One thing nobody fucking tells you when you arrive on planet Earth is that you've got to look after your mental. Seriously, this place is an absolute madhouse. You've got to watch what you're thinking, what you're dwelling on and what sort of bollocks you're allowing to squat in your skull. People genuinely believe every thought they have is their own. Meanwhile, we've invented technology that would've had the entire population burnt at the stake 400 years ago. Radio waves, frequencies, algorithms that know you're having a mental breakdown before you've even realised you're in a shit mood. And we're supposed to believe none of this stuff influences our thinking? Fucking hell. Your mind is everything in this dimension. Consciousness affects how you experience reality. Spend enough time entertaining miserable thoughts and you'll end up walking around with your own personal thundercloud, wondering why everyone you meet seems to be another miserable bastard. And the people running this circus? Fear is practically a business model. Keep everyone anxious, angry, distracted and arguing over absolute bollocks. Whether someone's pulling the strings or simply cashing in on the madness, you're still the poor sod paying for it with your peace of mind. So here's my advice. Become fucking delusional. No, seriously. DELUSIONAL. Start thinking about what you actually want to happen. Talk about it. Picture it. Become so absurdly convinced it's possible that people start looking at you like you've escaped from a psychiatric ward wearing the doctor's uniform. I've seen what happens when you stop obsessing over everything that could go wrong and start putting that same energy into what you want. Your whole outlook changes. You start acting differently, noticing things you previously ignored, and making moves you would've talked yourself out of. What you constantly focus on grows in your mind. So why the fuck are people spending their entire existence watering the weeds and then complaining there's no flowers? And remember, you're supposed to be here. Somehow, out of every possible character that could've been spawned into this bizarre fucking simulation, you ended up conscious, surrounded by eight billion confused lunatics arguing over who understands the game while nobody can even find the bloody instruction manual. That's fucking hilarious when you think about it. Get back on the horse. Choose thoughts that actually do you some good. Make somebody laugh, lift someone's spirits, and stop letting miserable people drag you into their own personal sewage system. Become delusional. Feel good. Help other people feel good. You're already participating in a reality nobody can fully explain, surrounded by people who think they've got it all figured out. Might as well start playing the fucking game your way.

You want to know how to deal with a narcissist? It's actually fucking simple. But first, you've got to stop looking at them like they're some poor, misunderstood soul who just needs another chance. You've given them more chances than a dodgy kebab shop gets after poisoning half the town. Enough. The biggest mistake people make is trying to confront them, expose them, teach them a lesson or get revenge. Fuck all that. You're trying to win an argument with someone who'll set the kitchen on fire, blame you for buying the matches, then start crying because nobody asked if they're okay. You're playing chess with a pigeon. It'll knock the pieces over, shit on the board and strut around like it's just beaten Magnus Carlsen. And you're still sitting there planning your next move. Listen carefully. Some people aren't interested in sorting things out. They just want to keep you tangled up in their bullshit. As long as you're explaining yourself, defending yourself, apologising or begging them to understand, they've still got your attention. And that's exactly what they want. They don't necessarily love you for who you are. They love the version of themselves they get to see through your admiration. You've become their personal mirror, therapist, cheerleader and emergency emotional support animal. All unpaid, by the way. They've trained you to feel responsible for their happiness. When they explode, you're supposed to calm them down. When they cry, you're supposed to comfort them. When they treat you like shit, you're supposed to remember that one lovely afternoon six months ago when they bought you a coffee and didn't insult your entire bloodline. Fucking congratulations. You've been promoted to looking after the emotions of a fully grown adult who can't even manage their own. And the tactics? Christ alive. One minute they're shouting like a possessed auctioneer. The next they're crying crocodile tears, telling you nobody's ever understood them. Then comes the tragic childhood story, followed by a suspiciously convenient apology and just enough affection to make you question whether you imagined the whole bloody thing. You didn't. A little kindness arrives after a mountain of misery, and suddenly that tiny crumb feels like a five-course meal. You're starving for affection, and they're handing you half a digestive biscuit like they've just saved your life. And you're thanking them. Look at what happens to you. You walk into a conversation feeling perfectly normal. Forty minutes later, you're exhausted, apologising for something you didn't do and wondering whether you're the problem because you apparently breathed with an aggressive tone. How the fuck did we get here? Because the conversation never stays about the original problem. Somehow, every bloody thing ends up being about their feelings, their suffering and their version of events. They've built an entire little kingdom out of excuses, and you're paying the