Friday, October 30, 2015

Turns out I'd blown out my upper arse

I thought I'd twerked my back this week but after a visit to a chiropractor I realised it was the muscles in my upper arse that were sore—on both sides.

All because of an epic coughing fit where my body retracted into itself and the horrid "werch" feeling shot through my mid-section.

So yes, I'd blown out my upper arse muscles.

The chiro was of middling help, at least, I think so. It's hard to tell. My arse is still powerfully sore, powerfully, so once again no riding for me atop SoTPC. And I'm about to have days away as well. 

But it's okay. I accept the fact I cannot ride due to the blowing out of my upper arse area.

When I get up the blood rushes through the afflicted zone and I inadvertently thrust outward with my hips and yell a series of yips and gurgles. 

I look like Joe Cocker stroking out. 

The upper arse area does seem to be getting better, and sitting on a normal chair is okay. 

Sitting on the arse-killing seat of an exercise bike with a sore upper arse area would not be okay.

It's weird to have gone from a life of no exercise to one of an hour a day when physically capable—and I'm getting toey for not riding. If someone had ever said that would happen in my life I'd have called them a liar and set fire to their tie or neckwear equivalent. 

Ain't life a crazy path? I know I look back at my weird-yet-impacting lifepath and just marvel at what past-me accomplished and endured. 

Past-me is awesome.


Tuesday, October 27, 2015

Needed a second opinion

When home I try and ride SoTPC for an hour plus each day—20 kays and a bit.  The seat takes my weight so my decaying hip and arthritic knees are mostly supported—though I struggle to walk, riding a stationary bike I can still do (1).

I twerked my back and therefore cannot ride. But I still felt I had to get a second opinion as to whether I should not ride after hurting my back—and after I talked it out it was a "der, no". But I needed the out, I wanted them to give me the out.

I feel like an unwilling hero whose lover races up and begs him to choose life in shame with her rather than certain death at the hands of X who then bravely says "fuck that" to the chasm of eternal doom and fucks off with her on the back of a unicorn.

I am rationally able to determine that I cannot ride due to injury but still needed someone to say it was okay not to do it.

Oh, Mikey, you are a beardy contradiction. Accept it and love the joy of your arse not hurting for the next sixty plus minutes.

"Mmm, pain-free arse" (... gurgle...)

(1) I discovered yesterday I get arthritic pain-flare bursting out of my right knee and thigh if I have the fan blowing on me during a ride. So that will be a fun cost-benefit calculation to make come Summer. I'd like to see a Summer Coke ad campaign set around that! An older, short, balding half-naked man in his shed with sweat streaming, unable to cool down save for the cool deep quench of a (Insert X) Coca-Cola. Except I haven't drunk I Diet Coke in about eight months, quitting cold turkey after realising that artificial sweetener likely contributed to tummy troubles. Adios, one of my last vices. So that's no more green lid Dare iced coffee, and no more Diet Coke. I now drink water and A2 milk. Yay...

Monday, October 26, 2015

Mikey has a new song for the over-loud motorbike people

My shed sits abut a busy road within Canberra, so there's traffic noise aplenty that ripples through my safe-space.

I have fibromyalgia, IBS, anxiety and assorted horrors, all of which are exacerbated by sudden, painful noise.

Like that of a chopped bike riding past, where the muffler has been fucked with to be less muffling.

Some people have accused me of living my life like I'm in a sitcom, with wisecracks and unfortunate situations and so forth.

I prefer to think of my life as a musical. When alone I often break into song as if I'd stepped out of my reality for a moment to sing about what's on my mind.

As the presumed dickhead zoomed past on his dickhead machine I just started singing "Cock-spank on patrol ... he's a cock-spank on patrol ... cock-spank on patrol ... cock-spank on patrol..." and so on.

On patrol, you see, for people not being aware the presumed he is a cock-spank. Now they are, thanks this his aggressive patrolling, because presumed his horrid motorbike just spread the word of the cock-spankery.

