Saturday, December 31, 2016

I miss #44 already

Obama hasn't left office but I already keenly feel his absence—because Trump is already shouting his opinion on anything that is in his face like a laser spot before a cat and as the heir taking over in three weeks his opinion matters more.

I saw a journo on a talk show dot point the excellence of Barack Obama and how while we're missing him now even before he's left wait until six months into a DT presidency—then we'll be missing him.

And we are missing him. Because Obama only has three weeks there's nothing substantive he can do now that cannot be immediately undone once he goes by not only Trump but also by the ghastly choir of repubs from the house with the backing of Trump.

The whole world is going to miss President Obama. I'm just hoping our reminiscences of his excellence aren't going to be held around a sputtering fire in the ruins of civilization that once was. 

Trump and the Republicans won the presidency by racial animus, misogyny and a barrel full of lies. 

And now they're the government. 

With such a foundation how can their rule be anything but failure?

Here's hoping I am wrong.

Friday, December 30, 2016

Thursday, December 29, 2016

Comedy lore imparted

One of the immense joys of parenting is imparting the knowledge of kewl movies, books and music. 

And TV shows ... and movies inspired by TV shows.

And that's how it came to be theboy finally saw Wayne's World

He loved it; he's seen WW on SNL before but never the whole movie. I paused it more than once to explain a joke and point out excellence in craft by the director. 

It's amazing to give those gifts to your child; to show them genius and for them to recognise it and love it too.

I would have been pretty devo had he hated it. But, given he loved it as a skit, I felt sure he'd love the movie.

It should of course be noted that he recreated the underpants-in-the-crack bit before the movie had even ended.

That boy's got talent

Pimped self with a tenth ping

On my last day I sent out another ping; a broadcast one to the senior peeps I'd worked for along with my CV, for if any work comes that they can see me doing.

It felt good to do it—except I got a date wrong and had to recall it then resend with a correction.

On that same last day I got a beautiful farewell from someone leaving his role but staying with the org. He deeply thanked me for being a great part of the team and for all the work I did. 

He had no investment in my happiness—he was off to a new part for a new job—but he took the time to show his appreciation.

It meant a lot. 

He was also the cat that spotted I got the date wrong and prompted me to resend.

We have to work with the people we work with. If we're lucky we work with people worth knowing.

They were all worth knowing. How lucky was I to finish out a project with awesome peeps by my side.

WFTW.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

A paean to Dr Seuss

The other day I was atop the exercise bike in an ensemble of ladies PJ pants and no top but also no underpants.

I'm in my mid-forties and it had been about a year since I'd attempted a no undies ride.

I should have done what I did then and got off and got a pair but I elected to push on without them. 

The result? As Dr Seuss may have put it:

Old balls ... saggy balls ... sad balls

It was not a pleasant experience to have my aged scrotum hanging off the seat tip with a pair of seasonally appropriate balls hanging low either side and my pumping thighs brushing against them twice a second.

Underpants for bike riding (equals) recommended for men 40+.

Tuesday, December 27, 2016

Public toilets, public shaming

I was heading up the stairs to a public toilet when a teenage boy skidded his bike to a halt behind me. The loud, sudden noise sparked a fight (slash) flight reaction and I recoiled into myself, my fist raised and scream-yelled "JESUS" as per my default decidedly-lapsed x'tian upbringing go to curse. 

An old man, red-faced and portly, laughed at me—"you look like you're going to punch on, mate!" he said with giddy abandon at my response.

"No, mate," I said icily, "I have PTSD and that sparked my anxiety."

Without stopping to view his reaction I went in, went, then went back outside. Both he and the bike-rider were gone.

It was fucked having an F/F reaction in public, but made far worse for a fuckstick pointing it out and laughing at me.

That's life with a psychological injury; you have to put up with abuse from fuckwits for having one.

Monday, December 26, 2016

Did a Grandpa Simpson at the bus stop

With thanks to Abe Simpson.

It was the last working day of the year and after a cheery "Merry Xmas" to the nice bus lady in her striped Xmas hat that I walked off the bus at the station where I make my connection straight into the sound wave of a fuckwit with a petrol-powered leaf blower. Barely breaking stride I turned and walked straight back onto the bus and caught it to the next stop along.

Jesus, that was a week ago and I can still recall the sound wave as it crested my form and the panic it sparked that forced me back onto the very bus I'd just so expansively, and seasonally, exited. 

It was a Christmas UnMiracle.

