Saturday, May 20, 2017

Sullied, cats and the dead Pringle

I'd put on a tight blue shirt, not that tight, but it was nice. My nose was dripping though and I looked down to see a fat dribble of snot had soiled it. Total wearing time < 30 seconds.

I think that's a record.

Sneaky cat
I heard the distant light clunk of the screen door close and knowing I was the only one home I investigated. The black cat was out and under the BYB. I grabbed her and hustled her back in. The door should close shut but it doesn't and the cat takes advantage of that. Sneaky fucker. 

Outside cats do not live long in Canberra. 

Dead Pringle
I had occasion to prong my second ever Pringle from a tree. I'd left it there from a previous Pringle throw but it had lodged in the leaves and not come down. Unlike last time I went "meh" and decided to let nature (i.e. the wind) bring it down for me.

Two days later I saw it had not. There was a piece of old fencing so I used that to prong the Pringle down. In its 48 hour seclusion in the tree the Pringle had curled in on itself, like a dropped leaf, the ends almost touching. Down it fell and the delighted trio of browns fell upon it and wrested shards of curled Pringle back and forth until gobbled. It was exciting for them and perhaps because it fell from heaven I am now their gawd. 

Not the gawd; a gawd. A chicken gawd. 

Here endeth the lesson.  

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Tissue in the wash

Tissue in the wash
I checked every fucking pocket, I swear, every single one. But I must have missed one because I opened the lid and saw the results. There's the good result where a tissue stays in shape—I found one that went through the wash and dryer and separated into three intact dried sheets on three separate garments—and the bad one where it shreds and pulps through your clothes.

It was the bad one. I yelled as I shook the shards free, snowing the laundry with their crud. I have PTSD and dodgy hands so naturally my hands flew open more than once on a shake and I had to bend to get the clothes off the floor with my failing knees and hip screaming at me.  Then re-shake them because they'd been re-dusted with bits.

Then I used a tall-handled dustpan to sweep up the shards. I know it's a first world whine to moan about a tissue in the wash but, fuck me, that is a prime domestic fail annoyance. 

There's still little bits I cannot get, reminding me of my failure. 

BYB top gear
I went for a ride where I stayed in top gear in spite of hills and slopes. Didn't change down once in a 30 minute hurtle. I even did an overpass in third. 

Area man is enjoying the ride.

BYB scary moments
The BYB has industrial thick tyres—but already holed once from a thumbtack—and its frame is rugged and strong. So you can go off road. 

Off road and going down a slope, however, is terrifying. You cannot turn the wheel too sharply or you'll tip so if you're on a rugged slope so you're basically going in that direction until the slope gives out. So there you are, gripping on with grim hope, face rattling as you scream down a slope and just hoping said face doesn't get mashed to a pulp.

UPDATE: I was going up on one side wheel and more-than-likely headed into a lamppost when I gave up on keeping the turn and went thudding into the grass instead. It was a split second choice or smooshed me. Eep.  

Bird stare
I can see small birds in a bush outside my window. I get a "tee-hee!" reaction each time I see them. I'll be typing and at the top of my eye I'll register a leaf twitch look up and see either a titchy bird or the afterglow of its branch bounce. 

Area man is enjoying the nature.

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

De-shanked my mid-tine

It's not often you get to write a string of seeming nonsensical words that actually make sense but that's exactly what I did; I de-shanked my mid-tine.

The jagged stump of the mostly-missing middle finger, or tine, of the back scratcher protruded and risked scarring my flesh so I used pliers to snap the plastic back until it was just a nub, ruining the shank effect the broken tine offered in a set to involving crappy weapons.

All I need is a file to pare away the rough edges and make it neat but I've exhausted my knowledge of tools-that-we-have. But that's just cosmetic—the aid is back at 80 per cent and ready to screap.

... you really have to wonder at the mentality that would desecrate a helpless puma

With thanks to The Simpsons.

In the great shed clan up of '17 the skeleton hand back scratcher was presumed tossed so I relocated the better of the two inside BS's for sweaty, hairy back shed-based action.

It's glorious, with five finger tines that are sharp enough to give a decent scratch but not enough to hurt yourself if you go nuts. 

Well, was glorious and is no longer five-gingered; the middle one has been snapped off. It wasn't me and I don't know how or why it could have happened. I'll have whittle back the stump because it's raggedy with a point and it will hurt to deploy. 

My poor helpless island-themed desecrated now four-fingered back scratcher. Here's hoping I can re-shape you back to 80 per cent use.


Lost with a hint of near dual-lane mash

I got lost on the BYB when retracing my route, only discovering so when the bike path ended in the middle of a long stretch of dual-lane.  As I crossed the road a car had to slow and tooted. It was fair enough; if he'd not slowed he'd have clipped me and sent a fat hairy whirlwind of flesh, rubber and steel into oncoming traffic. 

I retraced my pedals and found the under pass I had passed and went back through.

