Friday, February 23, 2018

Happy cluckers

I split a corn cob three ways, one piece each for the adults and one piece for the little ones. The latter clucked with content as they hoed into it. 

I watched, sipping from a bottle of Diet Coke, and felt calm fall upon me. 

Chickens; a soothing presence for a wounded mind.

Mind melting fail acknowledged; cue happy panic attack

I got contact to say my revisions landed and not to worry, checks would be made.

I then had a full blown happy panic attack. I think it's actually just a panic attack—I'm in it right now—but the relief that my failure has been noted and will be corrected swamped and frightened me. 

That's bizarre. But my brain is so injured that even good news that a fail I made will get fixed causes a severe anxiety attack. 

I blame the Lovecraftian nature of the work; people are not meant to meddle with the Elder Ones and the more I learn the more insane I become. 

Hence a panic attack to someone who succeeds at a repair because they're still so mortified about the need for the repair in the first place.

One day my brain will not do this; it will not suffer an acute reaction

I will now apply a mindfullness exercise to de-clench and to not feel like a fat rolling ball of failure.

As fast as Blobby's scooter with passengers

I went for a ride on the BYB to the local shops only I couldn't actively ride, I had to use the electric-motor and no legs while my leg wound site is healing.

Getting there was fine, but on the way back and with shopping that's when the BYB went from zippy to painfully slow; as slow as Blobby's rascal scooter when all the gang from Hotel Transylvania hop on.

I had to bend over the handlebars to distribute weight better for the motor and nearly didn't make it up the slightest of inclines on the final stretch.

That I have a human-like Blobby form, being nearly as round as I am tall, was not lost on me.

Thursday, February 22, 2018

Fear pizza

Still swamped with the terror of wrong data I was given three pieces of delicious home-made pizza. So I ate them with trepidation on the garden swing, riddled with fright. It is surreal to do normal things and enjoy them whilst coated in a thick layer of failure and dread. 

I look forward to other fear-afflicted food consumption like craven ice-cream eating and the terrified nibbling of cheese. Oh, God, there's crackers too?!

(Dives behind couch)

Mind melting fail

I reviewed a Lovecraftian work but fucked up the data and had to re-do it—twice.

The first time I was so horrified I put a plastic bag on my leg and had it tied off with a rubber band to have a shower to take the anxiety away. The bag was to keep a leg wound dry.

It was in the shower that I realised I'd fucked up a dataset again and again had to re-send. So I stopped my shower, took off the bag and with towel alone delved back in, fixed it, and re-submitted.

I'm glad I caught it but the manner in discovering them then the physical and mental reaction I had to that was hideous. Like crushing existential dread.

I've had two more V and have the shakes. I have to go off and do something nothing to do with Cthulhu Mythos.

Fucking hell. I mean, just, fucking hell.

Dancin' slightly with the other leg

I cannot ride until a potentially-cancerous wound site has fully healed and I'm not supposed to put stress on that leg.

But I still felt the need for some light shaking which approximates dance for someone with a mildly-warped body. So I danced slightly with the other leg.

I only did it for a bit, but it was worth the risk. Sometimes you have to dance like there is no-one watching. I'll have one more shimmy before I stop.

Returns to standing for a short while with an occasional wobble of the good leg.

WFTW.

More food?!

Party pies with their tops missing and a bit of sauce on the still not-eaten beef (equals) yes.

Chickens; what will they get to eat next?!

Wednesday, February 21, 2018

Outside wee went wrong

I was shaking off after an outside wee and a drop landed on top of a foot. By reflex I wiped the foot on the back of the other leg which until recently was always covered as I wore ladies PJ pants during my now not-work life. 

Until recently; on doctor's orders I am wearing short shorts to prevent thigh chafe.

So all I did was wipe wee from the top of my foot to the back of my other leg.

Outside urination; it does come with risk.

The Princess and the Pea but for carpet; am available for tests

Thanks to my womb-deformed body I have flat feet. Not flat as in “fallen”, flat as in utterly flat. My foot print is all foot and toes; there is no side print—I am full print. 

We’ve re-seeded the lawn where the chicks’ hutch sat and the grass seeds stuck to my crocs and transferred into the shed onto the IKEA carpet that saved my life. 

