Monday, October 22, 2018

This little chicky ate roast beef

There was a left over slice of roast beef swimming in concealed fat and juices. It was okay to eat but off putting. It's not chicken so I fed it to the chickens. After feeding the bigs their share I tipped the last of it---juice, fat and slice---into an empty dustpan and set it down for the rest.

Gone, completely gone. They ate every piece, every white bit of fat and drank all the juice. It seemed to be the best reaction they've had yet in "will they eat this?", the game played by every backyard chicken enthusiast since backyards and chickens have been a thing.

Given the pecks I've had it seems clear that they will also eat people if they get the chance.


Saturday, October 20, 2018

0–100 in 165 minutes

I hate making phone calls; hate it. I hate having to deal with social niceties then intro the topic. I know in this day and age to make a phone call to a stranger to their phone who is not expecting it is treated with wary suspicion by the stranger—if they even take the call at all. 

I threw myself into it. I called and called then called some more. By the end I'd cracked almost half the sheet and done a hundred plus calls, I didn't need the script and I'd honed my patter as warm, engaging and excited. It helped the calls were for something nice not nasty but still for someone who hates phone calls who then has to make a hundred plus in a single sitting it was deliciously awful. I didn't like it, I hate annoying people so getting them past why they were being bothered was a burr I had to rub each time but it didn't go nasty. The first time I ever cold called for a group I got someone at dinner time and they chucked a screaming snit at me leaving me to complete just 10 attempts before giving up.  No one likes being yelled at; in person or via phone.

So I did it. It's just part of the gig and I have to accept the need to talk voice-to-voice. However it went as good as it could go and I had the grim satisfaction of completing, emotionally intact, a difficult task for someone with the added complications of depression, anxiety, PTSD and OCPD. 

The irony is all four—my horsemen of the apocalypse—make me a better someone. 

How's that for a win? Take that, life wake.

UPDATE: I finished the sheet. It took longer and was more stressful. Go figure.

Friday, October 19, 2018

A thin trickle of watery blood

That's what greeted me after checking the toilet post motion. It is decidedly unsettling and deeply unsexy to see a thin trickle of watery blood after going number two but I know at least it's not my arse spouting it but the right thigh ever boil "popping" against the seat.

It's watery because it's not just blood, it's whatever goes into a boil as well. It's gross and does not bear talking about.

The ever boil is a good metaphor for me; I'm leaking from an ever present wound that just will not heal. 

This morning I had to fight the urge to savage at my body and I succeeded. Just. I had a go at the thigh lump for a bit when I realised I had just returned to an out of the way spot I could have at where it's not disfiguring.

It's fucked to be caked in so much damage you get relief from damaging your body but that's just what it is; to have OCPD is to likely have a co-morbidity of picking at your body

You'd think someone born and raised damaged wouldn't damage themselves further but that's what being caked in damage does. 

I didn't choose this body but the rest of the world, parents included, presumed I did. I guess if the world says you're damaged what's one more puckered scar from picking at yourself to seek relief?

Stupid mental injuries—physically skin deep but in the brain all the way to the core.

Thursday, October 18, 2018


With a change in psychs it meant I had to brief the new one on me. I stole half of someone's appointment and ended at ninety-two minutes. I cried near the end after I spoke of what happened and how to deal with the twin injuries of childhood and adult trauma.The hardest was talking 'bout self harming through gouging at my face, thigh and feet. That to pick at your body gives you a weird peace because of damage to brain chemistry and how to break that habit of mutilation.

I'm like the bargain trolley at the gates of hell.

I was jittery after and had a V in the afternoon. My brain wants to revisit what was said and please I just don't want to do that. 

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Near double stack

There's a path junction that curves up a hill that forces me to dismount unless I go the other direction, turn around, and go up it at speed. I failed half way up and had to jam brakes to stop sliding and the angle meant I tilted and nearly tipped; twice. For I went back twice to try it after the first fail to see if it could be done. Ridden up without dismounting,

Could not do it without the run up from the other direction. It was horrifying on the last tip where I thought I was going to smash sideways then slide down the path and it was luck it didn't happen.

That junction is my trike's baby with the one eyebrow; its nemesis.

I wish it wouldn't drag me into its fights; it's a high conflict machine.

Also my microwave got in a twitter beef with the fridge. Honestly, they should stop stuffing AI into everything.


Sunday, October 14, 2018

Mangled approach

I was too keyed up so I hit up a speaker before photos and had half a minute to make the pitch. I was nervous, stumbled and did a bad job. I caught myself pacing on the fail when I got home; for like a typo in a report that is a forever mistake and I have the fail sads. 

But you can only fail if you try; to not try is to never chance to succeed.

Wheels within wheels, turns within turns.


UPDATE: ... and mangled the follow-up email. I was using webmail and the fucking email was sent two lines in and without the pared back edit of the below text. I had to grit teeth and re-do and accept the fact that happened. To help accept it I had valium; but it's been more than a month since I last some and that's been the longest break so far. Today was applicable use; the technocrat equiv of punching yourself in the balls.

Saturday, October 13, 2018

The cat knocked the skeleton hand from the table

I realised as I said those words—it was a plastic back scratcher skeleton hand—that it was an unusual set of words to say and it sounded a bit like an early reader that went wrong ala "the cat sat on the mat" only in this case body parts instead of furnishings

That would make those readers more interesting and it should be encouraged with other body parts twinned with cat-based antics; "the cat nuzzled the hip bone", "the cat stood on the metatarsal" and "the cat ate the hippocampus; where the fuck did it get that hippocampus?!" 

I think the kids would get more value out of that; plus it's early exposure to anatomy and situational appropriate cursing.

The lost cough

For as long as I can remember honking up goobs on waking has been a thing for me and my unsettled lungs. Sometimes the cough ejects with force and the goob is powered through the air, with two fat ends and a linking middle bit like chain shot, and it lands on something. 

In this case I coughed into my wardrobe and saw "it" fly into the clothes within. I confess to a weary sigh at my Something About Mary lost lung ejaculate but the silver lining was I found it within two seconds; it did not remain undetected hanging off an ear

It was tacky enough I could pick it off with my fingers with the snot hanging between them and I got to a tissue instead of it being wiped off somewhere it should not. 

So the cough was lost but just for a second; I dealt with the unpleasantness in a timely, efficient manner. 

If you do have goobs honking it up in the shower is best; but this snuck out of nowhere and I honked into storage. I like to think that if that had been the Narnia wardrobe it would have crossed worlds and hit the witch queen's sleigh dwarf in the eye and caused him to stack it. 

Take one from a broken Son of Adam!