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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 help.
Friday afternoon. Chemist run? Missed it. Instead, I got hounded by the machine of ultimate dysfunction—a glorified vending machine for pharmaceuticals, wrapped in 1950s dystopia and powered by paranoia. It’s supposed to "help." What it actually does is make HAL from 2001 look like a friendly toaster. I call it The Ultimate Fail. Honestly, if it could cackle, it would.
But I couldn't face it. Not today. Not with the 3-Wheeled Trolley of Death waiting for me like some cracked-out shopping cart with a speed fetish and suicidal tendencies. That scooter’s cost me more in bloody batteries than I paid for the sodding thing. Bargain? More like financial sinkhole on wheels.
And my wheelchair? FUBAR. Been waiting over four months for a replacement because, of course, if you’re disabled, everything suddenly costs the same as a small warship. Ever tried buying disability aids without selling a kidney? Welcome to the club. Population: pissed off.
It’s the little things, isn't it? Like remembering Brian Trigg, Gallows Corner, Essex, 1970s. Snooker hall. Lost touch, but if you're out there mate, shout me back. Funny how names bubble up like spirits from the muck of memory.
Speaking of old spirits RIP Ozzy. A part of the Sabbath is gone. And Hulk Hogan too. Prefer the NWO version, personally. Darker. Grungier. Realer. The heroes of our youth are dying. We’re next, aren't we?
And the weekend? Oh, the glorious British weekend. Rainy misery incoming, plus I had half a mind to go to Plymouth me, my trolley of doom, and my degenerating sense of dignity. But sod that, the weather and my batteries are conspiring to assassinate my plans.
So yeah, chemist run tomorrow. Maybe. If I don’t die trying to cross the bloody road first.
Sometimes I look at myself and think, “Yeah, you need a bib now, mate.” I'm regressing. Dribbling. Slouching toward absurdity. No telly in 15 years. No papers in 30. Sanity? Optional.
Messy as fook. And then some.
I write in ink and fury, in breath and broken bone.
Through storm and silence, I survive. That is the crime and the miracle.