IAm:Only...me 💫🍀🍄🌷🌟💥🎀❤️🤍💙💚💓💛🧡🖤

Live, Love, Laugh.... Don’t Worry... Be Happy … Boom Boom 💥 😃

[𝗘𝗟 @MasterNumber]

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.

[Not your average grandpa 🇬🇧 @Jasonlh1967]

JUST HAD TO BE SHARED ☕️

Buying a fucking coffee has become unnecessarily complicated.

There was a time when you walked into a café and asked for a coffee.

That was it.

"Coffee please."

Somebody put coffee in a cup, you gave them some money, and everybody got on with their fucking day.

Not anymore.

Now you walk into somewhere like Costa and ordering a coffee feels like you're filling out a mortgage application.

"What would you like?"

Coffee.

"Americano, latte, cappuccino, flat white, cortado, mocha, macchiato, espresso, double espresso, iced latte, iced Americano, frappe?"

Fucking hell.

I don't know.

The brown one that wakes me up.

Then comes the size.

Small, medium, large, regular, tall, grande, massive, fucking oil drum.

I'll have a large.

Excellent.

Surely we're finished.

Oh no.

"What milk would you like?"

Milk.

"Whole, semi skimmed, skimmed, oat, almond, coconut, soya?"

Cow.

Just whatever normally comes out of a fucking cow.

Then they start offering you syrups.

Vanilla, caramel, hazelnut, salted caramel, gingerbread, cinnamon, chocolate, white chocolate, pumpkin spice, sugar free vanilla, sugar free caramel.

No.

I wanted a coffee.

I didn't come in to design a fucking Yankee Candle.

But we're still nowhere near finished.

Would I like an extra shot?

Decaf?

Half caf?

An extra hot one?

Skinny?

Whipped cream?

Cold foam?

Chocolate sprinkles?

Cinnamon dust?

Caramel drizzle?

Chocolate drizzle?

Ice?

Crushed ice?

Less ice?

More ice?

At this point I'm expecting them to ask whether I'd like fucking underfloor heating installed.

And there's always somebody in front of you who knows this system intimately.

"Can I have a large iced skinny oat milk caramel latte, half sweet, extra hot, two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut, no foam, extra shot, light ice, whipped cream, caramel drizzle?"

Fucking hell, Barbara.

You're not ordering a drink.

You're giving the launch sequence for a fucking nuclear submarine.

Meanwhile I'm standing behind her thinking, "Coffee. Milk. Two sugars. Please let me go home."

Then comes the price.

"That'll be five pounds eighty please."

FIVE POUNDS EIGHTY?

For a fucking coffee?

For that money I want to keep the mug.

In fact, I want shares in the fucking building.

And because you've already stood there answering twenty seven questions about milk and syrup, you just tap your card like you've developed Stockholm syndrome.

Then they finally hand it over.

And I've ordered the biggest fucking size they've got because, naturally, I'm thinking bigger cup means more coffee.

Silly me.

The cup's the size of a fucking paint tin, but about fourteen percent of it appears to be coffee.

The rest is milk, foam, whipped cream, syrup, ice, chocolate dust, caramel drizzle and whatever other fucking building materials they've used to construct it.

You've basically ordered a coffee and they've built a fucking extension on top of it.

If you've gone for one of the cold ones it's even worse.

You pick up this enormous plastic cup thinking you've got enough caffeine to see you through until Thursday, then realise three quarters of the bastard is ice.

Six quid for twelve ice cubes, a splash of milk and a frightened little espresso hiding at the bottom.

Take the ice out and your "large" coffee would fit in a fucking egg cup.

And then there's the whipped cream.

Fucking mountains of it.

You've got to eat your way through half of the Alps before you even reach the beverage you actually ordered.

By the time you finally locate the coffee, you've consumed eight hundred calories and you've got cream on your nose.

At that point it's not a drink anymore.

It's a fucking dessert with a caffeine problem.

And somehow we've all just accepted this.

We've gone from putting the kettle on and spooning Nescafé into a mug to standing in a queue while somebody called Tyler asks what fucking personality we'd like our milk to have.

I don't need my coffee to be an experience.

I don't need it handcrafted.

I don't need it drizzled.

I don't need it dusted.

I don't need it topped with something that looks like insulation foam.

I just want it hot, strong and capable of making me slightly less likely to tell everyone to fuck off before nine o'clock in the morning.

