Thursday, June 30, 2016


I think I've nearly got every lift car—well, the three sections that matter—lit with LEDs after the halogen bulbs within died their natural deaths (1). If I did that means I got them allPokémon!

It's a joy to walk into a well-lit lift and be bathed in the cool bright light that I brought forth through my powers of filling out a form and submitting it.

(bows deeply, the over-long sparse hairs on his head lit by the bright dazzle of the lift lights above)

(1) They have a lifespan of 12 months, if you're lucky. On humid days the moisture in the car builds and if water condenses on the glass of the halogen then that with the heat will shatter the glass. LEDs are robust mo'fos that will likely outlast my remaining natural hip.

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

It was a whopper

I had a whopper of an anxiety attack, full on gulping air and panic crying. I managed to get outside and sat on a coppers log heaving breath as I struggled to regain control. I knew I was in a moment of high emotion and that it would pass. But when I was at its peak, well, it was a shocker.

A colleague was across the road awaiting a pick up and saw my distress. He came over to make sure I was okay then put his hand on my shoulder and told me it would all be alright. It was nice of him to do that. Fortunately the peak had passed and I assured him it was tapering and that in a couple of minutes I'd be right to walk again. 

The Vallium I'd taken had kicked in, or maybe it was a subconscious placebo reaction of "I've had this; it will make me clam", but either way after a couple of minutes I got up, I dried off the tears and I went back to my desk. 

I stayed the day.

Later, in the afternoon, I passed the colleague's office. I stuck my head in through his door to thank him for taking coming over to check I was okay.

It was a nasty, deep attack that left me shaking and tired. But it was just an attack, it wasn't a battle. I got through it and I'll get through the next one; there is never an occasion that I do not. 

I just have to remind myself when I'm in the middle of one that I'm in the middle of one and after the middle comes the end.


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.


Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Two triggers pulled

I survived the day of abdominal torment only to have two triggers pull—from an email convo and a chance in-person meeting.

Though I threw myself into work, once I was done, such as waiting for the bus or on it, I spaced out. I spaced out on the walk from the bus here. I spaced out as I said hello. I am spacing out as I type.

I'm okay; I'm not emoting or emotional, but I have lost myself again for chunks of time.

I have to ride the exercise bike—the place where I can space out safely because the physicality of riding overrides the physicality of distress—and I'll probably space out there. 

I have TV to watch; that will help—as will the Valium I took 20 minutes ago.

A double-trigger pull; it's rare, it happens but it could be way worse.


Oh, (expired God name)

I was raised in a church-attending household, Anglican, and religious-themed cursing was occasionally used. Even now, a firm atheist, I'll occasionally bellow a "JESUS CHRIST!" if the moment deems it appropriate.

My guts are roiling with post-movement pain, at least there was movement (for the word had passed around), and I've munged pain meds. Nonetheless the occasional spasm will break through the pain barrier and, sure enough, "JESUS CHRIST!".

It's funny the go tos we go to when it comes to reflexive swearing.

Sometimes when Jesus appears in my cursing he's on transport—on a bike!—or is undertaking unusual movement—hopping Christ!.

Well, if he exists I hope he's my co-pilot because in this pain soaked day I need all the assist I can get—even the placebo kind. 

Tuesday, June 14, 2016

Crested the rim

My Queen's day long weekend of IBS was not done with me. In spite of it I made it into work ... only to go again after I crested the rim with an explosive follow-through.

That's a major red flag. 

It sucked because I rarely take codeine and the buzz had just kicked in as I prepared to leave work. So I could have stayed, pain-wise; I just didn't trust my arsehole.

So I am back, munged up with meds, my raging abdomen-cached torment of pain spasm reduced to background screaming. I feel empty but it's just for now; it will come again.

These are the tribulations of being packed with mental and physical disads (1). But, I got a tasty brain out of all of this—a brain set to maximum wellness (for others)—so the sacrifice is worth it.

Besides, it's not like I chose my body. It's the one I have and it's built for battle—it's been battling since it drew breath and will continue on until it can no more.

Self-acceptance for the win.

(1) Disads, or "Disadvantages"; a role-playing game reference to negative traits you can take for your character to give you more building or generation points to spend on key vital statistics like intelligence, skills and positive traits; short, fat, and multiple illness-afflicted would earn a player character some hefty building points. As a Game Master I'd rule me out as a character; too many disadvantages to track in play.

Monday, June 13, 2016

Thanks, Queen

I'd like to thank the Queen for making today possible—or Queen Victoria; one of them did it.

But I'd be willing to give this day up if we were a republic instead and would not expect a replacement just because we're down a day for the switch-over.

How un-Oz is that? Being willing to give up a public holiday to become a republic? I'll tell you how un-Oz that is; reverse un-Oz because I love this country so much I'm willing to progress it without the archaic dross holding us back.  