Thanks, Mikey's brain, for the music. You inspire me.


Ghastly, isn't it?

With thanks to Marvin.

The trouble with IBS is that it's easily exacerbated such as by negative emotions or troublesome foods.

Last night I didn't have any of the latter, but I've been dealing with the former and so thus, in spite of good eating the night before, I had a patch of double horror upon waking.

But I still made it through the work day—even after successive at work like-bouts that came with pain and torment.

I look around at normals and wonder what it must be like to live a life without pain, without discomfort, without shrieking agony firing out some part of their body.

Then I sigh, understand that my disabilities give me abilities, then just get the fuck on with it.


Sunday, October 25, 2015

Nearly t-boned a taxi

I was driving through a round-a-bout and a station wagon taxi to the left went out in front of me. I applied my brakes in a squeeze-to-stop fashion and that combined with reduced speed from going up a hill meant we failed to connect. I caught a brief glimpse of the driver's frightened face as he sped off.

Go me and my safe driving.


It all sounds like the mad rantings of a crone curse

Thrice now I've gone to the toilet since waking an hour ago, each time progressively worse in output and internal damage. 

I realised it met the "rule of three" and thus could have been the result of a crone curse—"thrice you will go, 'ere the turn of a glass, and thrice thee shall cry in pain and torment." (1).

It makes sense though, being a crone and without access to a bedrock government support for the elderly, that you'd resort to the supernatural to give yourself social capital. You can't have any more kids, so if you have none around you're on you're own, and you're frail and unable to produce physical labour. Shrieking at people and denouncing them crone-style would really be your only way to access things like a half sausage or a third of a squirrel on a semi-weekly basis.

Poor fucking crones. 

In the Caroline Chisholm Centre here in Canberra, home to Human Services, there's this wall in the inner atrium that has a timeline of government support with the timeline running up to the roof. It starts at ground level with basic support at the bottom that came in at the turn of the twentieth century such as welfare for widows (insert year), old age pension (insert year), with the full list of support going up to the ceiling—a proud vertical en-rule that's not yet ended of successive governments recognising that their purpose is to help people, vulnerable people most of all. 

That's pretty cool—and a recognition that, as the Game of Thrones (TV series) says, "Some people will always need helping; it doesn't mean they're not worth helping."

Anyway, I reject the curse—I don't deserve it. But I do suspect it may have been helped along by the three squares of super milk chocolate I ate before going to bed.  Since that was the last stuff in and the horror of the thrice-output increased like the Richter scale upon each ceramic visitation—last in, last out. 

That's Mikey for you. He can combine personal introspection (offal, not head) and musings about old age support from the Middle-Ages through to the current day—toilet meets government.


UPDATE: Shortly after I posted this I rode SoTPC and felt much better. Plus I knocked the daily horror over early and got to enjoy my Sunday more. Thanks, epic levels of pain that forced me to medicate then exercise!

(1) Favourite TV bit featuring crone interaction is from Blackadder II—couldn't find video so below excerpt taken from script. Two scenes, both awesome.

In Putney (outside)

