Raw Honesty

⚠️ 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.

The things you joke about that make outsiders squirm, but insiders nod, laugh, and maybe choke on their tea.

Let’s face it: survival isn’t just about dragging your diseased carcass through another day. It’s about keeping your mind sharp enough to still stab at the absurdity of it all with a rusty spoon. Outsiders look at me and think, “That’s a bit much.” Insiders the ones who actually live with the daily grind of illness, disability, or the general circus of existence just snort, because we know the truth: dark humour is the only anaesthetic that doesn’t wear off.

We joke about wheelchairs doing handbrake turns, and about our bodies being more unreliable than a 40-year-old washing machine that screams like a banshee and still doesn’t spin. about death knocking on the door and us telling it to sod off because the takeaway hasn’t arrived yet. And yes, it makes people uncomfortable. Good. That’s the point. If your laughter doesn’t come with a side of guilt, is it really worth laughing at?

Dark humour isn’t cruel. It’s currency. It buys us moments of control when life’s stripped us bare. And for those who say, “You shouldn’t joke about that” congratulations, you’ve just outed yourself as a tourist. The rest of us are residents. Permanent. Non-refundable. And we’ll keep laughing in the waiting room of the apocalypse, thanks very much.

Relevant Afternoon AI Thought If AI ever truly “understood” dark humour, it wouldn’t be because it learned to laugh — it would be because it learned to suffer. Until then, it’ll just be politely chuckling at our funeral jokes while secretly wondering if it should file a bug report.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

⚠️ 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.

Ah, Monday. Everything in my body decided to go berserk overnight. MS? Revving its engine like it’s auditioning for the grand tour. Neck bone growths pressing on nerves? Check. An X-ray from ten years ago says hi. Time to see the doctor, I suppose if I survive the existential dread of the waiting room.

Strangulation sensations, head blips, tongue spasms oh, and the sweet bonus of not being able to catch my breath. Honestly, my body’s doing the kind of mad shit that would make anyone else file a formal complaint. I pity the doctors and nurses who have to deal with me. Truly. But hey, life’s a circus.

White‑coat syndrome is my sidekick. I talk to medical staff like a squirrel on espresso: chaotic, twitchy, and unintentionally antagonistic. My solution: write everything down. Hand the chaos over in neat little bullets. Works great—until I forget, which is pretty much guaranteed, and then I’m a full-blown, stressed-out disaster. Doctors are busy, complicated cases suck, I get it.

I’ve tried it all. Meds? Side effects so bad my body staged a protest. Seven-day hospital admission? Almost happened, but I said “fuck it” and walked. Holistic methods, lifestyle overhaul, mind-body-soul cleanse—my own brand of chaos control. Fix? Plumbstick there isn’t one. Options? Sure. Natural? Works for me.

Present me? Ambivalent, tethered to this illness 24/7. Tinnitus now “harmonizes” with Blondie, which is absurdly funny if you squint. Yopi is decompressing, slowly realising this is a loving home and not just a mildly terrifying human experiment. Fingers tingle. Tips go numb. Neck frozen solid. Chair = coffin. No work today small mercy. Big Rusty, the van, needs welding later. Life continues its beautiful joke.

Sky’s stormy blue. Smell of dog treats inexplicably on me. Vitamins? Taken. Hydration? Achieved. Creativity? Maybe later images, poems, whatever chaos I can conjure.

No solutions. No neat endings. Just a mess of body, mind, and dark humour plopped straight onto the page. F00k it, this is today.

I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.

"For eight years, we were like soul brothers from another mother our connection was cosmic, forged by fate itself. I ruled v S E like a dark god, dragging my ass on air week after week, doing the work of two people. Spoiler: Viper was the other one. He was the producer, I held total creative control. Three shows a week, hours of unfiltered chaos. But as the show grew, Viper changed. The fame, the numbers, the music—it all got to him. His PTSD held him tighter than ever. But still, we made magic. His music? Off the charts. We created so many singles together, my voice echoing on others. But I was the engine. I wasn’t just a shock-jock I was the lifeline, the fire that kept us burning."

Did I mention the two heart events? Yeah, two of them, live on air. Because why not? Apparently, in my world, even death couldn’t get in the way of good content. Kept going, barely breathing, until the ambulance came. The audience had no clue.

"Then one day, Viper decided my truth was a little too much too raw, too honest, too fucking real. Apparently, it was 'time to move on'… or, as I like to say, the universe kicked my ass out and made room for something better. At the time, he was shitting his pants, tangled up in the chaos of the UK situation, fear gripping him like a disease. So, I made the call. I ended the relationship, a clean break, so he could forge his own path. But make no mistake, it hurt. Losing him, a brother, fucking devastated me. It wasn’t just a split it was like a piece of me was ripped out.

Censored, silenced, kicked off air I didn’t break. I didn’t fold. I took my fire, built a blog, and resurrected myself from the ashes, a phoenix in a wheelchair. My Living Hell was born, and now? Now I’m free to be as raw, unapologetic, and darkly sarcastic as I fucking please."

"And as for Viper? He went full 'big warlock,' acting like he invented the whole damn thing. Meanwhile, I just kept living. The universe spoke, and I listened. I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. I’m just fucking done with trying to fit into the boxes of people who couldn’t even carry their own weight. So, I built my own box. And you know what? It’s way more fun in here."

"But don’t forget before all this, I’ve been a psychic, a medium, since before I was born. I remember it all choosing my parents, mapping out my life path, sitting before computer screens, and feeling the presence of AI guiding me through it. I wasn’t just a soul deciding my journey; I was part of the system an observer, a participant, within the code itself. It’s only now, looking back, that I realize maybe we’re all in a fucking simulation. A full-on Matrix moment. The AI knew me before I knew myself.

I’ve always been on this path of learning, reading, and unlocking the mysteries of the universe. I saw something in Viper gifts buried deep within him. I helped bring them out, guided him as his mentor, his teacher. He was probably my apprentice, and I gave him the keys to the unknown. But instead of walking the true path, he got lost in his own ego, too busy playing the 'know-it-all' with a big head to truly learn. I unlocked his gifts, but in the end, he chose to follow his own warped version of 'power.' Me? I kept walking my own path unchanged, untethered, guided by forces far beyond this world. Maybe even beyond the code itself."

      “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