Sunday, December 30, 2018

Atop a steed I am a warlord

Thanks to a abandonware site and a DOS emulator I am able to play Warlords II again for the first time in years. It's a little harder without a physical mouse and keyboard and you don't get the revved up effect where the animation speeds five times as fast as the AI players take their turns like you did on the laptop version. 

But it is bliss and I am stoked I can play it. 

I've stopped daily riding of an exercise bike for about six months but yesterday I went back on and this time I had Warlords II with me. I braced the tablet in the spot to put tablets and tilted it forward to avoid skylight glare with the spare pare glasses case then played as I rode. I got to 27 minutes before I checked then 55 when I suspected I was near the end. Because I was playing the game I zonked out for most of it and got the heady joy of total distraction during painful exertion. 

Near the end though I was pissing skull sweat and it gushed into my eyes. Between moves as the AI players played I removed glasses, grabbed the sweat towel and daubed frantically at my eye sockets to sop up the pooled water of salt. 

I chewed up a chunk of battery but it was in service to its lord—a warlord atop his mighty seed. 


Monday, December 24, 2018

The Lawnmower Man

I woke to sounds of the electrical cord mower having at rain-fed grass that was ankle high when we got home. I wasn't fussed---though machine noises can cause distress---but it was in the shower that I discovered I could become a lawnmower man. theboy had enjoyed a fearsome flow motel showerhead and when we got home attempted to replicate it with our variable flow setting. As I ran my balding head neath the adjusted flow the rasp of three jets that had entwined thrummed onto my bare scalp with the noise of that same mower by rocking my head I could even replicate the sound of the mower going back and forth over a long bit because when grass gets too long the blades will get stuck and the mower switch off so you do a number six, three, two then one until the patch is cut.

I hate haircuts and lawnmowing. But I liked the setting that replicated the noise because that steady heavy jet was pleasing on a balding head.

Balding; it's not all bad. 

Sunday, December 23, 2018

A pool and bolts of lightning

I went to a pool. It was outside and with a decent spray of adults and children. There was no echo to compound it and I handled the visit. I handled being in water surrounded by noise that could trip my brain into unreasoned panic and I did not trip into it.

There were storms all through the week. There was a set of three bolts that hit near to where we were staying. I was on the balcony when I saw them strike then got palm-heels-to-ears before the noise of their strike hit. They were so close that you could physically feel the bolts with puffs of air for each thunder crack.

I did not trip into fear. 

Meds and therapy and therapy and meds. It's taking a reverse-toll; I feel trending improvement.


My pussy is a wrist licker

I'd not seen the cat in a week so when I lay on the bed she hopped up and spent a dozen minutes licking my wrist. She'd pause then go again. Eventually I got sick of it and stuck my wrist under my pillow and she tunneled into it to lick some more. It's a sign of affection—and she wants the salt in my skin—but irritating. I got she needed it though and gave her that dozen before it was "JESUS CHRIST, STOP LICKING ME!"

My pussy is a wrist licker. I accept it and have moved on.

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Scared out of K-Mart

We went late presuming kids abed at that hour, shopping for a Santa pressie swap. I was a dozen feet in when a two-year-old screamed but it was as if she'd come up to me while I was asleep, opened my ear wider, took a breath then yowled as loud as she fucking could.

I countered with a "HOLY FUCK!", left the Xmas section and ended up in toys where happy chocolate-covered toddlers were shriek-babbling at each other and forcing another retreat. I tagged out when I could and as I made a break for the carpark a joyful screech pursued. I left with palm heels against my ears and counting to ten to drown out hints of child.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and Xmas shopping." As in avoid it where poss.

You learn to keep your mouth shut in Canberra

In addition to the Official Secrets Act and need to know principles you learn to keep your mouth shut at times of the year in Canberra. Like in summer when bits of plant or animal float, hover or fly and are small enough to be inhaled if you're riding. 

I hit a cloud of gnats then went lips shut for the next few kays until I was clear of the places where swarms of gnats live. 

Later I saw one of those Cottonwood tree balls floating along, like a sky mine ready to choke anyone not applying lip closed sensibility. 

