PGP / SPD My story:

Family Time: I had a wonderful day yesterday with my son, Brandon. ❤️ He had such a difficult start in life and has overcome so many obstacles, including leukaemia. The young man he has become inspires me every day. He is intelligent, creative and endlessly fascinating, and I will always be incredibly proud to be his mam. Yesterday, he introduced us to the work of Kane Pixels and explained how he developed his interpretation of The Backrooms. We watched some of Kane’s earlier footage while Brandon enthusiastically talked us through the story, ideas and filmmaking behind it. Brandon loves everything connected to creepypasta, horror and mysterious online worlds, and I love seeing how passionate and knowledgeable he becomes when discussing the things that interest him. I had missed him and my parents so much. I have been exceptionally busy and working incredibly hard behind the scenes, so this much-needed family catch-up meant the world to me. We also enjoyed a lovely meal together at The...

They Made Me Their Hobby – And I Survived Anyway I was always one of the “weird ones”, apparently. The strange girl, the alt kid, the one people didn’t quite understand but somehow couldn’t leave alone. I didn’t realise it at the time, but some people only know how to process difference by attacking it. And I was different. I didn’t shrink. I didn’t blend in. I existed — loudly, imperfectly, honestly. And that was apparently enough to make me a target. Back in the Bish Vegas days, when the goth scene had its own universe, I had hate tracks written about me. Actual songs. Imagine being a teenage girl with an alias — angelwings13 — and hearing that grown lads in the alt scene had used their “creativity” to slate you. I was shocked. My friends had to calm me down because I genuinely couldn’t believe that I was the muse for their bitterness. Of all the things they could write about, they chose a teenage girl just trying to survive. Their lyrics were vile — accusing me of STDs even though I...

 Today I found something unexpected. Tucked away between old notebooks and faded photos was one of my “happy books”—the kind I used to make when the world felt too loud and I needed a place to dream. I must’ve been around sixteen when I made it. Back then, life felt like a constant storm of “what ifs” and “will I ever?” but somehow, in the middle of it all, I wrote down a list. A list of what I wanted to become. The dreams. The goals. The things I quietly hoped would one day be mine. And reading it now, I couldn’t help but cry. Not sad tears—just this overwhelming surge of pride, awe, and disbelief. Because… I’ve done so many of them. Not perfectly. Not always the way I imagined. But with every ounce of energy I had—fighting through pain, exhaustion, grief, disability, and doubt—I did them. I became them. I think about that sixteen-year-old girl often. How she was hurting. How she had no idea what the next few years would bring. How people doubted her—how she doubted herself. How s...