It's coffee.

Put it in a cup.

Give it to me.

And stop making me take a fucking GCSE before I'm allowed to drink it.

[Patrick Colson @ShimtaWarrior]

I can remember the moment I volunteered to come here. I was shown how the people on earth were treating each other, especially the children, and I was horrified. Up to that point, I had never seen anything like that. Only cohesion and harmony. I cried out, "WHY isn't anybody doing anything?!" My Father asked me what I would do and I said "I don't know what I would do but I would DO something!" Thr next thing I knew, I saw a blinding light and felt something I had never felt before, pain. It was that moment when my soul saw through human eyes for the first time. I was just born. The pain was from being spanked by the physician who delivered me. After 5 years of horrifying abuse in my family of origin, Father began greeting me each day (as soon as I opended my eyes) with a thought and a soft reminder, you're here for a reason ans everything will be ok. Every morning. I'm soon to be 56 now and can remember who I am. The journey has been hard but I know the why, the what, and the who. My assignment is to hekp people heal from trauma. To guide them through the detachment process of discovery. I've been doing this forbthe last 35 years in various roles that require me to teach, train, mentor, and speak heart truth to head trash. From children to adult, I've been called to teach emotional intelligence and life skills. From coaching youth sports to launching mentoring programs in public schools to owning businesses (that failed) to supervising youth sports programs for an entire county, to helping women who are certified personal trainers heal so that they can help their clients heal. Women healing from trauma who are moms. Every day, every challenge, has been a carefully planned training program preparing me. OJT. Engage, equip, empower. The vision I was given decades ago was that I would own a ranch. 100 acres or more. Draw people to nature. A universe training academy where people will be loved. They will be reminded who they are and taught what to do about it. My son's are having dreams about it now. And we are on the eve of seeing it manifest. Made possible by the RV. The Recovery Ranch.

[Jo E @Superjomax]

🚨 THE HIDDEN ADDITIVE IN OUR BASIC RIGHTS: Why you won’t see Folic Acid on your beer label. 🚨Did you know that the UK's mandatory folic acid food fortification rules are creating an invisible web across our entire food supply? It is quietly changing the staples we rely on, from breads and everyday sauces to the beers we share with loved ones—all while taking away our basic right to informed consent.If you think you can just check the label to avoid it, you need to know how the law handles alcohol. Under Assimilated Regulation (EU) No 1169/2011, synthetic folic acid is legally shielded from ever appearing on a beer bottle:

1️⃣ The Alcohol Exemption: Any drink over 1.2% ABV is entirely exempt from listing its ingredients. A beer label only has to declare allergens (e.g., "Contains: Wheat/Barley"). The components inside that wheat remain completely hidden

2️⃣ The "Carry-Over" Loophole: Even if a craft brewery chooses to voluntarily list their ingredients, they don't have to list the folic acid. Because it was added to the grain at the milling stage and serves no function in the final drink, it is legally classed as a "carried-over nutrient" and left off the bottle.

3️⃣ The Fortification Ban: Ironically, UK law strictly bans adding vitamins to alcohol. If a brewery listed "Folic Acid" on the back—even in brackets—Trading Standards would instantly classify the drink as an illegal, fortified product and recall it.

🙏💛
Why this matters to our humanity:

Food is not just fuel. It is the joy of cooking a budget-friendly meal for people we love. It is the simple pleasure of sharing a pint with a friend without worrying about forcing a synthetic additive into basic staples without clear labels, the system turns everyday socialising into a medical minefield.

It forces vulnerable people—including 3.5 million UK cancer patients, those with thyroid issues, or those with B12 deficiencies—to choose between awkwardly sharing private medical news at a dinner party or isolating themselves completely.

True wellness, laughter, and community shouldn't be a luxury only billionaires can afford in organic shops. We deserve the basic human right to choose what enters our bodies.