Canberra: they don't warn you about the inhaling of floating things. 

There should be a disclaimer.

For I am now the neighbourhood Sonja

I was riding my trike alongside a skate park when a teenage boy screamed at me "ON YA, SONJA!" then started clapping and laughing at me.

I nearly turned back to ask "What's the matter, never seen a fat man on a tricycle?" only he'd almost certainly say "No."

I don't know if that's slang for a fat man or if it was just hilarious yelling of a name because of the rhyming but he and his mate had a good laugh at my fucked-up body.

I got annoyed at being fat and yelled at for taking exercise—how's that for logic?—but later, on a different ride, a couple heard me coming and moved off the path and after I yelled thanks he said "No worries, brother."

So that made up for the Sonja. 

I guess that makes me Brother Sonja. I can dig it. 

Tuesday, December 11, 2018


I had to speak to an issue and cried at the end. I left the room to avoid hearing those speaking against. The person whose issue it was then flensed any opposing views with cold fact and got the full win.

I didn't want to but got convinced to try; I got to Shake for her Bake.


Trod on a foot

I have wretched feet—utterly flat, as if drawn by a lazy cartoonist. If there is any imperfection upon the surface that I tread in bare feet I will notice. It's a bit like The Princess and the Pea only a reboot as a Rumpelstiltskin-type antihero and she has deformed feet like they have been drawn by a lazy cartoonist. 

So when I trod on the foot I felt it as sure as someone who trod on an caltrop

It was 1:32 scale and the foot was still standing but snapped at the ankle. Not only was my move reduced in half it fucking hurt like you'd expect within someone who is heavy-set with failed feet who stands heavily on the snapped off remnants of a toy soldier's foot.

It was not lost on me that he too had flat-feet, from being a toy soldier, who in real life could not serve because of their flat feet. 

If I was a cartoon, badly illustrated or not, the words I yelled would be represented by an asterisk, an asterisk, a hash mark, "... what the actual...", asterisk, question mark then exclamation point.

In real-speak it was likely "Fuck, fuck, fucking hell, what the actual fuck?!"

My body; failing miserably since prebirth.

Saturday, December 08, 2018

Flying mudguard

I was speeding along a sloped straight bit on my trike when I was overtaken on the left by my mudguard as it snapped off and shot over my shoulder. It nearly hit me. I don't know why my trike decided my mudguard would snap off then try to kill me but it did and it failed. 

I don't use it in the mud so the lack of a mudguard isn't too irksome. But it looks funny with one on and one off—like it passed out on a couch and its flatmates shaved one eyebrow. 

This is not the first time a pedal-powered conveyance has had at me or caused me ill—once handlebars snapped in my hands and I fell off that bike in the middle of an intersection and the car behind me fortuitously stopped as opposed to running me over. 

You understand the normal risks of riding and accept them as part of the experience; but the firing of bits of itself at you is typically not one of those risks. Unless it was assembled on an ancient burial ground re-purposed as a tricycle factory. 

My suspicion should have been aroused by the instructions that told me to pour the blood of a chicken slain at midnight upon one of the guards of mud except I fully put it on the right one and it was the left that came off. 

Stupid instructions.

Friday, December 07, 2018

Toe fingers

I cannot bend without afearing my legs will snap off. But I can lift my foot up whilst free balancing on the other.

So I use my toes as fingers to grab an floored object then lift it to finger height. I don't have terrific feet either but my toes don't tremble like the fingers so if I drop something the toes get it and hand it back to the fingers.

I dropped seven pieces of clothing, mostly socks, whilst putting away dried laundry. And it was simpler to use my toes and lift than reach for the grabber to grab.

Toes; useful for when your fingers fumble.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and the lower extremities."

Tuesday, December 04, 2018

A royal trigger

I'd accidentally gotten hooked on The Crown then got to the episode about schooling—the sentencing of a child to an institution that is in no way applicable to that child. In this case Prince Charles being sent to a horror show in the highlands where cold showers and dawn runs were the norm. He hated it; every year. 

So I got triggered. I got triggered seeing his shitty school experience in mine; of being a square peg in an institution for round people and suffering as a result. I got angry and stopped watching it. Then got angry again when I finished the ep.