Each day I try to ride somewhere new and getting lost is just part of the fun. Besides you're never really lost if you have active Apple Maps.

But less of the near creaming of me risks taken next time. I love me and I don't want me further damaged. Not after getting the bliss of mobility back.

Tuesday, May 09, 2017


A shart is always a surprise; I doubt anyone has consciously birthed one unless impaired in some fashion.

I caught most of it twixt cheeks but it was still ghastly and I showered as soon as I was clean enough to risk movement. 

That's my IBS for me; it can be bearable and then suddenly ARRGH, I JUST SHAT MYSELF!

Damn you, abdominal business. 

I do feel oddly better. 

It's sleeping with undies time just in case round two comes at me. It might; the IBS, it does not play fair.

Thursday, May 04, 2017

Bike-scared some geezers

Atop the BYB I gain about two inches and thanks to it being a trike—three wheels for greater stability and strength—I can simply sit when I come to a stop to do things like find out on my phone where the fuck I am. I'm like a bikeder—a bicycle drider with the latter the half-Drow, half-spiders from D&D; three wheels for eight legs.

The bike-added height along with increased breadth of a lower-half now phat tricycle makes for a more intimidating presence and I presume it's more so when I'm in a oldster's blind spot.

I didn't mean to follow the old lady right up to the doors of Coles—the bike rack was to the left of those doors—but yes, follow her I did, in her geriatric blind spot but with enough of a presence that she could still sense me. I followed with just the electric motor on, the bike ticking with light menace, and I could see her spin her head back a few times to see what the fuck was behind her.

Later, on the way back, it was an old dude's turn. I was behind him on a path between bays and he kept swiveling  to check my looming presence.

The bitter irony is I am middle-aged with a body that is in parts literally geriatricmy remaining hip is like that of an 80-year-old. I look older than I am; I am a geezer. 

But on the bike I'm half-geezer, half-bike and that all makes me fully awesome.

(ting! ting!)

Wednesday, May 03, 2017

Feedback loop

Anxiety is self-fulfilling.

I was dropping things—more than usual—and it was frustrating. Then it was anxiety-inducing because it reminded me of the injury and that made me anxious. The more anxious I got the more my hands trembled and more my hands trembled the more anxious I got.

I wanted to try and put the replacement bell on the bike but I dropped the screwdriver three times. In the end I walked away because it was too frustrating.

That’s life with a psychological injury—you suffer a symptom which gives you anxiety and your anxiety makes that symptom worse.

But it’s better dread than dead and I should be dead.

Oddly, that does not make me anxious.

Tuesday, May 02, 2017

A Galaxy Quest moment

I was aboard the BYB and had stopped dead at the base of an arched overpass when I attempted to ride forward. The slope was steep enough that the bike slid backward if the brake was not on.

I'm not meant to rise in the saddle---my right hip is degraded and rising in the saddle also sends stress into the bike chain---but I had to grind down with as much force as I could to turn the pedal to avoid a backwards slide into a car-blocking plinth.

I needed something to get me through and that's when out it came; "Never give up! Never surrender!"

It worked, too. The pedal turned and I had enough momentum to keep turning.

Next time I may have to try chanting the Mak'Tar chant of strength.

UPDATE: I went to ride and got about 10 metres out when I discovered the flat tyre. I was worried I'd popped it during my GQ moment but it turned out to have been a thumbtack.

It's 2017; who the fuck still uses thumbtacks?

Tuesday, April 25, 2017

As seen from the BYB

It's a rainy Anzac day in the nation's capital and not fit for outside riding. So it's exercise bike time which, as it turns out, is not that fun. The saving grace is I watch tellie on the laptop.

Getting outside on a nice day on the BYB is deeply cathartic; you feel stress and fear blown from your body as you sail through the air. 

Occasionally you see some kewl things. 

I have seen:

The autumnal leaves cascading from trees as I rode ala the third act of Excalibur

A shorter, stouter Seth Rogan; and

Julian Assange.

The last one was a shock given his purported self-imprisonment in the embassy of Ecuador but there you have it, walking fancy free in Canberra. 

I hope he doesn't get droned while he's here. 

Sunday, April 23, 2017

Epic Cook Off

I had an Epic Cook Off—in title case so I can intialise to ECO. It was sparked by a casual mention of a topic and it cut straight through my ego defence and I lost it; I had fight AND flight. I ended up crying in the street and it took about an hour to come down from it. 

Fully ghastly. I had to have a couple of drinks and a shower to take the edge off; my top was soaked from rage and scare sweat.  

I loathe that I had an ECO—it's been a while since I had one. But treatment brought up a whole bunch of the sads and the topic lanced through me like one of my sperm splitting an ovum

I'm going to be better about dealing with it and am thinking of ways to meaningfully resolve it. 

Fucking childhood horrors. WHAM! All of a sudden you're back the fuck in it.

Unwellness for no win.