What gets me is that battery-powered, less-insane-noise-causing leaf blowing and sucking devices do exist. The gardeners that swarm the public places of Canberra don't have to assail the environment with fumes of an auditory and nasal nature.They do it because no one has made them trade their fucked noisy gear in.

I sound like a cranky old man. But then I was born old, like Benjamin Button without the reverse aging, with dodgy feet, bad hips, and a spray of other defects that nearly killed me as the years wore on.

Anyway, it was lucky the bus hadn't burned off behind me or I'd have had to wait for the next one along with hands-clamped-on-ears and flag it down with an elbow.

That's life with psychological injury; it's like normal life but with moments of acute, juddering fear.

And it happened at the start of the day.

But I still made it in and finished up my project.

That's life with psychological injury; you have to go on with normal life in spite of it.

WFTW.

Monday, December 19, 2016

Mini-break

I had a mini-break for lunch, fast scarping sushi, before dashing back. Now I've gone to market I'm not beholden to artifice like a mandated break of X minutes at Y hours—I can just fly instead.

So I flew, flew right through what I needed to do and came up at the end of the day smiling.

This little piggy loves being at market.

WFTW.

Friday, December 16, 2016

Semi-fail

I failed at the ninth ping and the shovel ready plan got blocked; though with excellent reasons. Hence the semi-fail; the plan has value but it's the implementation that is the tricky part.

That's okay. I look back at my life and I see a crazy mix of failure and success but with those failures assisting later successes.

Besides, I may find months later the plan is a go even though I'm not there to ride it to detonation

It happens like that for me. I do Quixotic charges with seeming no impact but a lightly scarred windmill and a trauma-afflicted horse. 

Then, months later, the windmill comes tumbling down.

So maybe that will be the ultimate conclusion of the semi-fail---that it's actually a slow burn to success.

I like the sound of that.

WFTW.

Thursday, December 15, 2016

Hobbit feet slippers actually worn as slippers

I didn't have any slippers that had a right foot—the only one with a right foot for the finding were the hobbit feet.

Yes, hobbit feet slippers from a delightful friend—much admired and worn by theboy but not practical as actual slippers.

But need was pressing so out I flopped out into early drizzle. 

They suit me; they look part of me. I am a hobbit in almost-size and in actual typical shape and dimensions—stout with an ample tum. My real feet are actually paddle-like, so flat that orthopedics do not work because there is no arch to support. 

So all I need now is a pipe, a wry smile and a second breakfast.

WFTW.

Tuesday, December 13, 2016

Construction complete

I completed my core project a week early—even with delays all the prep work I did made it quick to implement.

All that's left to do is cosmetic. Don't get me wrong—how a site looks is important. But what's most important is all the fucking links work.

And they fucking work.

I broke the seal on no Diet Coke; I had three on Friday as I forged through web changes with blinding speed and had two again today. I'm not re-hooked; I had it for caffeine 'cause I didn't get it together to take A2 milk to work for coffee. But that's how "Game on, mols" I went to get it all done; voiding my 18 month ban on guzzling my former dank mistress.

If I'm focused then I'll get to finish the purty-phase as well. It's the fun part—making a shit site look well gives you a fucking buzz. I'm lucky to have a job that provides such satisfaction. A job soon ending but a job fucking well done.

(Area man tidies up ranch after chasing away the town's no goods).

Monday, December 12, 2016

Wobbled; lost self in work

I had two wobbles from relived trauma, with tears rolling after the second. I trudged back to my desk, face ashen, determined to keep working.

I threw myself in, lost myself in work and purged the pain.

Sometimes I fall over; it will happen again.

But I always get back up; always.

WFTW.

Plug pulled

I had three days no-movement-build-up then WHAM, it all dropped this morning.

Normally this would be a stay home day. But it's not because I am working in a different plane of existence with an automatic cease date.

So I am fording on, undies in a bag just in case.

It's the price you pay for taking yourself to market—pushing yourself when you should not—but it's a world of deadlines meets triage and you just have to throw yourself into it.

Friday was the worst day, for I'd discovered a landing URL had changed which meant re-doing all the work I'd done. But I kept a log so that combined with searches meant just a solid near 11 hour day of music, a document with links loaded and patient, methodical combing through sites to change a link and owning text.

I got to the end in a daze, staggering off down the corridor to go home. Then my system clamped up and I spent days of abdominal discomfort before discharge.

Hooray.

UPDATE: I survived. Go me!