What I think pissed me off the most is his mum gave a shit; she wanted him to go elsewhere but deferred to her husband's decision to put the man into his apparently weak son. My mum was fully on board my distress which included physical, mental and sexual abuse.

I told them at the time and they either didn't believe me or presumed I drew the aggro that caused it.

Private schools that allegedly make boys into men make for shitty men; egotistical scumbags if they're athletic or fractured shells if not. I'm a Humpty Dumpty of spider-webbed cracks from breathtaking cruelty gussied up as elite education.

It's been thirty years since I took myself off to a state school and at least had my final teen years a scratch less fucked. But the damage that fucking place did to me, damage caused by my parents' deliberate, malicious decision to send me to that place still boils my fucking blood—especially in now knowing my shit body was my mother's fault.

I'll never get over that; that an institution took pride in putting its boot on my neck and squeezing down as hard as they could.

I didn't break. But I remember; I will always remember and to never forget means to never forgive. 

And I am just fine with that.

Wednesday, November 28, 2018


The startle reflex is the most shit outcome of PTSD—where if you're triggered you go into "Cartoon hole in the wall" phase where, if you could, you would punch through a wall to escape leaving a silhouette void where brick once was. 

I had an hearing test to see if my startle reflex was more acute because I have greater hearing sensitivity and it turned I both did and did not—a Schrodinger's cat reaction. My hearing is poorer because one ear drum has a saggy hole in it from age and abuse but my hearing is more sensitive because my wounded brain listens for threats and if I hear something likely to trigger flight fight my mind devotes resources to listening for tiny noises in case it's a sabre-tooth tiger headed for my cave. 

It is deeply fucked up. It is deeply fucked up to be scared by a fart which happened the other day. It was a pair of connected rooms, I did not hear the person enter the other room and when they farted I screamed "JESUS FUCKING FUCK!"

What does this mean? Well more therapy, exposure therapy no less, getting used to loud and unpleasant noises and breaking them from the visceral lizard brain reaction to grab a weapon and get ready to run. It's disconcerting to see your hand spasm for want of something to hurt something with; it's like you have fucking alien hand syndrome

I cooked off after the test and had to sate with pills, vodka and Diet Coke and CBT to against the dark eating my head. 

There is a benefit of PTSD; but mostly it's "Fuck, PTSD sucks; how can I make that suck less for other people with PTSD?"

My angry son once threatened to clap at me. He holds the power to cause me ill just by making noise. Do you know how hard it is to parent when your kid can destroy you with mere volume? It's like if Superman had a super Kryptonite-immune son who had a necklace of Kryptonite. 

Sounds, the bad kind, are my Kryptonite. Perhaps the therapy will make it less so. 

Here's hoping; living in a world where normal sound can scare you is not living—it's existing between scary sounds.

Sunday, November 18, 2018

Ha-ha at a-ha

YouTube selected "Take On Me" by a-ha and I laughed at the ending where the cartoon hot dude with the nice hair rents space-time to become real to be with the reality lady hero where they've only had a dance, a fight and universe hopping in a short space of temporal time and that's nothing you can build a long-term relationship on. Plus the scientists will want to dissect nice hair to see if they can also hop between a two dimensional cartoon 'verse and this reality because you could live forever in 'toon verse and presumably no longer have to eat or shit. 

Think it through, a-ha.

Saturday, November 17, 2018

A swooping and government soil

I've dropped the habit of hardcore daily exercise and am struggling to get back into it. Since it was nice out I forced myself out to ride outside.

And it was nice but I got swooped near a church school and stuck one hand up as antlers to scare them off 'til I caught sight of the shadow of that and stopped: I looked like a pregnant human cross moose (1).

As I approached an overpass I looked across trees and grass to see a man stealing government soil. He'd backed his car and trailer up and heaping his ill-gotten dirt at speed. He stopped shoveling as I stared at him and he at me until I left. After shopping I went to get plate deets but he'd fucked off by the time I got back. Which is good; I didn't want the aggro---but I'd placed my phone with photo ready in the basket for a quick snap then getaway.

Cheeky fucker.