Friday, April 21, 2017

Pringle fights back

A shard slipped between my top front teeth and sliced into the webbing of my gum. It fucking hurt. I had to douse the shard in pepsi to remove it.

I don't like food that fights back.

Did not freak

I have PTSD and one of my triggers is loud and unpleasant noises.

There's tree lopping happening. The noise is monstrous. I stood outside the shed and bathed in it, getting used to it, until I'd had enough then calmly got earphones and distanced myself. My tolerance for this audio shit has increased; it is not forcing me to flee. I have protection on but can still discern it but the discernment is not causing the trigger to pull.

I am astounded at what I can cope with now. Past me would have fled gibbering up the street. Now me is having coffee and is about to eat some hot cross buns.

Recovery progress for the win.

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

Big helicopter

Me---"I may be a big person with big problems but at least I have a big helicopter!"

theboy---"You don't have a helicopter."


Monday, April 17, 2017

BYB to the outer limits

thewife fixed the gears so I took the BYB for a super ride. I went to a part of town I've never been to and followed a path to see where it ended; puffing lightly as the bike and I forged up a hill.

The path ended at the literal edge of town, in a paddock with the freeway a short way away. I furtled back, zipping through yet more streets I have never been in before. 

Then I got some Pringles for the chickens. Because I love them and I love feeding them Pringles.

The BYB; exercise now featuring actual fun.


Sunday, April 16, 2017

BYB goes deep

The BYB is mostly good---save for the gear chain slipping---and I've been riding it out and about my neighborhood. Today I went out farther than I've been and zipped about places I've only experienced walking or driving.

It was zen; the riding, the breath, the wind and the speed.

BYB is a pleasure machine.


Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Inside and out

I'm suffering abdominal spasms. I can see my stomach ripple ... then moments later my guts ripple as well. 

It is eye watering.

I don't think I had dairy but it's similar to that kind of discomfort.

Rippling guts, inside and out, make it hard to sleep. So I'm distracting myself with a biography of Charles Manson.

He was full of shit and wind, too.

Yet another early morn in bloat land, population me.

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

BYB pending

BYB got fixed but has a knock and needs a tweak. So I had to ride the exercise bike. It sucked. There's been a reorg in the shed and there was a white plastic bag with Christmas lights where one of the battery operated strands was on. I kept riding as I sorted through the bag to find which strand was operated by what pack. It took 700 metres and one and a half sessions clicking switches until I found the right one.

Some of the lights had snow crystal surrounds of hard pointy plastic. They dug through the bag and into my chest. 

It was both painful and a little weird.

Come back, BYB.

Saturday, April 08, 2017

BYB de-rezzed

I de-rezzed it by snapping the chain again. This after having had the chain come off five times. 

But, after it snapped, the electric motor still worked and I zipped along at a tasty clip and thrilled at the journey. I got more shout outs from people I passed who were excited to see the BYB.

And why not? It's most exciting. 

Hopefully the BYB will be re-rezzed and off I'll go at a tasty clip. At one point I got about a kay and a bit before the chain came off and it was a glorious kay and a bit; heart pumping, legs pumping, wind thumping. 

The BYB will be back and I will get the fuck back on it.

My mother was confined to a scooter—never a trolley—for the last decade plus of her life. But it had a decent speed to it. She scared people when she was in the old arcade, which had a down slope about a 120 metres long with a light dog leg, as she'd fire down there at max speed as she barked "coming through" in clipped British.

I get the appeal. To go from no legs to mobility, even if artificial, is sensuous; you delight in experiences you'd thought lost. Riding a bike in the open air on a nice day is insanely great. And now I've tasted it I want it again and again and again.

All those years of tormented bike riding in a shed muscled up my legs for getting mobility back with the BYB. I'll still use the exercise bike on those days I can't ride or when the BYB is out of action. But if the weather is clement and the BYB is free then the BYB for exercise it will be.

Outdoor cycling; after near twenty years of not doing it I'm back and this time with electro-mechanical assist.

Technology enhancing quality of life for the win.

Friday, April 07, 2017

BYB is rezzed

The BYB was fixed. I watched it happen from the back of a decaying wooden rocking horse out in the carport. The chain was a link too long so the new one was shorter. The frame of the bike had to be lengthened a tad to make it nice and tight.

The repair dude was dressed in typical nothing-to-imagine biking Lycra so that answered the "do they wear it when not biking?" question. He turned out to be a fellow hippie, those whose hips are now half or all machine, and we swapped battle stories of suffering then recovery.

I took the BYB for another test run and ended up in a place I've never been in the near ten years in this part of town. It was beyond my walking range from when I walked so off I went up a mild hill into places unknown. The path ended at a mighty tunnel with a bush trail beyond.

Battery low from wielding my form I furtled home. Only once did the chain slip and I got it back on with the first attempt.

It is insanely great to experience my surrounds in relative comfort and at speed. Before when I walked I was always in pain. On the bike it hurts now and then, but only a bit and not for long. Slow and yuck has given way to nimble and not.