(holds fist aloft for Australian republic)

Still, I'm not churlish, so again thanks to the Queen for the day off.

I'll sign off with that classic the Queen-themed "...panegyric..." from The Sex Pistols: "God Save the Queen" (1).

And you can't not have "Anarchy in the UK" after listening to that—to do so would represent a complete loss of control and order (2). 

I spent the weekend afflicted with IBS and only came good at lunchtime. So another thanks for the day to recover; that's from one throne dweller to another.

(1) No dust on the actual Queen herself. She didn't choose her path but rawked the snot out of it—and a a young woman during the war she volunteered on the home front, hurtling about in a jeep and putting herself at risk. She's the monarch with the mostest.
(2) Some cock-spank was pitching "how to make money online" on a YouTube ad before Anarchy kicked off. Hilarious.  

Pulse shooting wounds but cannot kill

The latest mass shooting—which occurred at the Pulse nightclub in Florida in the US—is a chart topper. Yet another psycho motivated by hatred went and shot up a peaceful place—and you can't get more peaceful and Zen than a gay night club.

These monsters with small ideas and big guns lash out and destroy lives. 

But they can't destroy communities and they cannot destroy a country. They wound it, they hurt it; they cannot destroy it.

So fuck them. Fuck them and their mini-bouts of acute terror. I hope the stories that will come in the days ahead focus on the heroes of the day or on the lives of those lost and not on the turd that did it. The stories I'll read will be of the brave people who shielded others when a fuckwit armed to the teeth tried to slay progress and peace.

Those brave people; they're America and the Americans I know—not that fuckstick with the guns. 

I felt for Obama when I heard it; the sheer weariness the issue holds for him. That he keeps having to respond again and again in the wake of a mass shooting.

Fourth ping

Ping four away. Time was pressing so I accepted the deadline, shut the door, and with coffee in hand got to work.

Hooray for accepting the offer and pinging again in spite of the fails of the previous pings.

For to not to ping is to go forever silent and I'd rather be screaming in the dark that sitting mute.


UPDATE: I got a ping back. Double WFTW.

UPDATE2: First confirmation of usage. Holy shit, my ping had a ping. Triple WFTW! 

Sunday, June 12, 2016

I used a tool!

For all I've my life I've had a poor grip, but made worse for injury and medication. 

So I don't like using tools. 

As I child, and sentenced to an all boys private school, I wasn't even allowed to use tools because I worth sneakers due to lower leg pain and therefore was not dressed in safe attire.

I spent my lessons cleaning off grimy tile with industrial grease down the back of the industrial arts shop instead of actually building stuff. For the most part, I did get allowed to do the occasional thing.

But I don't like tools or using them but yesterday I used a battery powered drill to take screws out of an un-needed padlock hinge.

It worked first go. Hooray for me, a notorious cyborg, using technology to do very basic tool use—something you could probably teach a magpie to do.

But then I am so riven with self-belief a minor feat like basic tool use is a real buzz for me. 

Ego; it's a ravenous beast. 

Also, due to the nature of my shed being occupied with temporary items I've had to write this blind, with the keyboard on a cardboard box, facing into the unknown without seeing the screen, then coming back to edit it. There's a lot of mistakes. But yay for being able to do that as well.

Saturday, June 11, 2016

Nightmare-spawned space outs

One of the yummy aspects of psychological injury is nightmares. You don't necessarily relive what happened, but your brain pulls elements in as characters and situations.

I don't usually remember my dreams but I will wake with the last moments and if I wake from nightmare I'm more likely to then have a space out that day, or even that morning.

Space outs steal life. When you snap out of one you realise you've either been standing or sitting still and blankly staring forward or mindlessly pacing for a block of time.

Therapy has taught me to recognise when I've been in that state and to mentally jujitsu to think instead of a future plan with joy in it; to space out about wellness instead of woe and things you can do and not what happened—of which you cannot change.

But it's so much harder after nightmares. It's like your night brain has tendrils snaking through your waking mind to try to steal more time from you.

Fortunately, I'm just off to to something fun. Take that, subconcious.


UPDATE: Just got caught in a splintered, rolling one. Where you're doing normal activity but you flash in and out of it. It's like dipping a toe into a boiling bath, then plunging the foot in to test it and going "YAAAH" at the heat then bringing the foot out to leave it on the bath mat still steaming, as you add more cold to balance it out. 

It's going to be one of those harder days

Friday, June 10, 2016

Found a hole and then we fixed it

Whilst cruising through a website I found a chunk of information was missing. I knew the SME for it, got a hold of her, got a hold of the SME for the key stakeholder (1), then together we fixed it.

We'd organically formed a tiger team of three. We didn't involve anyone beyond who we had to; it was just three people coming together to fix a problem.