(1) Female moose do not have antlers.

Three to go

It's fucked to decay in mid-life. I've one hip done and knees and the other hip need doing and I don't want to do them. The first was brutal—three more is yuck.

I read a birth defect is like getting a joker if jokers are bad—a chaotic impost at the start of life.

Well chaos brings light so burn bright as the dark chokes you.

That should be in a fortune cookie. Along with "Face the fierce tiger with your chair but know that the chair is you ... as is the tiger."

That would make a nice change. Just slip it in. Esoteric malign fortunes. And name people like Derek or Phil so if Derek or Phil gets one they're like "What the actual fuck?" as the fortune then says they will die at the stroke of the next night's falling. 

Suck it, Derek (or Phil).

My door has a moustache

It's on the inside of my bedroom door and it's not real—nor fake, I haven't stuck a falsie on it. It's a coat hanger where the hanger part is black plastic and against the white of the door it makes it seem it has a moustache. 

I smile when I get a towel that the moustache keeps hooked on the peg.

I think more portals should experiment with facial hair. An archway with a Van Dyke? A sliding door with sideburns? A side hatch with the full Vultan?

The combinations are endless—though I do like the minimalist approach of the bald mouse hole.

Sunday, November 11, 2018

Creamy Slinky

The trouble with my scars that I pick is they are a delight to pick; deeply satisfying.

In order to stop it I put on cream but unless you have something to suplant the urge to pick you don't put the cream on.

So I have a Slinky. Instead of ripping at face flesh I bounce that, bungee jumping the end to the floor again and again. And when I'm not doing that I can finger the inside as it sits next to me.

It's nuts to enjoy picking your bod and then summoning the will to stop. At least I have my Slinky.

Saturday, November 10, 2018

Penal colony

It sounds like a sausage fest.

Thursday, November 08, 2018

Habit discussed; habit engaged

The nastier aspect of having OCPD is picking at the body. I pick at my face, neck and thigh.

I saw the psych and discussed steps to stop it. Then I went home and kept doing it. I had the cream next to me and I would not put it on to stop myself on the first two until early afternoon. Then I had a go at the thigh.

It's nuts to discuss self-harming then go home and self-harm. At least I stopped; that is the win here.


It's a hell of a thing to be lying down and experiencing your body spasming in different places: back of a knee, a little finger, a calf muscle. They remind me I've been wounded and those wounds are unfair.

But I copped most of them in the service of the state and I wouldn't have been me if I hadn't.

So I fall back on that when the spasms ripple; they're the price I pay to be me.


Monday, November 05, 2018

Democrats want aliens to probe you: Trump

"Democrats, or Demon Rats, have taken over transmission stations and invited aliens in person to probe each and every one of you.

"These aliens have your picture and address along with a personal item for their robot bloodhounds to sniff you out, to track you to where you are hiding, pull you out and stick that probe in you.

"Cryin' Schumer will be standing next to the gantry, they all have them, folks, he'll be there with a whip whipping you into the holds of their slave ships where more probing will happen, that I can guarantee you.

"Then the aliens who hate our patriots will probe them worse to find their guns so the aliens can leave you defenseless.

"It will be a mix, folks, a mix of aliens. The greys, we don't like them, do we? Those long skinny brown ones---and the ones that look human except for the antennae. All crowding you seeking to be the first to probe you so they can brag about it in a space bar. Guarantee it.

"They cut a deal with China to close all those beautiful new steel mills, folks, plugging the chimneys, the beautiful smokestacks of freedom, with trees and shrubs that I can tell you.

"The aliens, folks. Democrats invited them, want them to stay with them and take your jobs. Think about it, having to compete with hyper intelligentsia from the dark void whose concept of money has probably evolved away to not needing it since they can create anything they need from the relevant atoms, folks. And they don't need arseholes anymore, done away with them.

"Aliens with no money and no arseholes coming here to take both of yours. Not good, folks, not good at all."

Also see "Full Trumpism" at The Washington Post.

Sunday, November 04, 2018

Soul-killing clangfire

Certain noises are bound to startle; have PTSD and a lot of such sounds in quick succession you'll end up balanced on flight-fight for future noises. 