Friday, December 09, 2016

Pizzagate

The fake news scandal of how facebook-fuelled ad-revenue driven fake news sites convinced white women to go with an orange groper continues with real world impact after a gunman went into one alleged child murder pizzeria and other pizza places have taken abusive threatening phone calls. The basic thrust is pizza was Clinton camp code for ritualistic child murder and these sessions happened in the back room of said pizzerias.

But I did laugh at the idea that if after phoning in abuse the caller then ordered a pizza.

"... AND YOUR BRAINS WILL SPLATTER THE WALL. NOW, I ALSO WANT A LARGE PEPPERONI..."

Thursday, December 08, 2016

Old lady bus redux

I went to help an old lady onto the bus—she had two cast-clad legs and six grocery bags hanging off her arm. She said thanks but no thanks, because I could only help by taking the bags and she explained they needed to stay on her arm for when she got off.

She then talked at me for the rest of the trip. I didn't mind, she had a lot to say and a short amount of time to say it—and yes she mentioned both the Great War and the Great Depression.

I guess I just have a great countenance that says "old ladies, please converse". 

Blame your parents

I had my remaining natural hip scanned for degradation. Yes, some of that, but I don't need surgery yet—my comfort will determine when it gets done.

In the meantime he gave me praise for doing the right thing—exercise biking being the best exercise for a failing hip because it tones the muscle that keeps it together.

He had a work experience person in and he explained to her that I had been young for my surgery and that the damage to my left hip was likely caused during gestation; by the position I lay within my mother and the way she lay as well. This damage in addition to that caused by my breech birth.

"Blame your parents," he said. 

I know my body is not my fault—it was made and developed this way. But the shit I copped from those parents for my height, weight and lack of agility made for an unpleasant childhood—and adulthood because they kept that crap up after I left home.

I sat on the bus home flitting between happiness and anger; happiness at once again confirming how fucking awesome I am and anger at the bullshit I endured, and still endure, because of my body—and people's attitudes to it. 

But I'm still here, not in spite of it but because of it; this bullshit makes me strong.

WFTW.

Monday, December 05, 2016

Walked it off

Our building's sclerotic network landed causing no end of frustration—the price you pay when all your work is done via a network. At one point I yelled at SharePoint and that, combined with a brain-hurting email, meant I had to walk it off.

So I walked it off. It didn't help that much but the break at least short-circuited the anger build up so I went back to frustrated mode instead of under-the-breath muttering and sotto "WTF?" reactions when the fucking computer didn't do what I wanted it to.

It was an insane Monday with a fuck ton of work; but the work I did was good, hearty fare whose effects will last a long time.

WFTW.

Saturday, December 03, 2016

Fate

I went to the end-of-year fete in spite of the noise and crowds because, well, it was the fucking end-of-year fete.

I medicated as much as I could then slid in to enjoy myself.

It was my fault. I should have known that the fire engine display behind me would of course display its horn. It blared, sudden and loud, in a sonic wave aimed it seemed at the back of my head.

My body entered fight (slash) flight and I yelled brightly "gotta go!" and then headed with speed for the car. I re-entered the school grounds only to be assailed by a massed choir armed with ukuleles, their assault on musical reason adding a fat dollop of panic as I made it out the front only to be re-assailed by a screaming two-year-old whose uncaring and unhurried mother was glacially pushing that child along in a stroller.

I made it to the car but until the child was gone I couldn't unclamp my ears to get to my keys to open it and get to the ear muffs in the glove compartment. 

I babbled with rage about ineffective parenting to cover the screaming before I could risk going for keys, door and muffs. 

Then I spent 20 minutes with the muffs on surfing the web on my phone while I waited for the others. 

I love the end-of-year fete; it's joyous. But to go a place with children, noise and crowds is to expose multiple triggers to a deep pull—though admittedly it was a fire siren that triggered me; I was fine until then.

That's what it is to have this; that normal life is interrupted. But you can't sit in your house with ear muffs on; the world won't let you. You have to risk these things to get as much of life in while you still can.

So that's also what it's also like to have this; to have tasted death so closely it reminds you you're alive.

WFTW. 

Thursday, December 01, 2016

Got a door fixed

Not only did I get the door fixed I got a story of how it got broke—and how to fix it for next time.

I had to sign it off with my finger. 

Later I pressed the button to see it sproing open and marvelled at my minor accomplishment.

Mikey see bad, Mikey order fix.

WFTW.

