round off the day, I had to fork out £325 (no VAT, lucky me!) for a new wheelchair battery—yes, that’s to replace Albertine’s. Still no word from wheelchair services. I’m stuck. I’m pissed off. And this heat can do one.

I’m totally drained—every spoon spent. Now to hydrate, spark a joint, and marvel at how Windows 11 didn’t crash today. Small victories.

Rock star Jim’s guy, if you’re reading this—your secret’s safe.

But seriously—what a bloody day.

     “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 ✨🧌

Today’s spoon count? Absolutely fuck all.

I woke up, blinked twice, and that used up three spoons I didn’t have. Got dressed? Minus five spoons. Made herbal tea? Minus ten spoons. Drank the herbal tea while contemplating the futility of existence? Surprisingly only minus two spoons.

By midday I was down to minus one hundred spoons, but hey, who’s counting? Me. I’m counting. Because if I don’t count them, my body will – usually with a dramatic collapse somewhere inconvenient, like Tesco’s freezer aisle, next to the frozen peas.

So here I am, writing this with negative spoons, like some overdraft I’ll never pay off, drifting through the day with my trademark goblin biker glare that says: “If you ask me to smile, I’ll eat your soul.”

But yeah, I’m fine, thanks for asking.

P.S. What’s a Spoonie?

A “spoonie” is someone living with a chronic illness or disability who uses the Spoon Theory to explain daily life. Spoons = units of energy. Every task uses spoons, and when you’re out, that’s it – game over for the day. It’s a way to explain invisible exhaustion to those blissfully unaware of it.

             “  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 ✨🧌