Saturday, June 25, 2016

Vote 1 Jesus Christ

I was furtling down the parkway, dark bats swooping low around me (1), when I went past a series of political corflutes, the most prolific of which were the Sex Party's which promise to bring back the fireworks (2). 

Then there was the "Vote 1 Jesus Christ" sign. Now I presume that's a promo for the Christian Democrats or similar-ilk but it did get me wondering that if Jay C manifested to run for office that it would be likely his views would be decidedly Bronze-age and not in-line with our post-Millennial needs. He should get that; he's why we're post-Millennials. 

I support a large part of his platform—loving one another, for example—but his overt divine religiousness is a problem for me and his current support for all ten of the commandments, in spite of some clearly barking-mad stuff still in there, would likewise dissuade me from voting for him.

Though I would be curious as to his views on the environment, separation of church and state ("Give unto Caesar") and mass-transit (3).

(1) There were no bats; I was in a Hunter S mood.
(2) As a person with PTSD who can be easily startled into acute fight (slash) flight needless to say I am against The Sex Party on bringing back fireworks. That and the fireworks don't just happen on firework night—cock-spanks light them off in public places after dark in the weeks following the big firework days we used to have in Canberra—such as the Queen's Birthday. At this point I must now confess that thewife and I did exactly that; lit off fireworks in a public park at night weeks after the official firework night. We used an old thick wooden park sign from our old University as the base to launch them from. On the first fireworks night in Canberra I got drunk and let off fireworks whilst still holding the firework, a monstrously stupid thing to do. I quite rightly condem past-me's casual and unsafe use of fireworks and I should be held up as an example of what not to do. I also nearly set fire to the next-door neighbour's house when a parachute firework, that launches then drops a plastic soldier that floats down on a plastic chute, because the chute caught fire and the soldier landed on their roof. Fortunately, the roof was tiled and no embers from the fire-shredded chute drifted to potential leaf-blocked gutters. No to fireworks!
(3) That said "undo" instead of "unto". I fixed it. Delightful error.  

Mikey buys ice-cream

I bought two tubs of A2 vanilla ice-cream; a glorious dessert I can eat and which does not cause upset.

Shop person—"So, got any plans this weekend?"

Me—"Well I'm not eating four litres of ice-cream if that's what you're thinking."

Technically, that is true, because they're 1.8 litre tubs.

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

I got a walk-in-the-pod thanks

Because I am so naturally gifted—it's not natural; it's time-worn—I do a lot of work. And, thanks to the role I am in, I am doing boring back end website admin that had to be done but until I trotted along no one had the skills, patience and talent to pour through it like the knights of the Vale into the back end of the hapless Flayed Men. 

Some of the rebuilds have been scary big, and dealing with the quirks of SharePoint and its formatting carry-over when you paste in from Word causes no end of frustration. Today I hissed at a stubborn dot point that just would not appear on the first line under a header—"you fucking fuck, get the fucking fuck up there!". That and my machine was so sluggish I had to do a cold re-boot to speed it the fuck back up (1).

Today I got a thanks. She may have been passing but she came into the work pod (2) and thanked me for all the awesome effort I'd done for her team. 

I glowed with inner smugness. How could I not? I'd done a fucking awesome job.

(Stands, triumphant, in hero wind).

UPDATE: Got a passing-in-the-corridor thanks from a ++ for helping his team out. Fuck me it feels good to work for purpose and receive thanks for it. Maybe my values are driven by brain chemistry? I get a full-on rush from the helping then the getting thanks for it. It's possible I spend so much effort looking after people because that's how I look after myself—and that I prove everyone else wrong by my good works. 

UPDATE2: I got lost in my building again. I got 35m down a strange corridor before I realised I was on the wrong floor. My visual cue is now the purple flowers (I presume fake) on the white steel two-drawer cabinet on the left as I pass through the far section doors. Take that, getting lost. 

(1) I fully recognise that my suffering was very much first world—but I bet a farmer never rage quit a hoe. That being said I didn't rage quit the box—I calmly switched it off and waited a couple of minutes as I read a review about the upcoming Ghostbusters in my Time magazine. Ladies of comedy, I await the pleasure of your company.
(2) It sounds futuristic, doesn't it? A work pod. It's just a term for usually four or six workstations with a desk, computer and chair with the pod desks separated in lots of two and four (or just four) by waist-high dividers with the pods of four or six split from each other by neck-high dividers. Sometimes I get lost at my work—I end up on a different floor, outside the wrong door or find myself in a weird, rarely-used space like the back end of the far lifts. The building has a spooky magical feel to it. All I know is if I see the abandoned plushie ninja turtle, Raphael, at that empty workstation bookshelf that is just past the section doors then that means my pod lies one-and-a-half pods (2a) and a compactus further on. Thanks, Ninja Turtles!
(2a) Yes, you can have half a pod of two or three work stations in a line but they have no matching desks opposite them but a wall or compactus instead.  