✍️ Please find and sign the active UK Parliamentary Petition: "End the mandatory fortification of white flour with folic acid immediately" to force a debate in Parliament. Share this post, protect our consumer rights, and let's bring back the freedom to eat and drink as we choose!
#FoodFreedom #InformedConsent #UKHealth #ConsumerRights #KnowYourFood #UKLaw #MedicalAutonomy #folicacid @jemmm85517813 @ClareCraigPath @LozzaFox @RupertLowe10 @ABridgen @GBNEWS @KTHopkins @JeremyClarkson

[IAm:Only...me 💫🍀🍄🌷🌟💥🎀❤️🤍💙💚💓💛🧡🖤 @IAmOnlyMe8]

https://t.co/w6BoToOFIC

[IAm:Only...me 💫🍀🍄🌷🌟💥🎀❤️🤍💙💚💓💛🧡🖤 @IAmOnlyMe8]

Every child deserves a safe space to be themselves. Support neurodivergent children in Bolton by donating or sharing this fundraiser. Your help can make sensory sessions accessible for families facing financial challenges. Every bit counts! https://t.co/OzYCravUnt

[Carolyn Wood @CannieW54]

@IntrovertProbss Indeed. 😉

[Scilla Wessels @scillawessels3]

The most dangerous minds are the woman empaths who finally choose themselves, because their clarity cannot be negotiated. For years they were taught, directly and indirectly, that their value lived in how much they could hold, how much they could forgive, how much they could understand, and how little they needed in return. When they choose themselves, they do not become cruel. They become exact. They stop offering their life as an open account for anyone else’s withdrawals, and that shift frightens the people who were comfortable with her constant giving.

A woman empath is often raised to believe that love means endurance. She learns to read a room faster than she reads her own body. She becomes skilled at calming tension, predicting moods, preventing conflict, and absorbing what others refuse to face in themselves. She becomes the quiet fixer, the steady listener, the one who “does not make a fuss”. Over time, she is rewarded for being easy to lean on, and punished when she asks to be held too. This is how she is trained to carry storms that were never hers to weather, while being told it is simply her nature.

Her sensitivity is not a weakness; it is perception. She notices what is avoided, what is denied, what is disguised as humour, what is disguised as charm. She can sense a hurt person behind a harsh voice, and she can recognise fear behind control. But when her empathy is exploited, her perception is used against her. She is invited to understand people who will not take responsibility. She is pushed to excuse behaviour that should be confronted. She is praised for being “the bigger person” until her entire life becomes a series of smaller and smaller spaces she is told to accept.

What changes her is not a sudden desire to punish others. It is the moment she realises the cost of always being available. It is the day she understands that exhaustion is not a badge of love, and that constant emotional labour is not the same as devotion. It is the point at which her body begins to protest: headaches, tension, sleeplessness, numbness, a tightness in the chest when she says yes while meaning no. She begins to see that she has been calling this care, when much of it has been fear of rejection, fear of conflict, fear of being seen as difficult.

When she turns inward, something long neglected begins to speak clearly. She starts asking herself questions she once avoided because everyone else’s needs were louder: What do I feel when nobody is watching? What am I tolerating that is teaching people how to treat me? Why do I apologise for having limits? Why do I keep offering softness to those who treat it as an entitlement? These questions are not comfortable, because they do not allow her to hide behind being helpful. They bring her face-to-face with the places she has abandoned herself to keep other people close.

This is where her boundaries become sacred doorways rather than walls. A doorway does not exist to keep life out; it exists to decide what is allowed to enter. She learns that access to her time, her attention, her emotional energy, and her trust is not something anyone automatically deserves. She begins to understand that her no does not require a courtroom-level defence. She does not have to provide a long explanation to make her refusal acceptable. Her no becomes a complete sentence, and her yes becomes something she gives only when it does not cost her dignity.

[Cosmic Insights 🌻 @Awakenthyself33]

REPEAT AFTER ME:

I don't need to do what everyone wants me to do.
I don't have to anticipate people's needs.
I don't need anyone to approve of me.
I don't have to explain myself.
I don't need to feel guilty about my boundaries.
I don't have to say yes if I want to say no.
I don't need to feel bad for staying home.
I don't have to overextend myself to be enough.
I don't need to feel the way someone else feels.
I don't have to minimize my emotions.
I don't need to pretend I'm different.
I don't have to put others before myself.

[The Mind Architect @RubyRadiantLLC]

This isn't an emotional withdrawal; it's a non-negotiable protocol for Asset Protection. Your 'free time' is not empty time; it is your system’s mandatory 'Recharge and Recalibration Period.' Other systems perceive it as an 'unclaimed resource.' With age, the OS learns that your most valuable asset isn't capital; it's sovereign time. To 'stop explaining' is to assert full root access over this asset. A player gets annoyed. An architect secures the firewall.

[Marcelle @TheMindfulVista]

Function at a pace that doesn't pull you apart.... Have a great week!