Pocket litter

I ate an eyelash
It fell into my cereal. It was either eat it or fish it out. I don't have the dexterity to fossick for follicles so I ate it. But I swallowed it without biting so I don't know what it tastes like. Chicken hair?

Killed the chain on the BYB
The chain kept slipping off and eventually snapped. I had the bike on its side then back up multiple times in attempting to get the chain on but failed. Then the snapping happened. I was frustrated and had a light yell but then got over it. At least the electric motor still worked and I was able to get back home. The BYB is so much more fun than riding an exercise bike; that's pure drudgery.

Hooray for capability gain! Boo for capability loss.

I played Lego
I helped build a kewl base for criminals who reused blocks from a police station set. Now that's sticking it to the (plastic) man!

In our house the police are the "p'po".

Trump gives me the dumps
The whole Trump thing makes me sad. Each day when I wake I hope I'll swipe on to see he's resigned. The job is beyond him; he's had his fun winning office but he doesn't seem to be enjoying the doing part---and neither is anyone else enjoying his doing. He either doesn't do it right or doesn't do it at all. 

My suspicions were aroused of his lackadaisical attitude to actual governance by the solicitation by Trump from Fabio on the romance novel portrait model's view who would make a good Secretary of State.

And that happened before he took office; before!

This wrong trouser of time sucks hairy balls. Hey, if balls are your thing then go (those) nuts; but I am presuming it's the hair that's the core of the issue what with pubes itching at the uvula.

Trump's presidency is big hairy ball sucking for everyone; everyone---even him.

And I am betting his nasty manky man carpet in no way matches the gilded, combed over drapes.

Wednesday, April 05, 2017

Born to be mild

I took the BYB out for a ride---wearing tracksuits pants and thus using them for actual exercise.

I went along the paths I used to tread years before when I walked for exercise before shredding my hip ... from walking for exercise.

I know; what a fucked thing.

But there I was on paths trod before and instead of painful walking I was zipping along on the bike in comfort and blissed out on the rush of wind on my face. I ended up at the top part of the suburb then onto a bike path for the shops, cruising at 30 kph from the slope and gentle terrain. 

That's when the gear chain slipped off.

The electro-mechanical chain was still on and still got to the shops. Then after shopping I crouched low to fix the chain. The squatting was deeply awful and my tremble-hands added to the challenge but I was able to actually do it---me with minimal dexterity and agility both.

With glee I glided home, with downhill taking me a third of the way without power or pedal applied.

Later the gear chain slipped again and a tradie with his two kids stopped to give me a hand, dropping to his stomach on the ground to get at the problem.

I took theboy for a ride to a playground for spaceships and aliens then zipped home again. A couple of kids were encountered there and back who called out love for the BYB.

In every computer game I've played having a power or item that gave you speed was always a prime desire; speed gives you an edge and in combat games is a force-multiplier. 

I force-multiplied my life with the BYB.


Tuesday, April 04, 2017

Anchorman sadness

We've been introducing comedy movies we love to theboy. On Sunday I showed him Anchorman.

He loved it---right up to the part where Baxter the dog gets punted off the bridge

He cried for the rest of the movie. I told him Baxter was okay and returns to save the day but he was on a jag and couldn't help himself. He still found the movie hilarious---he loved Brick the most---but he'd be laughing, stop, then cry again.

I have PTSD. The sound of a child crying is a reaction trigger.

But I was committed to the movie and him seeing it so I steeled myself through it and experienced the almost same journey of happy--sad--happy--sad.

That's life with a psychological injury; life still happens and you have to deal with its impact on your injury.

Monday, April 03, 2017

Various things

BYB is grouse
Apart from the gears not quite gripping if you stop pedaling in third the BYB is going great guns.  I took theboy to school in the back cargo basket and we zoomed along. His weight makes the ride more stable. Later I took it for a ride up paths in the hills then enjoyed speeding down said hills---something I have not done in a decade or more. You get up a sweat and it can be grueling on hills but so far I've not had to rise in the saddle---something I cannot do with a decaying right hip.

I've gone from limited mobility to lots and it's most awesome---the to school ride was a peak experience.

The challenge 
It was Sunday and I laid down a challenge of sing talking until thewife got home. A beat after accepting the challenge he yelled, and not sing talking it, "I'M OUT!" ala Kramer in the masturbation challenge in Seinfeld. I laughed long and loud.

Rattled awake
I was on deck in the morning and got woken up by a rapid series of taps. It was startling. "You're supposed to be looking after me." I'd set an alarm but was brutally woken 38 minutes early. Afterwards I had to wait for my cleaned pajamas to dry before heading back to sleep for two hours at noon. I dreamed about Hemingway. 

It was quite the day.