It was beautiful and it's how a workplace should work; SMEs trusted to get on with it and deliver.


(1) SME = Subject Matter Expert; stakeholder = anyone with skin in the game.

Stabbed myself in the tit with a car key

It wasn't a cry for help; it was the result of my medication and injury-afflicted hand tremours when I tried to open the gate padlock. For some reason I had the car key extended from its protective shell, like a curious tortoise, and when I fumbled my open lock check the keys slipped and that's how it came to pass that I stabbed myself in my right man breast with the car key.

It didn't penetrate, it's a key—not a knife, but it did hurt. I'm at best an A cup were I a woman, so the target area was small. 

But I can better appreciate the difficulties packing breasts delivers—accidental self key stabbing in the area being but one. 

At uni I had a friend who had been a long distance runner in primary school and early high school. Then her breasts came in and it was just too painful to do it any more. 

We don't choose much in this world; we don't choose our parents, gender or gender identity, sexual identity or what delicious bullshit dross we'll genetically inherit from our ancestors. Then for girls it's the double whammy of seeking equal recognition and opportunity in a world primed for objectification of women. 

I wouldn't choose to be a woman. Not with all the crap they have to put up with—the risk of accidental self-inflicted breast stabbing the least of it.

(Fist raised for Comrade sisters)

Thursday, June 09, 2016

The Famous Five meet two new friends

thewife and theboy are reading their way through the collected books of the The Famous Five series by Enid Blyton. 

I just heard the names "Dick, Nobby and Pongo" all used and in context.


Dick, Nobby and Pongo sounds like a dark series set in a '60s boarding school and the savagery that dwells within a cloistered environment riven with absurd notions of masculinity; being able to wear a tie properly, do sport and to turn up to chapel on time.

All of which I failed to do or do properly. 

Thank fuck I was not a boarder; poor, sad fuckers. All boys private schools; you pay good money to damage your child.

(Gnome accent) Well that went dark; and it all started off so nicely, too.

Did a bit three times

I recently attended an iPad-guided meditation session—a dozen of us assembled in the near-dark of a shuttered conference room—only the session was ruined for me. First by the fact I was gassy and had to hold in a fart the whole time and second because the narrator on the iPad App sounded exactly like the automated-dude from our "Emergency! Emergency! Emergency!" PA address system. 

It was hard to relax when the man who is normally yelling "Intruder alert!" is now instead saying "Take in a deep breath! Count to Three! Let it out!" They even had repeated fade-outs; "You are special! special! special!"

I lay on the floor for the session and I jiggled with the power of the held in fart and narrator disaster laughter and I damn near let the former off when I clambered up from the carpet, hoisting myself from the floor by a sideboard.

When I got back to my desk I wrote it up as a bit for my little rascals gang (1)—sparking a delightful chain of back-and-forth—and then I did it live for a co-worker, doing a fair imitation of the "Emergency!" voice and she doubled up with laughter.

When I got home I did it for thewife.

The same bit three times in a day and it killed each time; it's a fucking keeper. 

(1) Friends I've gathered from across time and space of my workplace.

Wednesday, June 08, 2016

Portaged the uggs to shed safety

The weekend just past pissed down here in Canberra; constant rain and our patio flooded a centimetre or two in places. Cold, nasty wet rain; I hates it.

I didn't want to risk any footwear to the wet so I carried my ugg boots into the shed as the rain set in for my wet feet to slip into then dry as I made the journey in to ride or hang out.

In with my feet slaked little sticks and bits of ick, joining the dark stains of blood from years of bleeding feet being shoved into the boot following an OCPD-fueled pick at either nails or foot skin. It's just unpleasant to think about and is not discussed in polite company.

But I did appreciate the ugg's power to soak the rain from my feet and leaving me snug in the foot department in a sometime chilly shed. Indeed the re-animated uggs have outlasted a heater, yet another appliance died in the service of heating my good self and into the skip it must go. 

My uggs are like me; deeply lived in and hideous in parts. Also foot shaped and I'm sure sheepskin is involved in it somewhere. 

It's funny the footwear that stands out in your life. I've killed dozens of black air-pump sneakers and the only ones that stuck out were the nearly dead ones whose hard plastic frame had rubbed through the protective cloth and would leave the backs of my feet bloody in spite of my trying to gaffer-tape sponge over the hard plastic—the plastic just rubbed right through.

There's clearly a theme here with me, footwear and bleeding feet. Again, not for polite company.

(Returns to the dining room where guests have assembled for the ball. Everyone is masked except some people will clearly fucking stand out body-shape wise no matter the mask that covers the head. Worst; anonymous stranger at a masked party, ever).

No reports of fording needed

As part of pain (slash) anxiety management I have to brief my next-one-up on how I am travelling. In the past few days I've had to give a mood report of "cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms; fording on."