Pringle lid missing; presumed scared

I'd lost my Pringle can lid. I looked for it everywhere in the kitchen where I thought it would naturally be. I was worried I'd be forced to gorge on the last third lest they go stale.

The lid wasn't there. So I asked myself "what was I doing with the Pringles when I was eating them?" I was slicing Pringles to sliver off shards of French goats cheese then munged down the yummy combo.

So I checked the French goats cheese tub and there was the lid. 

Français bâtards.

Sweater vest inside out

I got a new, slinky sweater vest from thewife, this one thin and soft as a cheek's caress. 

It's thin enough that I didn't notice the seams running either side of me today as it was worn inside out—tag jutting out from the side of the vest. No one said anything because the seams are so tight that the only give away is the ... actually, now that I see it that is a big fucking tag.

How did I not notice that?

Because it's so slinky; that's why.

Sweater vests; armour for those with the collar of white (1).

(1) While I wear collared shirts they are never white—and I won't wear a tie. It's psychologically and physically uncomfortable to do so. I had to get used to going into interviews and starting out explaining my attire—"Before we start, a quick note on me. I have to wear sneakers because of my feet and I can't wear a tie due to a fat neck". Yep, that's how I opened my delivery; no wonder I never got a call back.

Monday, June 20, 2016

Slipped right past the keeper

I'd been on a slow burn for days when it came bubbling out on the drive to work—my stressors and strains. I ended up in the lift, still crying, next to a colleague. I apologised for the tears, told him "one got past the keeper" and that "mental injury recovery is not linear". He was kind and understanding—and he let me talk my way to calm as he walked me to my desk.

Still jittery I had a Vallium then threw myself into work, fixing, building, editing, tweaking. I was over the worst of the emotion before the V even kicked in.

I hate that mental injury recovery is not linear. I loathe that one day I can feel I will never again be brought low but then I get brought low. 

But those moments are less often and the extremes less too. I went from a state of distress to my usual 1000 per cent state of flying hands and juggling jobs in under an hour. 

So mental injury recovery is not linear. But as time passes, you do heal and the hurts are less.

Recovery WFTW.

Sunday, June 19, 2016

Flipped to the future

I had much of the weekend alone, spent in an un-medicated daze, lying in bed with a hot water bottle and surfing the web or reading nerd books. 

Then, as I rode the bike each day, I had space outs. Today at least I spaced out forward; planning an activity I was going to do when I was done.

I had it all nutted out in my head after the hour and following a shower sat down and punched it out.

I was in the middle of a final polish just as thewife and theboy rolled in the door.

It felt good to space out forward instead of back. It's what you're supposed to do in a space out; if you're going to brood then brood with positivity about things that you can do that are well and not of woe.

So here's to brooding with positivity for the win and, as ever, for getting the fuck back up.

Saturday, June 18, 2016

Listless fail

I spent the day, listless. I lay and read and dozed then read then dozed. As late afternoon rolled around my head was spinning.

Then I realised. Not only had I not had caffeine I had failed to taking my morning head pill, a pill with a lifespan of about 15 hours. It had worn off on waking and hours later the wigs had kicked in.

A shower, pills and a coffee later the listlessness is still there but not as much. The head spins continue but they should pass soon.

That's the price you pay to be dependent on medication for psychological injury—to suffer when you don't have it. 

Of course the fail is mine; I had the medication, I just didn't take it because I am a tool and forgot to. 

Listless fail.

Friday, June 17, 2016


I work fast. I type fast. I work and I type fast. It makes me effective and highly productive. I'm a 10'xer for my trade: I'm worth ten people.

I got asked to find key entry points for information then put up some links. I searched and found the portals, stuck up the correct links, made it look all purty then pinged the "job complete" email.

I got called "Outstanding".

Now I know doing a bit of web research to find portals and then embedding links isn't the hardest job in the world. But the fact I got the job, sorted it in 20, then pinged the client back and got called "Outstanding" was a fucking awesome coda to the working week.

I am outstanding. I will always be outstanding. But it is sure is nice to hear someone else say it.


Thursday, June 16, 2016

Worth is from your values not output

I had another therapy session; another session of darkness explored with tears and anger. 

We talked about worth and how I put store in what I've done as a measure of my value but it was, she argued, the wrong way to think. Instead she asked why I did what I did and that led to the discussion on values.

It's your values that prove your worth; in how you respond to the needs of others. 

I had those values all along; the need to do my best to help people and minimise any hurt. I did it as a child, I did it as a teen and I did it—and do it—as a man. 

There in lies my worth; that I give a fuck. Because to not give a fuck is just not to be me.