Saturday, April 01, 2017

Big Yellow Bike stacked

It was on the second shakedown cruise of the Big Yellow Bike, for I have named it thus as opposed to just describing it, that the stack happened. I tried to take a turn at an angle from a car-carved road through grass and there was a contributing divot twixt grass and pavement. I had all but stopped when the toppling happened and it was slow enough that I could consciously enjoy the trip but physics was such I could not do a thing about it.

I scraped my palm heels and tumbled over onto dirt, rock and green but apart from numbness in my left hand and a sore shoulder I was okay. The bike basket got dented, the clip on never-used solar bike light snapped off and my warning bell split into its component parts and I had to work out how to put it back together. The BYB got scuffed up as well.

Lucky I got the helmet because I could have had it a lot worse.

But that's the purpose of the shakedown; to test how far you can push a piece of kit and push yourself pushing it.

I got sweaty and my heart sang as I flitted through the cool of a nice afternoon.

Mobility enhancement for the win.

Friday, March 31, 2017

Still here

I saw in 5 am from no sleep and as I tried to drift away my pre-sleep thoughts were of events past; common when you have PTSD. As I did a quiet note of pride played for all past-Mikey both went through and did. 

past-Mikey is incredible; and now-Mikey struggles to understand how he endured it. 

He's still here; I'm still here. I should be dead a hundred times over and I'm still here.

I know it's magical thinking to think there's something outside normal space and time at play but it still gives me a shiver when I stack up all the burdens and near-deaths I've enjoyed and marvel at my continued existence.

I should be dead but I'm still here.


Thursday, March 30, 2017

Chicken fairness

As much as the sight of a brown chicken running at speed with a Pringle shard in its mouth delights me I realised the current Pringle distribution system was unfair since the scruff chicken always missed out.

So, being the good technocrat I am, I redesigned distribution. Instead I crumble the Pringles in my hand and spread them in a line in front of the fence on their side. The scruff, whose plumage obscures her vision, is able to see the multiple yellow shards against the dark brown yard and actually get in there and get some. 

Of course the big chicken still repels interlopers from Pringle crumbs when the crumb level drops low. I can't change that without actively suppressing big chicken so my system is not foolproof.

But at least the Pringle crumb wealth is mostly fairly distributed and they all get some. 

Some, however, get more than others. 

I guess that's regulated capitalism for you; there's always going to be a bigger winner.

The important part is that it's regulated; natural instinct channeled for the greater good.

A Step Brothers battle anthem

Getting the gig for the Catalina Wine Mixer from Step Brothers.

Big yellow bike

I got a big yellow bike. It had to be big to take my ample frame. It means I now have transport to the shops and people's houses nearby where before I had to walk (too painful) or catch the bus (irritating).

I had to get help with the controls and I half expected her to hang on to the side with a lit cig dangling and control it for me.

It has electo-mechanical assist which is a good fit for me since I am part machine. We are technically sympatico.

I can't ride it yet. The helmet we got (large) was too small for my head (extra large) and knowing my propensity to fall over or drop things wearing a helmet when wielding an extra hundred kilos of rubber and steel is a safety must.

Hooray for mobility regained. I look forward to excursions and pleasure rides.


Old men

theboy and I saw in sunset pretending to be old men reminiscing about events that happened that day or the day before; "I remember that glass of milk I done drunk..."

He was in his spinning ball and I was on a chair with my feet up. I celebrated the pink of the day's end with a pink drink.

Old men talking as the sun dies away. A pleasant way to end a day.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Trump's delusions are frightening

Trump did a bunch of executive action bizness for bizness to stand against climate change realist bullies who have hurt the miners. He held his "let's kill the air!" celebration at the EPA.

This is my fave part:

“We’re going to have clean coal. Really clean coal,” Trump added. “Together we will create millions of good American jobs, also so many energy jobs, and really lead to unbelievable prosperity.”

Millions of jobs ... unbelievable prosperity.

There are about 80 000 coal miners in the US (174k jobs in total including transport and power plants) and clean energy manufacture has a workforce of four million and more and its tech enhances prosperity.

The only way you could consider coal as the go to energy security source for the US, with all the damage it does and its minuscule workforce compared to the benefits of clean energy, is if you were a fuckwit.

That he worshiped coal in the EPA, whose remit is to retard pollution in all its forms, is just magnificent---like yelling "God is dead!" In St Peter's basilica.

Trump's delusions crimp the world; he is literally reducing quality and quantity of life and lives with his fuckwittery.

Probs save us all.

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Anxiety blues

I've put in for some jobs but the idea is anxiety-inducing; I got jittery at the thought and though my head knew all was fine my under brain did not; the dreads and susceptibility to fight flight kicked in. 

theboy was in his room crying, his keening wail cutting through glass and the shed, and I was atop the exercise bike so I couldn't flee without ruining the ride. So I put on my industrial strength ear muffs and tried to watch what I was watching with reduced noise.

Later that night I had Vallium for the first time this year. 

It's to be expected; the idea of working for someone new is like changing schools. It's a bit terrifying to normal peeps let alone those baked in depression and PTSD.