E:   Tell me Young crone, is this Putney?
C:   That it be, that it be.
E:   "Yes it is". Not "that it be". You don't have to talk in that stupid
     voice to me. I'm not a tourist. I seek information about a
C:   Ah, the Wisewoman.. the Wisewoman.
E:   Yes, the Wisewoman.
C:   Two things, my lord, must thee know of the Wisewoman. First, she is
     ... a woman, and second, she is ...
E:   .. wise?
C:   You do know her then?
E:   No, just a wild stab in the dark which is incidentally what you'll
     be getting if you don't start being a bit more helpful. Do you know
     where she lives?
C:   Of course.
E:   Where?
C:   Here. Do you have an appointment?
E:   No.
C:   Well, you can go in anyway.
E:   Thank you Young crone. Here is a purse of moneys ... which I'm not
     going to give to you. 
In Putney (inside)
W:   Hail Edmund, lord of Adders Black.
E:   Hello.
W:   Step no nearer, for already I see thy bloody purpose. Thou plot is,
     Blackadder: thou wouldst be king and drown Middlesex in a butt of
     wine. Ah, ah, ah, ah.
E:   No, no, no, no. it is far worse than that. I'm in love with my man
W:   Oh well, I'd sleep with him if I were you.
E:   What?
W:   When I fancy people, I sleep with them. Oh, I have to drug them
     first of course! Being so old and watty.
E:   But what about my position, my social life?
W:   Very well then. Three other paths are open to you. Three cunning
     plans to cure thy ailment.
E:   Oh good.
W:   The first is simple. Kill Bob!
E:   Never.
W:   Then try the second. Kill your self!
E:   Neu. And the third?
W:   The third is to ensure that no one else ever knows.
E:   Ha, that sounds more like it. How?
W:   Kill everybody in the whole world. Ah, ha, ha ...

Saturday, October 24, 2015

Someone was outside in the cool of a Canberra dusk playing jazz on a saxaphone

So I went outside and farted. 

Two can play at that game.

Though I did just have a thought that the melodic sax jazz could have actually been an alien communique and I somewhat rudely retorted.

I may have kicked off an inter-galactic war, black-jewelled battle shorts style

Never prank your child before hopping in the shower

Or they will turn the sink tap on.

He was "cleaning" his toothbrush—the hot water tap turned to max for a half minute. 

Well played, sir, well played.

Friday, October 23, 2015

Survived with sanity intact

The last few weeks of doing extra work has been tough but I made it to the end with my sanity intact—though my body did go through the ringer (1). 

Sure, there were moments of both acute terror and strangled anger but both those events which spawned the emotions were concluded to my satisfaction.

I can do this again, I know I can. Indeed, it felt good to use my extra responsibility to just get things done. 

I'm a well-honed, well-oiled, technocrat machine.


(1) Stress exacerbates my IBS and fibromyalgia (old ladies), as do anger, sadness and fear. They sound like lesser four horsemen.

Thursday, October 22, 2015

A surreal bat sighting

I work in a place that comes with a chunk of the surreal by sheer dint of subject. But outside—proper outside, as in nature—then strange things abound as well.

I was walking back from my power fisting of parliament house (1) when across my path sped five cyclists, all in helmets. 

Four were normal biking people, shorts, cyling gear harness, the headgear and so forth, but the one person different, and in the lead, was Batman.

Yes, Batman. He had a yellow stack hat crammed over his cowl and he was riding a classic '70s girls bike with the basket on it.

There was a stereo in the basket and yes the stereo was playing the Batman theme song from the '60s TV series

I turned and watched as they rode off, turning to the left to continue on around a square, the strains of the theme fading from ear-sight—"Batman!, Batman!, Batman!". 

"Well," I thought, "that's fair enough then, I suppose." (2).

(1) I take a walk each day and find a spot to face parl house and aloft my fist in triumph that I am still here and serving with good purpose. WFTW.
(2) Actually, I just thought of that then and big ups to Rik Myall for the bit (from 10:05)

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

A thin streak of brown

I've had raging IBS since the weekend. It's the normal peak of the IBS pain cycle but it's been exacerbated by stress. I pushed through it, and lunch hours as well, to get the must-do tasks done in spite of the distress and only then did I tag out.

Knowing I was in just to do the must-do I forewarned the danger of sharting and leaving a thin streak of brown. 

It happens.

My ghastly abdomen is a roiling torment of spasm and bloat and I've tooled up on meds to take the edge off.

Before me lies SoTPC, the exercise bike, that I'm still going to try and ride in the face of Hurricane Wednesday that is being internally enjoyed. It helps, the riding helps. Maybe it's just moving stuff around, or maybe it's the body saying "FOCUS ON THIS FUCKIN' HORROR INSTEAD"? But whatever the reason riding helps.

