Monday, April 15, 2019

... rumoured to have its old frogs

That's what it told me Zarithpa was famous for. It's such an odd phrasing but pleasing. And also, old frogs. How do they know? How are they making sure someone isn't swapping out dead frogs for new to sucker in yet more into their brazen old frog trade?

Warlords II. Just about the must fun game ever.

Monday, April 01, 2019


I had to remote in from a new PC and it was terrifying. Not heart thudding terror but heightened awareness of it all having happened before; a sense memory of near death.

It went fine, the ill-ease ebbed and while it did not pass I did not trip into unreasoned panic.

That’s life with a workplace mental health injury; ordinary things can give you the deep frights.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

A day

In a re-spawn I gained access to resources I’d never imagined. It’s like having a bat cave but without the batabs to back it up. The flabs yes; abs no.

That makes me batecstatic

Bus sads 
I met someone who had no cash but was catching a bus that didn’t use MyWay. I gave them a ten without them asking and I waved off their offer of an e-transfer back. I saw them get on and they smiled goodbye.

When I was a student I was busted-arse poor. I lived near my brother. I ran into him at an intersection and he gave me a twenty. He earned money in band gigs. That twenty was magic. It meant I could pay house share expenses and get a can of Diet Coke. I didn’t ask for it; he just knew what it was like to have no money and he gave me a twenty. That’s the kind of generous cat he is. Ever since I’ve tried to pay that forward.

In the old days of Canberra a begging scam was “I’ve lost my wallet; can I have two bucks for fare home?” You’d hand over two bucks which back then covered a ride then watch them walk to another person and tell the same tale. In front of you; because they did not give a fuck. So the counter was to keep a ten ride ticket with two rides left and if they asked for money you offered that. I don’t think I had to use it but it was there at the ready. But this was the genuine deal and I re-dealt a good turn.

I had the glow of a rescue done and I felt batecstatic. 

Oh God!
I was leaving a complex on foot when nausea swamped and I threw up on the grass behind the letter boxes. In the distance was a muffled “Oh God!” from the unit nearest to me. I can’t be certain that was cause and effect but it seemed a perfect riposte. I threw up two more times before I got to the car and then dry wretched leaning on the back until throat burn. I drove to the nearest servo and got a Diet Coke to de-acid the throat and then, puddling sweat with the AC cranked, furtled home. As I drove the relief of nausea clear washed over and I re-felt batecstatic.

That’s a threefer; a fucking batthreefer.

Monday, February 11, 2019

Things that could have killed me: a minature Volxwagon

It was lying on the path twixt the shed and the house and had my lumbering, shuffling over-fed self stood on the one to thirty-two scale black Volkswagen Beetle then my flat feet would have slipped, I'd have fallen backward and caved in my skull heel on the concrete path. 

NowMikey saw it and kicked the car under a table. 

If the multi-verse theory is correct and the universe is but multi-versions of me then a decent chunk of those mes are dead.

That would have been some coroner's report though. 


Hands deep in whale spoof

I'm still wading through Moby Dick, reading it in bursts on my iPhone. I recently got through a chapter about the narrator's experience at de-lumping spermaceti, the oil taken from the whale's head.

Of course he shortens spermaceti to sperm and there are many passages of how much he enjoys being up to his arms in the stuff and how pleasant a task of squeezing the lumps it is.

The name of the chapter is "A Squeeze of the Hand".

An excerpt:

Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,—Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness. 

I am not so old as to find that deeply hilarious.

Wednesday, February 06, 2019


The trouble with re-opening wounds of mental trauma is falling into expressions of angry grief.

I was reminded of my life of people with a duty of care for me thugging me over and I started yelling. Then I sat down with food, made whilst yelling, then yelled at my iPhone sitting next to me. I presume my angry trauma-afflicted self recognised phone equals persons being yelled at on the other end so I yelled at it even though the phone was off.

Angry yelling at people who are not there is actually normal; there's a bunch of therapy techniques that use it. It's not the first time I've yelled at a phone either but traditionally that was applied as a phone was ringing or after a call ended.

Trauma: it's traumatic. For me and my phone.

UPDATE: I was lying on my bed and lifted my phone to use it when my hand sprang open to throw the phone into my teeth. Well played, iPhone...

Monday, February 04, 2019


The side-effect of wins is they remind you of wounds. And even if not actively mulling your subconscious does and leaden fatigue sets in. I've been wretched for two days, entwined round a body pillow as my body and brain semi-hibernate. It's a common reaction, I slept weeks away after initial injury. 

I feel old already with early-worn joints but additional lethargy makes me ancient.

But it's just for now and not for long. There are sunny wakeful hours ahead.


Sunday, February 03, 2019

Levelled up

My psych was the one who told me, that I had landed on my feet. I hadn't realised and she was right---there was a golden cross on the top right of my character pic indicating I'd levelled up. 

I got to a tavern, sold some loot and clicked to go up and I rolled a one for hit points. Typical.