The first nasty was a five foot drop of a nail varnish bottle onto a varnished wooden floor. The rest were dice that missed the table and hit the same surface. In the end we rolled the dice (five at a time) into a box so they wouldn't shoot away except of course a couple did. The game reached the end without my end being reached but I had to have two Valium post-game to deal with the shredded nerves. 

The worst one was the one I knocked off because I knew the sound was coming and it was my fault—my fucked, work-wounded hands dropping a die. CLATTER-CLATTER-BANG-CLATTER ripping through my skull as it travelled along the wood. 

I loved playing the game but I got stuck in this weird place of "having fun playing a game" and "I am going to be attacked; prepare to defend myself". That's an insane duality to have; to be doing something fun but wreathed in fear-soaked terror that a loud sudden noise is coming and you may dive for the door. 

I yelled loudly "FUCKING (word)" each time it happened and I had to say sorry when the game was done for sounding demented at such innocuous noise—terror Tourette.

That's life with a workplace mental health injury; you're forever stained by what happened to you years on and sudden noises can drag you screaming back. 

Workplace injury blows goats; I am the proof.

Pop goes the boil-o

The ever boil had ballooned and it was popped; lanced with a needle and squeeeeeezed. 

I felt every e.

We had to pause for a breather then we went again, the tissue wad blossomed with boil gunk.


So it's hot water bottle time and pain meds. The site is quivering in aftershock.

The inner thigh boil; it just keeps on giving.

Friday, November 02, 2018

GOP releases ad for 2018 midterms

Trapped in the body of a fat child

It was my birthday recently and I thought of it in the context of childhood and school and how utterly sad I was to be trapped in the body of a fat child; for life. I am stunted in growth, have shorter fingers than I should and my joints are mildly fucked up. 

None of this was my choice; nor was it my choice to become fat—genetics and a womb-deformed body soaked in pain did that for me. It's hard to maintain the thrill of physicality when your physique is against you. 

I have all the attractiveness of a fat child despite being an adult which makes me neutered; if you found me attractive I'd consider your mind unsound. 

But when I got off the bus my son was waiting for me because he loves me and gives a shit about me.

So I won; I won life trapped in this hideous flesh suit and without it I could not have been me and done the things that I did—or created the family that I have. I never felt welcome in the one I was in so I made my fucking own.


Wednesday, October 31, 2018

One tried to eat me

One of the chickens tried to eat me. She jumped up and bit my right middle knuckle, I presume because she thinks I am part food. There are animals who can be partially food such as lizards that can drop their tail but I am not like that. Unless they're into hair and nails then there's nothing else I consider they could have from my person.

If I pass out in the pen then I shudder to think what will be gotten to while I lie defenceless. Will I try to open my eyes and find they're no longer there?

Vicious poultry, just vicious. Anyone can see that except for those without eyes due to chickens.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

PTSD likes women's clothes

I don't tap online ads save by accident and thanks to PTSD and meds for PTSD my fingers flick open of their own accord. Or stab downwards when surfing with a tablet.

Because I've tapped on that ad twice I now see it populated across other sites in addition to the site I was reading.

They objectively look like nice clothes though as a potato man they'd be no good on me. They're for long slender gals.

My PTSD also likes short shorts; it has eclectic taste.

Paging Dr. Cohen

In almost every tragedy there are moments of hope, that a lesson may get learned from it such as in the Pittsburgh shooting in the reaction of the community affected.

Human caused tragedy oft means a counter force so strong it defies motion. To treat the alleged synagogue shooter with professional compassion shows their best against that man's worst.

Big ups to Pittsburgh and all who sail within.

Saved a mermaid

She fell off a shelf and onto the floor, brushed from her perch by a passer-by. Even though bending is a hassle I bent and got her then put her back.

It mattered fuck all in the scheme of things but it mattered to me that toy mermaid plushie could get wrecked and that whoever got her would be sad at the grime on her body.

I pay a cost to bend; it hurts to do it. But if not me then who?

That's why.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Pwned by grand dame

We were at a gathering when powerhouse host pointed at us and said "now none of your dungeon talk!"

