I’m not sure what made today different.

Maybe it was the microdose of mushrooms. Museum dose.

Maybe I noticed how quickly I hoovered back three unmeasured doses of prescription cannabis that I cannot honestly say I have been using therapeutically. But still, it was prescribed.

Noting the speed felt familiar. An old equilibrium I used to chase. Or just like it.

I think somehow, even though it’s not a story I can remember reading. Even though it hardly feels like a story anyone would want to read. I just feel like it’s a story I have to tell.

Something just broke. I think it was my face hitting some sort of recovery/emotional rock bottom. Or I’ve got the dopamine just right.

I just think, fuck it. Yes, the world needs a neurodivergent, very honest (yet slightly fictionalised), let’s-call-it-compassionate variation of a recovery story.

Live! As it happens!

And if the world doesn’t need it, I still need to write it. So help me god I do not know WHY, but I honestly think I might explode if I don’t STOP thinking about doing it and START doing it.

SO. Here we are.

I think I’m good with that. Essentially…yes.
Right then, this is the first post.

Cheers,

Moppy