Tuesday, November 29, 2016

A messenger scene

The arrival of a messenger is a literary tradition in plays going back to Grog grunting at Snark about Sniznar's message from the Beast People. Shakespeare has a bunch of them I am sure; protagonists reacting to messenger-borne news.

My friend dropped past. He told me of ill and it's the second time he's done it. It's not his fault—it was on topic—but I realise now he's the messenger in my dramedy. I would have said "drama" except while I suffer I make light of it—leg sharts and all.

As he left I got lost in a whirl of work, skipping, diving and prancing to fix the fuck out of this and to fix the fuck out of that; a perfect answer to a rotten tale.

WFTW.

Monday, November 28, 2016

An electrifying battle anthem



"Danger! High Voltage" by Electric Six.

Fingers flying

After a late start from a medical I hit the keyboard with fingers flying with just human physicality getting in my way because I could not type as fast as I could think.

I've fucked off worrying about typing noise as well. I'm in countdown mode and to work as fast as I need to I cannot be pecking a key at a time.

I finalised a project then threw it up the chain. It was one I started, got resourced then ready for implementation. A shovel ready project that could be completed in 10 minutes once the go is given. 

If I get that up then I'll have won no matter what happens next; it's a gaping hole and it has to be filled. All I need is the permish to fill it. 

That's the technocratic way; get as much done yourself as possible then give a cheery "action" at the end of an email which simply says "just say yes and I will action".

That's how to get things done; assume control then do them.

WFTW.

Friday, November 25, 2016

Named self

There is magic in a name—and it's a theme in fantasy books whose best exemplar is Earthsea. Name a thing and have its power.

I didn't mean to; it slipped out. But when I said it then it was a perfect fit.

Consultant.


WFTW.

New white goods; not all white

We finished our refresh of white goods, gone the goods that helped when purchased new some 20 years before. 

A handsome stainless steel finish job is the fridge and the mini-freezer energy sucker has been replaced by a bigger, less-energy intense effort. 

The new dryer is up on the wall—and lowered by a centimetre over the last one which makes it easier for a short man like me to use. I had to go on tippy-toes and each time I went up I risked a spasm or lock from my over-developed calf muscles—they look like a snake ate an avocado.

Twenty years on and all twenty in Canberra. We came here to study and we built a life. 

A life that's had a total white goods refresh.

(strokes new goods; purring).

Love felt

I had two colleagues tell me they loved my work. Two. In a single day.

Tickets on self justified

Gots to love the love.  

UPDATE: Previously when I received praise I'd deflect; praise others who contributed and big up their participation. The other day I finished a project and I put my fucking name on it and mine alone. False modesty = out the door.

Wednesday, November 23, 2016

Full speed ahead

I have to be ruthless with my time and it's tough because I like being the Swiss Army Knife and fixing anything someone wants fixed. And I've still a bunch of projects being juggled because that's just how I roll. 

But to be needed and to work with value is an incredible thing; it's technocratic joy. Deep down I like to think I always knew that I was this awesome but scared to admit it due to self-loathing. 

I've shed that. There is no more of that shit; never again. Never again will I feel wretched of self or that I do not contribute. I've won my life and I'm still winning.

So, yes, I shall be ruthless with my time; but I'll be laser in focus, conscious that I'm a valuable resource who needs to determine when, where and how he will be the most valuable.

I have fucking tickets on myself—and deservedly so. Beats the fucking shit out of thinking you are a failed human being because for most of your life that's how the world looked at you. The world still looks at me like that but I reject its scorn with smug self belief.

I shaved my beard back—it had gone a bit ragged—which is good because we're getting near Christmas. One Christmas a bunch of fit, taller-than-me young men walked past and one of them sneered to his mates that I was Santa; because I am portly and had a shaggy grey beard.

They walked off in their perfect posse of most-health, laughing at their japery at the expense of my apparently pathetic person. 


What a pack of fuckholes. I bet my trusty groat not a single one of them will have achieved but a tenth of what I've done before they snake it into the grave.

I'm Mikey; I'm still fucking here and I'm still steaming full speed ahead.

WFTW.

Tuesday, November 22, 2016

Bond got trumped

I went from obsessively reading about the US election to, when Trump won, stopping abruptly. I couldn't handle it.

So on reflex I decided to read a Bond novel. I started about four novels in, read three or four, then went back to the start and read forward.