Because of those feet I can feel the slightest imperfection in a surface, like Vimes from Discworld could know what street he was on based on the feel of the cobblestones through his boots, and grass seeds on an IKEA carpet are nasty. Like The Princess and the Pea nasty.

For those not in the know the poor girl was so inbred she needed twenty mattresses to sleep on—if someone stuck a pea under one she’d know it. At some point in history that body fail became a mark of aristocracy because it happened to a lot of them since they were always someone’s cousin.

I vacuumed the carpet—a hard gig for my bod but I had a gin and tonic first—and now the seeds are gone and my lovely head-cushioning carpet is not horrid to walk across.

Let me also add this; stepping on LEGO—think that’s bad for a normal foot? Try a The Princess and the fucking Pea foot and then step on one. 

Outside (Dark): scream comes from house.

I'm not descended from aristocracy; I just didn’t enjoy pre-natal care and was bullied for the result. 

If there are any carpet people that need a lamo like me to stalk their wares for a luxury test then you don’t know where to find me.

Bin bag shower

First up I am checking in for privilege. I am a white male in a Western society with hot and cold clean, disease free water on tap that I can not only drink but cook, shower and garden with. 

That is monstrous privilege. 

Because of my LLL I have to put a plastic bag on my lower left leg to protect the stitch site when showering. We'd tried glad-wrap but there was seep through. 

Today, alone, I went with bin bag tape-sealed at the top. It worked. It was weird to have a bag taped to one-half of a leg and because I had my leg up when I put on the tape the tape stretched on the skin when I lowered it to the floor.

But it worked; the lower leg stayed dry. 

It reminded me, yet again, what a simple pleasure having a shower can be; because this minor annoyance will go and I will be back to the normal glow of hot, running, clean water over my womb-robbed body which will no longer have a bin bag strapped to half a leg. 

Simple pleasures; savour them. Because they could be gone in an instant.

A happy sanity check

I am mentally ill and mentally injured. I have to be reminded this by thewife on occasion when I say things that may not be anchored in reality or attempt things that may seem a reach.

I've been immersed in stressful work and had to confirm it was not for nought. 

It wasn't; it's not. It's not for nought. 

I judder-cried at the response; that it wasn't for nothing. That this delving into dark might bring forth the light.

I had to take Valium for the weird uncertainty of angerhappysad. My right arm cradles my left shoulder when I'm in a deeply anxious state and in a pause of typing up my arm went. 

So it's battle anthem time and an acknowledgement that in an insane world it's the insane that attempt for sanity.

WFTW.

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

An adventure with an everyday object

Tweezers. I picked them up and then my PTSD-afflicted and womb-robbed fingers immediately dropped them. I risked a bend to pick them up.

Then I tweezed out the hair that re-grows from the freckle on my nose. That I succeeded at that is amazing but I had to hold the wrist with the other hand because of the trembles.

I hate dropping things for seeming no reason; but there is one, I was injured and I am forever stained by that injury.

Spree shootin' is manly work

Another mass shooting and mass grieving and again it happened to Florida

And, as the tale of the life of the alleged shooter comes out, those that were not shot have already started acting with those students getting their shit on and taking their pain public.

What grips me are the stories of the people who were shot, often while protecting others and often people they did not know. 

When a spree shooter comes it's humanity at its very worst and at its very best. 

But what I cannot understand is the mindset of someone who thinks that taking a weapon of war that is designed to speedily and accurately kill human beings into a place of defenceless people then shooting at them is fulfilling. 

I cannot understand the people that do up spreadsheets to compare the sprees and dreamily Walter Mitty themselves into the position of the gunman—and it is almost always men; if there are women involved it's because they've been subsumed by the ego of the monster making them do it.

You took a tool designed to kill people then kill people with it. For what purpose? To slake your torment? There are people whose pain is worse than yours who don't do up spreadsheets, accrue arsenals then use them on people without weapons of their own. 

It's as manly as picking up a kitten and dashing it against a wall. Do you then keep a kitten-dashing spreadsheet and dreamily think of other juvenile felines of different breeds and different types of wall to throw them at? "A Burmese against brushed concrete!" "A tabby versus faux-brick!"