It was only after she said "or your dragons" when we realised she was teasing us for being D&D players for 30+ years of life; for we'd outed that we were players (still) at a previous event and she pwned us by remembering that and using it against us.

I've been playing Baldurs Gate II obsessively so the first thing I said was "I'm a twenty-second level mage."

I was wrong; it turned out I was a dual class level six thief slash twenty-third level mage but in the moment it was a near-truth marred by an error in fact.

That stands in stark contrast to Donald Trump who just bragged that not only did the stock exchange open the next day after 911 so did major league baseball. Except they didn't; they took six days

He was right in spirit but super wrong on fact. It's his truthful hyperbole at play; there's a kind of truth even though it's bullshit in that it feels true, and should be, but it's not and never was. 

The fact they only lost mere daya after such an event is a miracle in of itself. It showed the resilience of New York after a knife to the heart. 

Trump as a realtor got compensated for incurring good will costs hosting displaced people and providing succor to businesses around the city affected by the act. Only he didn't really have any

But this is a man who once walked into an event for a children with AIDS charity, climbed on stage to sit with the VIPs who were being thanked for their support, then did photos and left having not only not donated but not been invited

You can't make that shit up. That someone who did that got to be president.

He's the real life equivalent of a child of Bhaal. 


Sunday, October 28, 2018

Scaring of younger men

Once you've been in the adult world a while the age differences vanish; you can be in your forties and have friends in your thirties even though at school you were just leaving as they were still in kindy.

Time is unkind to us all. Our bodies degrade as they age and things start happening.

Someone was turning forty and the older ones felt the need to share what happens to your balls. 

"They keep dropping," I said, "And they can be sat on or squeezed to the side if you sit wrong."

Another was how your scrotum lengthens and it's more likely to stick to an inner thigh and, as getting out of a vinyl chair in Summer, it makes a nasty noise and does not feel right when you detach. 

I noted that scrotal sag means you can fold up a small toy in it and see the impression of the toy through the stretched out skin. 

These are things that need to be said; that your balls will age in unpleasant ways and that it's not just an aesthetic blow but a serious physical issue.

To sit on or side smash your now saggier balls is not fun; balls hurt when struck and your scrotum and gravity means they end up in the way. Imagine a matador who swaps out his cape for a tablecloth then discovers the bull is more likely to hit it and you get the idea. 

The running of the bulls; people have had injuries to balls from bulls since that tradition gored off. 

If you're hitting your forties then your balls degrade. Accept it and get used to moving them out of the way of animals or small children; they will hit you there. 

Friday, October 26, 2018

Cat's paw into belly button

That's a first for me, a strike to the belly button from a cat, and it hurt. She didn't jab it; she lay on me and a forepaw slipped in and then she pressed down. I felt a nerve fire down and burst out through my groin.

It was unpleasant. Not as unpleasant as a poke from theboy but hurty nonetheless.

Cats, a threat to the BB so B.b. beware.

UPDATE: ... and then she trod on my balls...

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Angry lake ride

I'd just set out to do to the bridge and back but, fuck it, kept going and did the lake. As typical I was angry and lapsed into a rant about crap. Now my knee is sore from doing too much too quickly.

I got angry at being fucked before I drew breath. I recently read a line about nature and nurture, that genetics loads the gun and the environment pulls the trigger. In my case it was pulled in the womb and I came out broken.

I didn't have a fucking chance; I was fucked before I came out. I try to fall back on the fact I am who I am because my flaws make me sing; that it is for the greater good I dwell in a house of pain.

It still gives me the shits though.

But I just yelled, I did not cry. That at least is something.

Wednesday, October 24, 2018


With thanks to The Games of Thrones.

I opened my laptop to look down at that sticker of the huntsman spider that I didn't remember putting there only to realise it was an actual spider that had been squished when I closed the monitor on it. 

I didn't know at the time and because of my womb-robbed fingers I can only two finger type and my finger fall is heavy I use a gaming keyboard that is plugged in because to use a laptop keyboard is an exercise in acute frustration. The spider was not disturbed by use of the laptop, only the distant rattle of fingers on the plugged in one that is an inch away. 