It was then I realised that James Bond and Donald Trump had the same persona; aggressively, pathetically white, heterosexual and male and aggressively dismissive of anyone not white, heterosexual and male. Reading the books through the prism of now Bond comes across as an entitled, misogynistic bigot. Actually, so does the author—because the bigotry is often in narrative as opposed to just Bond’s own thoughts. It’s the author we’re seeing, not Bond, when it comes to how Bond thinks and presents himself.

As I read the books I realised Bond is on his last legs in this world; that he was the ultimate avatar of white ladies-only maledom, but that avatar is being crowded by everyone else who climbed the social ladder since Bond books came out. Climbed it by sheer dint of some white males recognising they needed to share and that being white, heterosexual and male wasn’t and shouldn’t ever be something to aspire to—or defer to—because you can only get that status at birth.

Trump is like Bond without the killing, athleticism or looks—or redeeming values because despite Bond’s acute bigotry he serves a bigger cause—that of the state—and puts the state ahead of his life.

The only thing Trump has ever put ahead of himself is nothing—and we see that in the chaos as his transition team drowns in a shallow pool of their own making and as he tries to give his children the reins of fucking government.

Trump could have made a great Bond villain; similar men with one single difference. Except I suspect an editor would have given a note at the pitch to say that Trump was far too unrealistic a character and Fleming should tone him down

Life; stranger than fiction. 

UPDATE: It should be noted that Fleming is clearly a boob man. Every attractive woman has her breasts described, often at length. They are "proud", they "glow with health" and are sometimes "jutting out". It seems a habit of journalists turned authors, such as Ian Fleming and Frederick Forsyth, that they give the sex interest properties of women they want to have. In The Odessa File the protagonist is a journalist, like then-Forsyth, but in this case his fictional girlfriend is a short blonde stripper with big tits.

Monday, November 21, 2016

Broke bread; bread rejected

Breaking bread, for those civilisations blessed with grain, is a time-honoured means of greeting and welcome.

theboy and I broke bread and fed it to the duck and the chickens.

Well, not the duck. I attempted to feed it bread, a long skinny bit I tried to make look like a worm. It instead went past the bread to the side of my finger then turned its beak and bit me.


Sociopathic little fucker. It literally spurned the bread I broke with it.

theboy was annoyed but I explained it wasn't the duck's fault. Maybe it will learn I'm not a threat and we'll reach a steady peace. I can't see it happening—each time it gets out it comes for me.

Maybe this is just my own personal The Birds with my own personal "the bird"? In that we as a being each have a nasty bird experience and this one is mine. 

My nasty bird experience. So far ... it's nasty.

Friday, November 18, 2016

Ninth ping

I shamelessly pitched my talents to a prospective place, noting my excellence in all things related. 

It felt good to do it; to know I can do it and to say "I can do it; let me do it".

If I get it then I win life for a second time.

Take that into your back-face. 

WFTW.

Project pushed; satisfaction gained

Technocrats are jugglers; not of things but of projects. You have a dozen on the go at various stages but now and then you go hard to push one through.

I went hard and pushed one through and justified actions taken after the fact.

A boss asked how I was going. I said "I've seized control of X, Y and Z and I'll let people know what I've done after I've done it."

He said "good man" because taking charge means achieving results. 

The worst part of being a technocrat is relying on bureaucrats. So if you can just take over you're always better off.

Technocrats; we get the shit done.

WFTW. 


UPDATE: I just realised what five words make me sing: "get Mikey to do it". Because if they give it to me to do then it will get the fuck done.

I have a bigger beak

I found something that wards off the duck—my orange grabber stick. Its claw with rubber discs is beak-like and fearsome and the length of the tool gives me reach. 

I've not even gone into the pen or used it; I've just presented it and the duck has run off into the yard.

Last evening each time it attempted beak-rasping-on-gate intimidation I opened the shed door, got the grabber, and showed it. 

Then it would run away. 

It happened a dozen times before dusk. 

This morning it avoided me. It is not standing at the gate in a frenetic desire to tunnel it then through the tops of my feet. 

So it turns out I just needed a bigger beak; and I don't even have to use it—nor would I. I just have to show it.

Area man wins this round. 

Of course there will come a point when the gate is left open and the shed door is locked. Then we will see if it stays fearful then, when I have no ability to grab a grabber.

My predication is it will come for me with the fury of a newborn sun.

UPDATE: Literally as I left the shed it came to the gate for some good ole beak-rasp. I produced the grabber and it ran away. When I came back out it avoided me.

Perhaps it's got a brain issue? Maybe its memory resets at night so any efforts to get along are wasted because it forgets and defaults to attack mode.

