DarkHumour

@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.”

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.”

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.”