But getting on still feels like a wall I have to climb.

(Gazes upward at sheer scale of physicality awaiting

UPDATE: Climbed it, feel better. But, Holy Snek, that was not fun. Still, big ups to me for putting the ability into disability. WFTW.

Tuesday, October 20, 2015

Little black ants are back

The little black ants are back. They bite. They currently infest the path twixt house and shed. 

Currently—I just dropped a cloudkill on them.

Hey, I'm live and let live when it comes to nature. But they bite—they swarm and they bite. 

So they started it. 

Oh, they tried to pretend I started it by stealing some of my toy soldiers and using their now broken bodies as "proof" that I invaded a radio station in their territory but their fake casus belli is see-through at first glance. 

Nice try, ants.

UPDATE: It's raining and the ants are dead. It means their horrid little bodies will soon be washed away and I won't have to dwell on the fact I just committed ant genocide. Hooray for the cleansing power of rain!

One for the list of Gremlins rules

The most-excellent '80s movie, Gremlins, had three rules for the protagonist to follow when caring for the lovable creature that spawns the eponymous gremlins—do not expose the Mogwai to bright lights or sunlight which will kill it, do not let it get wet (1), and never feed it after midnight (2).

Here's a new one. Never, ever attempt to sync a smart phone before work. 

I foolishly thought it would be easy and it was not. I woke to find the sync I had set up the night before didn't activate because there was a button I had to click to start it so I started it there and then because I needed to rip a voice memo off it. 

It did not work. I worked myself into a total panic state trying, and failing, to sync my phone and ended up stress crying in the end room. 

I realised I could use headphones to access the file and not rip it to CD and even though that's a pain—the touch screen interface gives you limited control of moving around the file—but it was better than the alternative of my hideous phone unable to sync.

It's been a stressful few days and this seemed like the icing on a particular cake of shit.

But, despite the stress cry before work I had a good day even though I had so much to do and so many meetings to go to. It helped having a lessons learned chat with a colleague.

It's horrid feeling overwhelmed like that, to fall over on one thing and then because multiple stressors have landed you end up having a big stress cry over that particular thing—but in reality it's really over everything.
I have to cut myself some slack—it was a fuck-load of stress—and I am, after-all, only human ... even if a supra one.

I bet Superman has had his cry-cry moments, foetal and sobbing in his ice fortress over a combo of Lois Lane love business and having to repeatedly battle egomaniacal cock-spanks like Lex Luthor and Brainiac

So I'm in good company.


(1) That causes the Mogwai to spawn copies of itself. 
(2) And that turns a Mogwai into a gremlin. Though I admit the last rule is somewhat rubbery given when exactly one considers midnight to be and, of course, biologically how a response could occur with a temporal trigger. I'm sure a zoologist, or cryptozoologist in this case, can answer that. Get onto it, cryptozooies!

Monday, October 19, 2015

A complicated day

I had a complicated day. After it was over I sat on the bus quivering. It was a high stress effort of additional responsibility, dealing with negative feedback and discovering a massive error that had to be rectified before close of business. To solve the error took a dozen phone calls to track people down, panicked convos, decisions made then implemented and all in the space of about 45 minutes. If it had not been for a colleague who spotted the error then fixed it once we knew how to fix it then, well, it would have been a lot more complicated.

I whimpered myself off the bus, staggered home, de-briefed on the horrors, then staggered to the shed in an effort to ride SoTPC. 

Some days ... some days...

I'm still shaking from the stress of everything I had to deal with. To top it off I was vilely sick with IBS both yesterday and today and would have taken the day off had I not had so much to do.

But, I'm Mikey and I'm resilient. Even a horror stress day like this will fade before the combo of TV on a laptop and dreaded mandatory exercise. 