I'd say it had the memory span of a goldfish but they have a span of at least three months. So I could train a goldfish (1) but I can't train a challenged psychotic duck

Fan-flappin-tastic.

(1) Public speaking; "No, it's bilililioooop, not bloopiiillli, let's try again. Now, after me ... bilililioooop". 

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Flipped off the duck

Our duck is psychotic. If you stand at the sheathed wire gate it will frantically rasp its beak back and forth along the mesh in a vain attempt to deal you duck death.

The gate's grill is fine enough that even if you press a finger against the mesh the beak cannot hurt you.

I traced my middle finger back and forth, its beak manically following, smug it could not hurt me. Then flipped the digit and left it pressed against the gate and in its face.

"Errrrrrghhhh," I sneered with aggression.

I cannot stress this enough; the duck started it.

UPDATE: The gate got left open and the fucker came for me.

I had bare feet. It circled me in a frenzy and got my foot tops twice on each foot. That's blowback, baby; beak-based blowback. 

Two mini-wobbles

I had triggers pull but the wobbles were minor.

It was from listening to stories of trauma. 

But they gave me hope and even though I got the wigs they were stories worth knowing.

Sometimes a trigger is a vaccination; an ouch now to stave off a bigger hurt.

WFTW.

UPDATE: I'd gone for a walk and on return my boss said to read an email and that I'd like it. I was suspiciousyou learn that from twenty years of people suggesting you'll like a piece of corro but they're wrongthough I accepted the offer. It was from him; it was a record of a call from someone who rang just to say how much they appreciated our efforts.

So he was right; I did like it and it sent me soaring.

Extra baked in WFTW. 

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

Best analogy to describe how you feel if you don't like Trump winning

From Real Time with Bill Maher, 11 November 2016; the post-Trumpocalypse show:

"I feel like we're in that place in the movie Sully where the birds flew into the engine ... but the plane's still flying but soon ... brace for impact, ladies and gentlemen."

That's exactly what it feels like; only we're all the passengers and the pilot ain't Sully.

Non-lord. have mercy!

(fans self; has vapours).

Abandon machine!

I had a litre of A2 in the fridge and caramel coffee pods. The pod machine beckoned. 

I set it all up; pod in the slot, cup underneath, milk at the ready.

The machine had not been used in some time. Its intake was been bone dry before starting sucking up water from the reservoir. 

First it hummed.

Then it sucked. And by "sucked" I mean it made the most non-god awful sound of rasping inhumanity heard yet by me and its sonic blast wave was focused intently on my person. 

I yelled "Ah!" with deep fright then frantically fumbled with anxiety-afflicted hands at the off switch all whilst yelling "abandon machine!" as if my yelling could deflect its monstrous, hateful power.

I got it off then stepped back and waited to see if the trigger would pull. It didn't but, fuck me, if it was going to pull it should have pulled on that.

It was because I was already medicated when it happenedwhich is lucky because I sure as fuck would have had to if I hadn't and then fuck off home with severe jitters.

Well played, pod machine, well played. 

I got a long black half way up a tall cup and milked that up instead—with no danger of machine-induced fight (slash) flight from the purchasing process. 

I'm glad it was flight not fight that was the first instinct; if had been latter I could have fear-smashed it from the mini-fridge and into the wall. 

Fucking hell, what an absolute shocker—and yet another item to add to Mikey's enemies list of things that make him go "Ah!"

Crowds, crying and coffee pod machines; what a list.

♫♪ I'm checking in! ♫♪

With thanks to The Simpsons and Robert D.

I woke in abdominal fury, a full abdomen cramping that riddled my body with pain.

It was expected; a normative outcome the day after a severe anxiety attack—and that's only just one delicious way anxiety manifests physically in addition to placing you teetering on fight (slash) flight or sucking you into space outs.  

But I'm swollen with work even as I am swollen inside. I'm not at risk of public blowout or a leg shart; it's not that kind of IBS. So, fuck it, I'm checking in. If worst comes to worst I'll just go.

Besides, I'll get to lose myself in deep positive work that transports me from the mundane into art and that keeps pain at bay. Fucking art; and I get paid to do it.

WFTW.

UPDATE: I got a hug hello from a former tiger team comrade upon entry and nailed some tasty work, getting effusive thanks for speedy delivery. I also worked out how to get metrics to back a business case that promises a gain in capability.

I'm a fucking machine. 

Double secret WFTW.