It still doesn't make it easier.

That's what it is to live with a psychological injury; normal stress becomes acute and you can't comfort your child because their crying induces terror.

Friday, March 24, 2017

The GOP are gutless monsters

Each day I wake up and delve into the latest government atrocity committed by the Trump administration and read the stupefying nonsense babbled by the orange one himself and I struggle to understand why the GOP are not doing anything about it.

The Republicans created this situation by their actions in opposition that were antithetical to government, with a purely political focus of obstruction with no merit, and by fostering the cloud of unbelief and myth that soaked into their support base. They stood and stand against science, for fuck's sake.

So Trump is on them; they made his rise inevitable. And now they have government they're intent on destructing it because ... experts; what do they know?

I've answered my own question. They are not stopping Trump because they do not want to; they are Trump, all of them, in their own fragmented way.

It's just appalling. It feels like the backend of a bloodless coup and the entire world is suffering.

Probs save us all.

Thursday, March 23, 2017

Chickens—a life first

As noted I like to feed our chickens Pringles; they like them and I like how they like them.

I tried to frisbee throw a Pringle to near the scruff, for her feathers cloud her eyes making it difficult to see Pringles further away, but my lame throw, wind and the design of the Pringle all led to the Pringle getting stuck in a tree.

It would likely come down from the wind in a short time but I wouldn't have had the enjoyment of seeing them go for it. 

So I got a rake and knocked the Pringle from the tree.

I am pretty sure that is a life first—I can't recall any other time I've knocked a Pringle from a tree with a rake or, indeed, any potato-based snackery from any foliage with any form of gardening implement. 

Plus I got to see the chickens go for the Pringle.

The scruff, alas, missed out. Her vision is clouded and her agility low. The browns, on the other hand, move like, and have the temperament of, velociraptors. If they were bigger I'd fear for my junk.

Chicken ownership; I don't do any of the hard work so it's all just enjoyment. 

And they afford me the pleasure of occasional life firsts such as pronging a Pringle from an overhead tree. 

Wednesday, March 22, 2017

A machine screaming

It's outside but stopped for now. A blower or mower? It was a horrid noise but I did not bolt. I handled it. TV helped.

I'm not under operational stress so I am not as close to the PTSD tipping point on foul sounds; of my under brain yelling at me to run. It will be interesting to see how I go with such sounds when operational stress comes again.

That's life with a psychological injury; you're in a forever experiment on resilience which, by law, could never be ethically inflicted.

Balding and other flaws

Heavy rain
Being balding means I lack protection for the top of my head that hair typically affords. And if something touches the top of my dome I feel it because non-feeling hair is not there to cushion the blow.

One benefit though is shower fall; the steady thrum of water on top of your balding head is pleasant, reassuring.

Heavy rain, however, is neither. Great fat drops of cold sky water slashing against your naked crest is most unpleasant. I was trapped outside trying to get a door open in such rain and yelped to distract myself from the hideous sensation of god tears on my bare head.

Editor's note: God does not exist.

Editor editor's note: the above comment is the author's opinion and does not reflect the views of the publication.

Less hair at rest
I hate haircuts---loathe them. My mother did my hair until I was about 17---she just hacked it back---using this home kit that had a stripping razor comb that dulled with age. The result was the pulling of hair out by the root along with the hair that it cut and made for many an ouch. I also hate the sensation of shards of hair down the back which itch like a m'fo.

So I tend to shag up between visits by putting a haircut off.

My bed hair defaults to a Tintin point---the right and left sides peak together at the front. Only now I have not much hair the fucking point looks like the framework of a cone-shaped tent. 

The only truly acceptable haircut for a balding man is a number four or less.

I'd clipper it myself if non-god hadn't blessed me with short arms in addition to short legs because I cannot reach the back of my head and have enough room to manuever.

Short and bald is one way to approach life---makes it more challenging.

I'm also fat.

That's a "no thanks" sexy trifecta right there.

Thanks, non-god. This is just vindictive behaviour for your non-existence.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Does the cat know something?

I haven't slept for 28 hours. It wasn't planned; it just happened.

I'm sitting on the brown couch in black sleepwear with the black cat nestled between my legs. When I look down all I see is yellow eyes, floating in black, staring up at me. I think it knows something.

I slept fine previously, and I had the right pills at the right time, so it's weird to have missed a night's sleep for no real reason. I just could not sleep.

I did doze a bit for a couple of hours, well lay there drifting between awake and not quite awake, but I have to try and stay up until normal bedtime so I don't suddenly have a reverse sleep pattern to everyone else.

Sleep, I miss you. Come back soon.

Saturday, March 18, 2017

Chicken business

Chicken noise
The chickens are noisy cluckers. I was trying to watch TV on a laptop whilst riding and their cluckery impeded comprehension. I yelled "SHUT UP, CHICKENS!"