Sunday, October 18, 2015

Fee times a mady

With thanks to SNL

I woke in moderate gut pain but which quickly built to unbearable. I rolled out of bed and lurched myself up—which requires me to push myself off my left thigh keep weight off my degenerating right hip—and staggered to the toilet. 

The first was normalish ... the next two, at ten minute intervals, were not normal. Now in the fecal afterglow my guts are a 'roil and I've had to gulp down meds to take the pain. I'm waiting for the meds to kick in and I may try and return to sleep. Or it could be that I just can't sleep through it and I'll distract myself with reading or CBT. 

I wish I felt empty—I should. But the chaotic welter of spasming and gas defies the brain's ability to discern emptiness. I still feel full because the evil wind and inflammation makes me full. 

I got a tad miffed at the peak of the pain—the why me?!—then remembered that all the horror of my body and the sads in my head make me a better person and one who has had an impact. It's the price I pay for my success. 

To tap into latent Christian upbringing—proud out atheist since the noughties (1)—we all have our crosses to bear. It's just that mine is smaller, was jabbed repeatedly into my tummy then used to beat me over the head.

The meds have kicked in and the storm, still raging, is out to sea. 

Here's hoping it stays that way.

(1) I think. It's hard to know when I let go of the occasional reflexive need for prayer.

Friday, October 16, 2015

Saw Maron, mind blown

I saw Marc Maron in Sydney last night and he was golden. I 'd never seen him do physical comedy and he did some bits that cracked me the fuck up. I even choke-snorted

I went up with a mate that afternoon, watched the show, then zoomed back to Canberra for limited sleep then work the next day.

It was a stand out night, stand out for stand-up.

Marc didn't appear in public post show so I didn't get to tell him how he saved my life.

But one day I will.


Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Cheated death again

I've hilariously nearly been killed over 30 times and today I dodged another possible ending.

I had to remove a memory card from a camera. I clicked down the button and the card shot out of the camera in a ballistic arc and bounced off my bottom lip. It fell to the desk undamaged.

Just a centimetre difference and it would have gone straight past the uvula and likely lodged in my throat—its thin rectangle shape almost certainly resistant to even the most vigorous back or sternum pound to dislodge.

If parallel universes exist then some poor alternate Mikey just died through camera-based misadventure. 

Meanwhile this universe's Mikey just keeps on ticking.


Tuesday, October 13, 2015

So that's what a normal feels like

As a person with an infirmish bod—I get around but meh—I'm in constant pain, especially when walking. Even when riding an exercise bike—with my weight lifted from my decaying right hip from sitting down—my anal (slash) coccyx goes numb then sets in with a fiery ache.

I got to the end of the first show I was watching—I typically see three episodes of a series during a session—I kept riding instead of dismounting to set up the next ep. I had a lot to process and thinking about such things whilst riding made it less anxious.

I drifted from my thoughts and became one with my body, effort and exertion thrilling and pain dulled to a dot (1). Then I realised what had happened and thought "So that's what a normal feels like."

But then if I was normal I wouldn't be me—and I would not not be me for quids. 


(1) I was also medicated, that helped a bunch too. 

A battle anthem of power

With thanks to Florence and the Machine.

Monday, October 12, 2015

Frenetic and food denying but satisfying all at once

Another frenetic day. I'm doing extra duties and I ended up missing lunch because it was so full on. But it was good, productive work where I got to directly help several people.

And helping people is my bag.


Friday, October 09, 2015

Chubby rain

With thanks to Bowfinger.

Phat drops of rain are striking the tin roof of the shed—aluminum, rather—as I prepare for the ride. It's nice.

It's Mental Health Week. Our work is doing the 1010 promise thing. I put a mental health promise pic up of me with theBoy as a 12-month-old with the written promise to remind myself that I am loved by family, friends and colleagues all. 

That's the thing about having the sads—it lies to you and tells you you're shit (1). 

