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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.
Picture this:
I’m rolling through reality on my trusty power chair a chrome beast with more personality than most people I know. Long hair streaming behind me like a warning sign, beard untamed, sunglasses big enough to block out the Ministry of Nonsense. Cowboy hat perched low, casting a permanent shadow over my don’t-give-a-toss expression, the battered leather of my biker jacket carrying the stench of rebellion and spilled coffee.
The world around me? Absolutely barking. Neon jellyfish floating past in the air, tentacles gently brushing the hats off unsuspecting pensioners. Pavements shifting under a river of rainbow tiles, each slab humming like it’s auditioning for Pink Floyd. Traffic lights blink in impossible colours—ultraviolet, emotional blue, a shade of green that smells like marmite and disappointment.
A pigeon with the head of Alan Watts tries to sell me spiritual enlightenment in exchange for my last Jaffa Cake. Dogs walk people, old buses sprout daisy wheels, and a marching band of mutant toads play “God Save the Queen” backwards as the soundtrack to this feverish promenade.
I glide on, parting crowds of goggle-eyed normies, the universe distorting in my rearview mirror. “Keep rolling, cowboy,” the universe whispers, “the weirdness isn’t going to witness 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.)