council tax. Now watch what happens when you stop trying to convince them. You stop explaining what they've done wrong for the 97th time. You stop delivering PowerPoint presentations on basic human decency to someone who's already seen the slides and set the projector on fire. You finally see what they're doing. And once you see it, the whole performance starts looking fucking ridiculous. The sudden tears. The convenient emergencies. The dramatic apologies. The little scraps of affection arriving precisely when you're about to leave. It's like watching a magician after somebody's shown you where he hides the fucking rabbit. You can't unsee it. And that's when you stop playing. No grand speech. No final courtroom statement. No twelve-page essay explaining why you've had enough. You've already explained yourself so many times you could publish the transcripts as a fucking trilogy. Just leave the game. Because people who rely on controlling your reactions often struggle when you stop giving them what they want. They might try anger, guilt, promises or one last spectacular performance worthy of an Oscar. Let them audition somewhere else. You don't need to sit in the front row clapping while somebody repeatedly turns your life into a fucking circus. And forget revenge. Seriously. What are you going to do, spend another six months thinking about someone you're supposedly trying to escape? That's like escaping prison and immediately applying for a job as the fucking prison cleaner. Move on. You might wonder what happens when you stop giving them attention. Will they find somebody else? Will they repeat the same behaviour? Will they finally realise what they've lost? Who gives a shit? Their next relationship isn't your problem. You're not responsible for teaching them how to behave. Whether they change, fall apart, apologise or suddenly discover Buddhism in a Tesco car park is their business. You've got your own life to get back. And understand something about attention. For someone who constantly needs a reaction, even your anger can be enough to keep them going. Every furious paragraph, every late-night argument, every desperate attempt to make them admit the truth keeps you stuck in the same old bullshit. Stop giving it to them. If no contact is safe and practical, that means no midnight essays, no checking their profile to see whether they're miserable, no sending one last message disguised as closure. If you've got children, legal matters or shared responsibilities, keep communication limited to what's necessary. You don't need to burn your entire house down because somebody left a toothbrush in the bathroom. Get your belongings, sort your responsibilities and get on with your life. And please, for the love of God, stop treating every little thing they post online like it's some secret message meant for you. They post a sunset. You think it's about you. They post a song. You analyse the lyrics. They change their profile picture and suddenly you're sitting there at three in the morning trying to work out what a fucking haircut means. Mate, go to bed. You've got to stop making their every move your business. You're supposed to be getting away from them, yet you're still checking what they're doing, who they're following and whether they're having a worse time than you. You're practically doing unpaid surveillance on someone you claim you want nothing to do with. And for what? So you can find one tiny little clue that they miss you? Then what? You're back where you started, staring at your phone like a fucking meerkat waiting for something to happen. The real victory is when you couldn't give a shit what they're doing anymore. You wake up one morning, make yourself a coffee, get on with your day and realise you haven't thought about their nonsense once. No arguments. No checking their account. No sitting in the shower rehearsing what you should've said six months ago. Just getting on with your bloody life. And the funniest part? You spent months trying to get them to understand you. Then one day, you finally understood what was going on. And you left. Game over.

Nobody warns you how fucking boring life can get when you quit cocaine, alcohol or even weed. At first, you're buzzing, feeling like you've finally got your shit together. Then a couple of weeks later, your favourite music sounds like it was produced by the local council, and even a sunny day feels like someone forgot to pay the electricity bill for your soul. Your brain's got used to chemical fireworks. Now you're asking it to enjoy a walk in the park and a fucking sandwich. It's looking at you like you've cancelled Netflix and replaced it with a documentary about paving slabs. And fuck me, the last six years haven't helped. Lockdowns, isolation, everything since 2021, all the uncomfortable truths people have been wrestling with. I understand why some of you struggled. The world went mental, and everyone was expected to carry on like nothing happened. The dangerous part is mistaking that emptiness for your permanent personality. You start thinking life was better when you were getting fucked up, forgetting that's what made ordinary life feel so dull. Your brain can recover. For some people, it takes around nine months to feel a real difference. Then one day, an old song hits differently. You're laughing at something stupid, enjoying the sunshine, actually looking forward to tomorrow without needing anything in your system. You'll still have shit days. Even people who've never touched drugs sometimes want to tell the entire planet to fuck off. But it does get better. The colour comes back, the laughter comes back, and eventually you stop counting the days because you're too busy enjoying them. Don't give up before you get there.