Fortunately I will never actively think that way again but it's good to have a reminder up lest you unconciously fall into those morose old ways of hurtful self-loathing.

Fuck that shit. Fuck that shit right up.

It was an insanely busy day. I take burdens upon myself that others do not and it means I am constantly working when others work at a more sedentary pace. I only now responded to a friend's email from two weeks ago that needed a bit of a think before replying. Don't get me wrong, I prefer busy and achievable work. Plus I get to directly work on the morale-lifting front and being involved in such work gives me deep satisfaction and joy in spite of the stress.

I noticed though if the computer started to wobble—it often craps out when using Word, Outlook or when using graphic software—that if I am in high tempo mode then I suffer those flashes of acute indignation and I have to consciously avoid swearing and or yelling at it. It's just a tool, it has no feelings, but fuck me sideways if that tool doesn't give me the fucking shits when the network grinds to super slow speed with page load lag—and our 10-year-old+ versions of standard software doesn't help.

I said hello by name to someone who doesn't know me by sight and only by email. I could see she was weirded out but I had kept walking and so had she and it was pointless to catch up and yell my name at her. That wouldn't be a nice thing to do on someone's Friday. 

I had a happy chat with a manager, talking about resilience techniques. It's a joy to work for people who truly give a shit about their people.  


(1) Quoth Wil Wheaton; "depression lies".

Thursday, October 08, 2015

More present, am happier

We sometimes listen to books on CD on the drive to work and over a series of recent drives we listened to parenting CDs. They talked about the need to be more emotionally available. To recognise that our kids are always going to need us and that even if that's irritating when it happens they still need us and it's better to just muck in when it occurs—with the benefit that you have a richer, more fulfilling connection because you're truly engaged. 

So instead of marching straight into the shed and riding the exercise bike when I get home I hang out and play like mucking about with dinosaurs, kicking a bouncy ball into the trampoline ring and take-a-turn story telling. 

Then, if I miss bath-time because of the ride, then that's okay because I've been there for him in the moment when I got home.

I've tried it with other interactions—to be available in the moment—and it's helped with that too. I feel happier for it as well.

Though I have to admit it's when you're being talked to when you clearly want to just work that is the hardest to bear. Typically after a couple of minutes I can't stand it and even as we talk I restart typing—down to one third speed perhaps—because I am just that fucking awesome.

That's the flip-side of super burdens, baby, super powers. 


Gold patch goodness

I'm not a praise whore—I don't actively seek it—however if I do get praise then I make sure that those who need to know now know that other people agree I am awesome (1). It's as much for protection as anything else—it's hard for people to slag you off when you have a record of people saying you produce good works.

Today I got two emails on a report I sent out thanking me for producing an awesome report. 

That feedback spawned a gold patch, that spray of your ticked off calendar days where the day boxes glow gold with good works, and it buoyed me immensely. I'll need that good time feeling as I enter the dark tunnel of toil that lies ahead. 

Mikey, producing wellness since, well, forever!


(1) It should be noted that any negative feedback also gets passed on along with an explanation of how I fucked up if I fucked up. If I've learned anything in my career it's to be honest when you fuck up and then to own the rectification of the fuck up.  

Tuesday, October 06, 2015

Brutal start, came good

I awoke with raging IBS. But I swallowed pills, girded for battle and made it in. I came good about 11 am.

I even encountered a hair trigger moment that in the past could have left me gibbering in a corner but is now just merely unpleasant—like a frosted road turd.

I've come so far since getting up off the floor. I feel like Neo beset by impotent Smiths. 

That's a pretty kewl place to be, being beset by impotent Smiths. Better than potent ones, I always say.


Monday, October 05, 2015

Well, it's easy to spot at least

I coughed and a goob honked onto my monitor. It was easy to spot it all to wipe up, the borders of the dark goob limed by light.

Lousy goobs.