To my surprise, they did. Perhaps it's because of my Pringles?

Pringle money storm
I got a stack of Pringles and flicked them one by one from the stack like a money storm from movies and or music videos featuring musical rhyming and ostentatious display of sudden wealth.

The chickens reacted with delight, dashing into to pick the middle of a Pringle to shatter it, take the biggest chunk, then fuck off from the big chicken so they actually get to eat it.

Big chicken and Don Music run the yard
The big chicken and the scruff, AKA Don Music, rule the roost together. The big chicken chases off the browns, as does scruff, and then they peck at the Pringle shards in the dust as the browns watch on. 

I feel sorry for the browns. Mind you it is pretty funny to see the above peck, grab and dash that at least gets them something. 

Big chicken and Don Music are also literally on top of the pecking order—they roost on the roof of the hutch instead of inside with the browns. I wonder if that's a dominance move? Probably.

Ancient stone unearthed

Because the chicks dig shallow holes—they like to then sit inside the depression—they've unearthed old concrete steps from a yard path of twenty years past as well as the round entry point to a utility service. 

The most beloved of all cats, O—, is buried in their pen, so I am awaiting the inevitable unearthing of a cat skeleton. 

Knowing big chicken she'll wear its skull like a hat.

Skyfire (equals) no fire

It's Skyfire here in the nation's capital, the annual firework extravaganza that cracks off over Lake Burley Griffin. I'm not sure if I have ever been—I have a vague memory of going  once—but as for 2017 that's an industrial strength Neddy No. 

I have PTSD and for me noise and crowds are a problem; add fireworks to that and I'd be like a scared toy dog unsecured in a porous backyard—I'd bolt to anywhere not near that and be found later across the border at the RSPCA compound in Queanbeyan.

Toy dogs have much sense; evolution has made them for beauty and fight avoidance. 

That's not to say all people with PTSD are like me. Some people, especially those who had intensive exposure treatment, overcome the triggers of noise and crowds and lead normal firework-loving lifestyles with PTSD under firm lock and key. 

That might be me someday. Apart from the cockatoo—and it was only a light sudden panic moment when it sprayed me with a sonic attack—I've gotten better at handling sudden and unpleasant noise. I handled walking past a lead blower, for fucks sake.

But a fireworks night with all of that is, for now, a Mikey sound bridge too far.

I suppose I can go out when they go off, to see if I can see them from 10 kays away. If I do I'll have to give a commensurate-sized vocal response of "ooh" and likely  "ahh".

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

The Australian noise vomit bird

What is the noise vomit bird? The cockatoo. Sure, they look handsome but holy shit is their screech unsettling and loud. I presume it's some sort of benefit to do it; maybe it's to put other birds off being around because the cockatoo is the equivalent of someone on a rage bender drunkenly cursing the street?

I have PTSD. One was about three metres from me in a tree when it cooked off and its unpleasant screech pulsed through my body and head.

Hilariously some people enjoy the cockatoo. So do I---as a concept. I just hate them in real life being anywhere near me.

It may too be a Canberra thing. In our third house we had a roost of them in a power pole junction and they'd raise unholy hell against us at dawn and again at dusk.

Cockatoos; they're history's greatest monster.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Gas! Gas! Gas!

I farted so much I hurt my back.

Stupid Hitler bloat.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

Ice Ice Maybe

Our new fridge freezer is awesome---and it comes with a double ice tray and catcher which I love.

But fuck me is it frustrating to use when you have PTSD and hand jitters because to get more ice you have to fill both trays that are held in a plastic frame then you have to with trembling hands take the tray frame and bend down to slot the fucker back in. The darkened iced up rails don't naturally guide you in and you can end up with one side of the frame under a rail and you slosh water into the freezer and onto the floor. It's maddening. 

It's yet another challenge of psychological injury; the not sloshing liquids over the floor when carrying tricky containers.

Pain fug pillow swipe

Being in a welter of pain and discomfort---I felt as I often do that the previous day someone had set to me with a baseball bat---even though I slept 12 hours with disturbing dreams I had to go off and have another sleep. 

I slept for an hour, even dreaming, and when I woke I was still foggy in the head.

That's when I tried to swipe open my pillow thinking it was a tablet PC. If that pillow had been a tablet it would not be working anyway because in addition to the swipe I had drooled and left a wet patch.

I resolved that by dragging the pillow over so as to start a new patch.

That's life with a psychological injury; your body goes through the wringer and your sleep does too.

Saturday, March 11, 2017

An ode to the things that I drop

Well, it's not really an ode but more of a list. Because of my PTSD and my meds I have jittery hands whose fingers have a poor grip. Which means unless I am concentrating I may drop what I am holding.

Things I have dropped include: pens, keys, thumb drives, scissors, remote controls, pills, ice cubes, cutlery, glass mugs, lids, my phone, phone cables, computer cables and, most of all, bottle caps. The latter are light and with jittery hands they are hard to get back onto the bottle and then thread them down correctly. That's when the cap is at most risk of being dropped, or even springing into the air, to careen across the floor then shoot under the fridge. There's a herd of them under there now, likely led by the cap from a ginger ale bottle.