Today, no warning needed—anxiety and pain both within tolerance. I bashed out a report then flew into site rebuilding and then there was a flurry of tweaking, saving, publishing, noticing something else, editing, tweaking, saving and publishing until bus time came. 

Sure, my IBS wasn't great—but it wasn't crippling. While I had the occasional mini-space out I didn't get trapped for long.

On the way out the door a friend was heading to her car and I got a lift to the main bus stop instead of having to transfer and enjoyed a catch up with someone I treasure.

These are the days I need to remember when it's not going great; that days like this can be had and had yet again.


Tuesday, June 07, 2016

Cock-spanks on patrol; yet more spanking

I live in a suburb of Canberra that is blessed both demographically and geographically with a preponderance of cock-spanks that love to hoon along the arterial road behind my shed. 

This time it was someone doing a burn out, probably at the intersection or at the near-by car park. The noise shot through the shed walls, my ears and deep into my head.

Cock-spanks on patrol, people whose loud, demonstrative vehicle operation tells people that they are cock-spanks and they're on patrol to spread the word through said vehicle use, sounds a bit like a Biggles book and I can foresee lots of adventures for the cock-spanks.

Cock-spanks hit a light pole; pole damaged

Cock-spanks ruin brakes doing donuts; $1300

Cock-spanks caught doing 120 in a 40 zone at school time; do not pass go

Cock-spanks "out-run" cops in own car; lose car, licence and $2500

Cock-spanks kill selves; family sad.

The last one is especially poignant because that alas is to often true. Hoons drive dumb, they die and their families are sad—and other families too if there are victims of their vehicular fuck-wittery.

But I'm sure the donuts were worth it. 

Friday, June 03, 2016

Rat Assassin

We downloaded an audio version of The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents by the late great Terry P and listened to it. thewife and I heard it in the car together to and from work and theboy listened to it at night. 

On a recent Ikea run theboy got some plushie rats that looked like characters from the book—Hamnpork, Dangerous Beans, Peaches and Darktan.

I threw the largest at him—Hamnpork—and yelled "Rat assassin!" or something like that, implying that if you got hit by one of the rat plushies you'd been assassinated. Like in laser tag but instead of a beam of light it's a soft, Swedish-induced plushie rat.

I got him, then he got me back. I am middle-aged, mobility impaired and bend with difficulty. He is young, short and muscular. He danced around me chucking the rat to hit me, darted in to get the rat, then chucked it again. I could not stop him or get to the rat so he did it again and again. I ended up huddled in a corridor end of his door and that of the laundry as he pelted me over and over with Hamnpork.

"I give up," I pleaded, "you win Rat Assassin. Please, no more." (1) He only left me alone when thewife called him to heel and he went dancing off to the living room in victory.

My brain starts fights my body cannot finish. 

Stupid brain.

(1) The game now named "Rat Assassin"  means it it is named and is thus I use title case. I forget why that should be. Wait, it's a proper noun. I knew I'd get there.  

Thursday, June 02, 2016

Air-raid shelter

I keep industrial strength earmuffs in the shed for when my anxiety is up and I can't take loud noises.

I have to flee here sometimes if there's a dispute on in the house. 

My anxiety was at a two on entry; it's about a 0.8 now. Hopefully I'll get the all clear to come back in.

I don't panic when these moments come; I just extract myself with a minimum of fuss and tool up in the shed. As if the air siren had gone off (1) and off I trotted to a public shelter deep underground—the best of all protection from bombs during the 30s and 40s—and I wait for the all clear.

These moments come, and then they go. This is now, but soon it will be then.


(1) In real life a loud siren blaring would trigger fight (slash) flight. My era-appropriate avatar is presumed not afeared of mental trauma. 

Wednesday, June 01, 2016

(Not Responding)

I know in part it's because the computers we have are old but fuck me I cannot stand getting the constant "(Not Responding)" popping up.

I'd like to "not respond" with a bat in a paddock.

My mum used to trill at me "a poor workman blames his tools", but then she came to computers in middle-age and only then understood the irritation a dodgy PC can induce. 

She said it once to me when were playing tennis and I got shitted off with my ancient piece-of-shit wooden racket from the '60s while my winning opposing brother had a modern metal and nylon fibre effort. I stand by that "shit tool" reason then and I do now. 

It's funny the child hurts we carry—and I carry so very many.

But then they made me resilient for when the time truly came that I needed resilience.

So it's WFTW in spite of her.

Survey says...

I got invited to take part in a survey.

I gave my feedback. It was wounding and I had to walk it off.

Nothing will come of it; it never does. I don't know why they seek metrics when they don't use the ones they have.

But then I'm just a low echelon super competent; what the fuck would I know?