It makes as much sense as manly thinkin' 'bout school shootin'. 

The names of these killers are etched in culture and the shadow of their pain casts wide.

But while you're the very worst, a person who gets off on hurting others, there's a hundred not like you who would stand in front of a stranger to take their bullet for them.

Nothing will happen while Trump is president to make these weapons harder to get and hold. But that won't stop the survivors of Marjory Stoneman Douglas stepping on the shoulders of the survivors of Columbine and Sandy Hook trying their fucking best to tell people what it is like to hole up in a room and prepare to die.

Monday, February 19, 2018

Leg lump liquidated

My new doc noticed the raised scar tissue on my left leg and said it was big and angry enough to not risk it and so off it went.

The local injection was the hardest part—it was a prolonged "OWOWOWOWOWOWOW" reaction from me as the needle did its business. 

But then the lump was excised and evidence-bagged for cancer, I was stitched up and off I went.

It means no riding an exercise bike for at least a week and wearing a plastic bag—he recommended Woolies—taped below my knee in the shower to keep the site dry. So a week off riding on doctor's orders.

I haven't been conscious for bits of my being lopped off or probed since I was a teen and had a face lump taken off without warning after my mum took me to the doctor and didn't tell me why we were there. Likely to forestall panic given a fear of needles I got from being constantly needled to the point where mishaps happened like one going into muscle instead of a vein. 

Before puberty kicked in that face lump would grow a fine but long super hair that I would not notice but would wave around with the decorous hint of a spider web caught for a moment in sunlight if people happened to be looking at me. The lump wasn't that big, but the lump's hair was something else. 

I'm being reduced by sleight. I like it.

UPDATE: It is many hours later. It stings. Not too bad but it stings. I look forward to the bag shower later.

Black cat comes to every opening

Every time my leg boil is attended to the black cat investigates. Last time was Valentines Day. She sits on my stomach as thewife squeezes ichor from the site.

Maybe it's simple curiosity; cats are known for investigating things. Or maybe she finds the process of human wound attending especially curious?

But it is annoying to have to push a cat that keeps coming back away because she gets in the way of the boil draining.

It feels like a premiere; there should be red carpet leading to the bed and paps asking questions about who is wearing what. In the cat's case it would be "me wearing me". 

Leg boils, fascinating for the squeezers and cats both.

Sunday, February 18, 2018

Scared so had a break

I endured the crafting of another Lovecraftian email—only one typo this time and I didn't re-send it when found because it almost looked right for the absence of a pair of commas—but then had to step away from the computer lest additional hurt land. 

So I found Game of Thrones, set it up on the laptop, then rode the bike to break the spell. I hate this shit; having to re-live again and again what happened to me, the horror I endured and the ongoing knock-on damage it caused. GoT would zone me out that.

It was an episode where Sam goes back home and his fucking dad hangs shit on him for being a fat failure—Sam having killed a White Walker at this point. And boy did I feel that fat hate lash down upon me. I wasn't disinherited and sent to The Wall for being a fatty failure but I was told and treated as such by all right up until the death of my mother. 

I didn't choose my body; Sam (or the actor) didn't choose his. Yet life has hung shit on us for having the best genes to survive times of low food because right now, in this minute period of time for the existence of people, in the West at least you can basically eat as much as you want. I am blamed for genetic efficiency for when most of humanity lived nomadic from feed to feed and people like me survived because we stored and released fat-based energy the most-effectively. 

It wasn't until the '30s cheap food became available in the West and the poor could, through various means, get fat and still be poor. That's when the rich became obsessed with being skinny. They still ate, just the choicest of foods that only toffs like them could afford. 

We've been a species for about what, 1.6 million years? And for the last 88 years only has cheap, available, constant food supply for the bulk of a society been enabled—and that's just the West; the third world it's still hand to mouth for most.

It's ironic to be punished for having the right stuff to store stuff in times of plenty for when there is not. But that's just how it is in the West; to be fat is to be a failure, and you're ironically more at risk of being fat the poorer you are because of various factors at play in a society with a social welfare net.