I can't get those back without getting into the floor with a long probing device to flick them out. So I just go to the recycling, find a cap from a discard, wash it and have another go. Sometimes those attempts fail as well and it's back to the recyc for another cap and another attempt.

That's life with a psychological injury; your hands are at war with very small things.

Hitler bloat and leg egg

I'm still enduring IBS and gas pain, a situation I've decided to call "Hitler bloat" since that nasty little git suffered the same as me. It's funny since it means he was both figuratively and literally full of shit. I've also got a leg egg, a swollen lump of trapped fluid on my thigh that I get now and then and which suffers on contact with the rub of undies against lump when I move.

What a double burst of joy; swollen in gut and in thigh.

But whenever this body yuck strikes and I gripe then ego defence kicks in, laughing, and reminds me I should be dead from my dozens of near mortal moments.

Both Hitler and Saddam thought they were divine; literally beyond normal man because of their close calls and astonishing success and presumed a higher power assured their safety and rise. 

I am bereft of megalomania and belief in the supernaturalbut even I am spooked by my still here-ism in spite of attempts otherwise.

Better Hitler bloat and leg egg than dead.

Now that's a disturbing motto; I can't see it appearing on a tea towel any time soon.

Anyway, Hitler bloat and leg egg; what will my body think of next?

Thursday, March 09, 2017

Well hello, 5 am...

I'm afflicted with IBS and my guts are bloated with stolen wind. I saw in 5 am before sleep came. 

As luck would have it I was reading a book that detailed Hitler's health and found myself sharing and living his trait of bloating and IBS---for him exacerbated by a blend of drugs and witchery injected daily into his nasty weird body.

It continued on post-waking with sleep busted at five hours with discomfort preventing a return to zzzz.

It won't be long until an implant comes available to turn pain level from horror to merely hmmm; becoming just a background note with you living life instead of swollen in hurt.

I wish the super nerds at Calico would get the fuck onto that. I'm sure they are. If they need a script to juice the idea along for realsies they know how to find me.

(Small driverless car turns up in drive and digitally summons Mikey forth).

Wednesday, March 08, 2017

Big chicken did a dick duck move

The duck when it lived here would grub about in the muddy dirt he'd moistened with water splashed out from the big tub we'd put in the pen for his use.

He'd then walk around with a mud mustache for the day in a display of authoritarian machismo.

I noticed the big chicken recently tooling around with a dirt moustache and glaring about having adopted the look of the previous ruler.

That chicken scares me---and the other chickens.

I better make sure it doesn't try to re-annex the washing line.

Chicken break

The other day theboy rage quit the pen door when he bumped his head and knocked a hole in the mesh next to the gate frame—a hole big enough for even the big chicken.

Later he realised the chickens were out and furiously attacking the greenery.

So we had to herd the chickens which is difficult because I can only bend if I take care and effort and squatting involves extreme discomfort. That and there were places to run that were difficult to extract them from like between the vegie patch and the fence. 

I got theboy to block that path off then convinced the chickens to exit from under the hiding (slash) climbing tree whose lower branches threatened to coat hanger my neck or stab me through the glasses and into my eye, and, one-by-one, drove them into the washing line area dog leg where even me with my anti-ninja body can groan and slow dart to grab.

Then I bent the gate mesh back enough to reduce the hole below chicken size to prevent the future escapes. 

I feel for theboy and fully understand his lashing out after he bumped his head on the gate crossbar. I did that as a child, experienced deep anger at sudden pain, and it is something I still struggle with. He was sad he'd over reacted but he's less than 10. His grip on his emotions and ability to recover are in far excess of me at his age—and now, because I have PTSD and occasionally experience crippling anxiety attacks.

The best thing we can do as parents is to keep what is good and discard what is bad from our childhood. Standing over my son and over reacting to an over reaction is never good; I loathed experiencing it when it was (and is) inflicted on me. So I didn't get mad, I understood and together we got the chickens back in.


Tuesday, March 07, 2017

Nipple work

Exhibit A
The black cat sits upon my raised knee when I'm on the couch. From her seated position sometimes she tries to lick my nipple. I'm guessing it is because I wear thin shirts and my nipple protrudes enough to draw the eye ... and tongue. It is genuinely unsettling.

Exhibit B
I was taking a plate to the kitchen when I bumped into the fridge and the plate jammed into my nipple---like right into it. It fucking hurt.

Exhibit C
I told theboy about Exhibit A and so he immediately tried to do it too. Deeply unsettling. The blame is on me for saying it and not recognizing how he'd receive that through the lens of his evil sense of humour. It's like that time I told him about when he jabbed me in the belly button with his finger and he near instantly recreated that scene by jabbing me in the belly button with his finger.