The transition from "I don't remember putting that sticker of a spider there" to "that is not a sticker; it is a spider the depth of a sticker because I squished it" was a bit yuck, I wobbled for a second before I swept it away. 

The poor fucker didn't have a chance. Maybe, like me, it found rhythmic noise relaxing and it curled up asleep near a steady rattle.

So it likely died in its sleep, unaware of its death when the lid came down on its coffin. It's brutal efficiency except I'm not letting it repose as a gruesome sticker, I just used a USB stick to push it off the desk then kick it out of view. The mice can have it, if they choose. 

Spiders, I don't like them. If I am generous I will attempt a catch and release but it's more droning that resettling I confess because I'd rather them dead than released since they will come back. 

In this case I feel a bit like Frank Drebbin and the drug dealers.

Songs to vent through

"Button to Button" by The White Stripes. You can overlay your own verses and spit them out in controlled, musical fury. Or keep to the real ones since like astrology readings they're broadly applicable to everyone—especially anyone who had a shitty childhood.

The White Stripes; helping make stripes stripe since they were stripy.

Creamed self post shower

Because I self harm through gouging at existing scars I at least have the benefit of an all natural approach. Which means I don't start up new locations, I just have at specific spots that exist. So I got up, I had a shower and I creamed the fuck out of the scars. I want to pick them when they are dry; the sensation is robbed if they are moist. The trick is the active application of cream when waking or post showering.

So I've done that; let's see if that holds.

That's the trouble with the ebb and flow of mental injury; you have to wait for the low tide of near normal to do things to prevent your high tide response.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Nearly all day

I didn't put cream on my face until after five having left my wounds free to be picked at the whole business day. I was convinced I could tear the puckered scars off and all I did was make it worse. 

I hate being so wounded in the head that I can't stop picking the outside of it. It's not right, it's not normal but it feels right and I am screaming in my head to keep going. 

It's fucked to want to claw at your skin; even worse to feel good in the moment for doing it. Then you see the red, scarred skin among the greying stubble and you shudder. 

Ain't that a kick in the ... well, you know.


Monday, October 22, 2018

This little chicky ate roast beef

There was a left over slice of roast beef swimming in concealed fat and juices. It was okay to eat but off putting. It's not chicken so I fed it to the chickens. After feeding the bigs their share I tipped the last of it---juice, fat and slice---into an empty dustpan and set it down for the rest.

Gone, completely gone. They ate every piece, every white bit of fat and drank all the juice. It seemed to be the best reaction they've had yet in "will they eat this?", the game played by every backyard chicken enthusiast since backyards and chickens have been a thing.

Given the pecks I've had it seems clear that they will also eat people if they get the chance.


Saturday, October 20, 2018

0–100 in 165 minutes

I hate making phone calls; hate it. I hate having to deal with social niceties then intro the topic. I know in this day and age to make a phone call to a stranger to their phone who is not expecting it is treated with wary suspicion by the stranger—if they even take the call at all. 

I threw myself into it. I called and called then called some more. By the end I'd cracked almost half the sheet and done a hundred plus calls, I didn't need the script and I'd honed my patter as warm, engaging and excited. It helped the calls were for something nice not nasty but still for someone who hates phone calls who then has to make a hundred plus in a single sitting it was deliciously awful. I didn't like it, I hate annoying people so getting them past why they were being bothered was a burr I had to rub each time but it didn't go nasty. The first time I ever cold called for a group I got someone at dinner time and they chucked a screaming snit at me leaving me to complete just 10 attempts before giving up.  No one likes being yelled at; in person or via phone.

So I did it. It's just part of the gig and I have to accept the need to talk voice-to-voice. However it went as good as it could go and I had the grim satisfaction of completing, emotionally intact, a difficult task for someone with the added complications of depression, anxiety, PTSD and OCPD. 

The irony is all four—my horsemen of the apocalypse—make me a better someone. 

How's that for a win? Take that, life wake.

UPDATE: I finished the sheet. It took longer and was more stressful. Go figure.

Friday, October 19, 2018

A thin trickle of watery blood

That's what greeted me after checking the toilet post motion. It is decidedly unsettling and deeply unsexy to see a thin trickle of watery blood after going number two but I know at least it's not my arse spouting it but the right thigh ever boil "popping" against the seat.