So I gave birth to a puddle

My IBS is raging. I awoke to gut pain, but liked being in bed so much I hoped it would pass. 
It did not. It built and built and built until VROOM I was off and out it came. 

My stomach and guts still churn and spasm, like the after shocks from a quake. 

I've had to med up big time. Once again I've been saved by a public holiday for had this been a work day I would not be there. The toilet at work is a one minute dawdle, perhaps 20 seconds on the trot. At home it's just 10 seconds from anywhere in the house thanks to our compact domicile. 

That, and the eye-watering gas that came after I returned to bed to moan piteously as I distracted myself with news sites on the tablet. That gas will surely keep on coming—can't inflict that on a workplace.

Mikey—living with tummy upset since the early '70s, man. 

Sunday, October 04, 2015

Oh my stars (waves face with fan)

I just did my daily ride of the SoTPC, an hour and eleven minutes because I rode about two kph less than normal.

I was fucked before I got on, my decaying right hip having given worm sign of an impending replacement for the last several weeks and with arthritic pain flash from my right knee, and the disinterest level was acute.

I feel better for having done it. Not just physically, but mentally. For in the words of Galaxy Quest, "Never give up, never surrender". 

Now The Venga Boys are playing as sweat runnels down my back fur (1).


(1) UPDATE: I'm proud to say I have the Google #1 result for "sweat runnels down my back fur". I could have also added "then pools in the manky gusset of my undies following its slow crawl through anal-hair crevasse" but I didn't because I am classy.

Friday, October 02, 2015

Area man sounds like a cock-spank when he polite-curses

I try not to swear when in polite company but my reflexive go-to words are "willikers!", "biscuits!" and "whiskers!" 

In real-life I look like a creature from a C.S.Lewis or Enid Blyton tale and now I'm adding similar-thematic outbursts or exclamations.

What's next? Doing a crippled skip-hop as I furtle along in the woods?

Killed another keyboard ... or so he was led to think

This time it was the one for the good laptop—needed because I don't like using a laptop keyboard for the way your wrists have to sit upon it and the seeming fragility of the keys. 

I must have murdered about 10 keyboards at this point. This laptop booster just deceased had six characters partially-to-totally rubbed away from the keys tops from my two finger power strikes before the connecting cord broke within and the computer could no longer link to it.

Sometimes at work I type so fast and with such downward thrust-power that I sound like a journo in an old time pre-PC newsroom bashing away at a mechanical typewriter. The frenetic clickety-clack causes the occasional gophering from WTF? colleagues weirded out by the noise (1). 

What can I say? I'm a passionate writer and that passion comes with theatrical semi-physicality.

So adios, cheap black keyboard whose A, S E, I, M and N keys departed ahead of your cord's internal parting, you served me well.

(Mikey prepares to solemnly carry keyboard to throw over fence and into the skip).

Wait, stop everything. I took it out of the grey three socket hub and plugged the keyboard straight into the laptop and it works. 

So the hub is to blame.

Well played, hub.

(1) I also tend to mutter as I type typically whispering the words as they are struck into the machine. So I'd sound like a mentally damaged journalist at and one that the cadets are wary off; "Don't sneak up on him, mate, or he'll scream then throttle you by the tie".

Thursday, October 01, 2015

Went all HH

I let my finger nails get super long and weird looking. I finally trimmed them. I felt a bit like a reclusive hotel dwelling billionaire who spends all day in PJs watching a battery of TVs. 

I've yet to put tissue boxes on my feet though. 

The mass trimming was prompted by the tear off old righty thumb nail which got ripped near down to the quick. 

Two can play at that game, Nature.


Feedback activated

Nearly a year ago I provided feedback on a core issue.

Well, fuck me, I found out the feedback impacted.

Once again something past Mikey did caused wellness to spring forth.

Being a low echelon super competent has its drawbacks—being paid attention when you're low of rank being the biggest challenge. But sometimes you succeed.