It was nice to have that real-life reminder of the way I was treated as I was riding an exercise bike to arrest some of the inexorable growth of my girth. Delicious irony; "like, give me a fucking chance, Universe". 

But as humans we're primed to see patterns. And in fiction when I see a fat person have shit hung on them for being fat I feel it right to my core—even though I didn't cause it to happen but judged all the same I am. 

UPDATE: My ride happened to end just at the point Sam was emasculated by his over-bearing prick of a father. It's the next day and I'm watching the rest now and seeing Sam reclaim his honour by fucking off with his dad's sword. And hearing Gilly be angry at people like his father who treat others with disdain. So I feel better; still angry. But better.

Screen wipe

I have to use a Clearwipe on the laptop screen because splatter from expectorant and other assorted disgust has sullied it to the point where I can't tell if that's punctuation or a bit of yuck.

It's near nine-years-old, this machine, bought when still working and on a discount. It's served me well—and still does 'cos all I use it for now is writing and research.

But it does need a good clean to get the lung-ejected remnants and bodies of insects past from me making mistakes such as missing a period because of spotting.

UPDATE: Two Clearwipes and it's still not fully clean. But I have run out of wipes. 

You win this time, phlegm shards. 

Sex paddock

Two of our nine chicks were confirmed as boys and got taken back to the place from whence they came. They will live out their lives in a paddock protected by an electric fence where they will be called on to have sex with hens.

It's a rich libertine life for male chicken; to not be eaten and to live out your life fucking and rooting around in a paddock.

When I was a kid my parents took our cat "to live on a farm" and my mother stayed committed to that bit until she went full-blown dementia and I could never nail down the truth. The truth was the cat was my cat, it was an outside cat that lived at the house as a semi-feral when we moved in, and even though one leg was crippled she was capable enough to take down birds. So good-bye cat and "off to the farm".

These male chicks went off to the farm but it's fully legit; not a dystopian fallacy where paradise is actually a knife and a drum of hot water to boil off your feathers. The now-over-sized rooster we'd given back before was still there, strutting about the sex paddock and living an Eloi life with no Morlocks to worry about. Now two scruffs will join him.

The sex paddock; the best ending you can get for being a rooster.

Saturday, February 17, 2018

This pen is brought to you by the number nine or the letter g

I just saw in the chicken pen there is a foam or plastic number nine or the letter g.

It's the second weirdest thing found in the pen since that rubber Darth Vader head.

Fright sounds

With thanks to The Beach Boys

Because I have PTSD, if I am also physically vulnerable then my anxiety level is up and my wounded brain interprets some sounds as threats.

Being half-naked on an exercise bike and facing away from the door in a metal shed makes me feel vulnerable. A bunch of metal on metal noises happened outside and I asked for who it was to go away because my brain treated them as scary noises. They did, but then they came back for more activity. Freshly scared I asked again but then they came back one more time.

After the ride and after the shower I explained why but was met with fatigue. I fully get that; putting up with my crap like not making noise near the shed when I am riding is fucked. It's a garden where noise happens, where chickens live. But I could not handle the additional noises of human activity because my brain felt it a threat.

I'm bummed. I'm bummed I had to say it, I'm bummed they have to endure it. I'm bummed because I got injured and may forever have a brain on the cusp of fight flight.

Ugly not-duckling

I was grappling with my past when a karmic moment droppedtheir hate made me beautiful.

I spent a childhood smothered in negativity from my diversion to the norm—that my mother caused—which caused on-set of depression at ten.

It never left; it will never go. My brain is a brain riddled to the core with depression—countered with medication, counselling and cognitive behaviour therapy.  

And occasional moments like this; their hate made me beautiful.

I don't mean in the literal sense; I'm ugly as fuck and would find no ability to work as an extra because my oddity draws focus. But I mean in the output sense, in the "what have you done?" sense. 

Without the fire of childhood, without the twisted journey that led me from there, I wouldn't have done what I did and having depression made me fucking awesome at it. I created and fostered beauty in a place deeply grim.

An ugly artist makes great art is as clichéd as a tortured artist makes great art. But it wasn't art I was doing; it was social engineering. And I was beautiful at it. 

Their hate made me beautiful. That is a profound realisation.