It's watery because it's not just blood, it's whatever goes into a boil as well. It's gross and does not bear talking about.

The ever boil is a good metaphor for me; I'm leaking from an ever present wound that just will not heal. 

This morning I had to fight the urge to savage at my body and I succeeded. Just. I had a go at the thigh lump for a bit when I realised I had just returned to an out of the way spot I could have at where it's not disfiguring.

It's fucked to be caked in so much damage you get relief from damaging your body but that's just what it is; to have OCPD is to likely have a co-morbidity of picking at your body

You'd think someone born and raised damaged wouldn't damage themselves further but that's what being caked in damage does. 

I didn't choose this body but the rest of the world, parents included, presumed I did. I guess if the world says you're damaged what's one more puckered scar from picking at yourself to seek relief?

Stupid mental injuries—physically skin deep but in the brain all the way to the core.

Thursday, October 18, 2018


With a change in psychs it meant I had to brief the new one on me. I stole half of someone's appointment and ended at ninety-two minutes. I cried near the end after I spoke of what happened and how to deal with the twin injuries of childhood and adult trauma.The hardest was talking 'bout self harming through gouging at my face, thigh and feet. That to pick at your body gives you a weird peace because of damage to brain chemistry and how to break that habit of mutilation.

I'm like the bargain trolley at the gates of hell.

I was jittery after and had a V in the afternoon. My brain wants to revisit what was said and please I just don't want to do that. 

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Near double stack

There's a path junction that curves up a hill that forces me to dismount unless I go the other direction, turn around, and go up it at speed. I failed half way up and had to jam brakes to stop sliding and the angle meant I tilted and nearly tipped; twice. For I went back twice to try it after the first fail to see if it could be done. Ridden up without dismounting,

Could not do it without the run up from the other direction. It was horrifying on the last tip where I thought I was going to smash sideways then slide down the path and it was luck it didn't happen.

That junction is my trike's baby with the one eyebrow; its nemesis.

I wish it wouldn't drag me into its fights; it's a high conflict machine.

Also my microwave got in a twitter beef with the fridge. Honestly, they should stop stuffing AI into everything.


Sunday, October 14, 2018

Mangled approach

I was too keyed up so I hit up a speaker before photos and had half a minute to make the pitch. I was nervous, stumbled and did a bad job. I caught myself pacing on the fail when I got home; for like a typo in a report that is a forever mistake and I have the fail sads. 

But you can only fail if you try; to not try is to never chance to succeed.

Wheels within wheels, turns within turns.


UPDATE: ... and mangled the follow-up email. I was using webmail and the fucking email was sent two lines in and without the pared back edit of the below text. I had to grit teeth and re-do and accept the fact that happened. To help accept it I had valium; but it's been more than a month since I last some and that's been the longest break so far. Today was applicable use; the technocrat equiv of punching yourself in the balls.

Saturday, October 13, 2018

The cat knocked the skeleton hand from the table

I realised as I said those words—it was a plastic back scratcher skeleton hand—that it was an unusual set of words to say and it sounded a bit like an early reader that went wrong ala "the cat sat on the mat" only in this case body parts instead of furnishings

That would make those readers more interesting and it should be encouraged with other body parts twinned with cat-based antics; "the cat nuzzled the hip bone", "the cat stood on the metatarsal" and "the cat ate the hippocampus; where the fuck did it get that hippocampus?!" 

I think the kids would get more value out of that; plus it's early exposure to anatomy and situational appropriate cursing.

The lost cough

For as long as I can remember honking up goobs on waking has been a thing for me and my unsettled lungs. Sometimes the cough ejects with force and the goob is powered through the air, with two fat ends and a linking middle bit like chain shot, and it lands on something. 

In this case I coughed into my wardrobe and saw "it" fly into the clothes within. I confess to a weary sigh at my Something About Mary lost lung ejaculate but the silver lining was I found it within two seconds; it did not remain undetected hanging off an ear

It was tacky enough I could pick it off with my fingers with the snot hanging between them and I got to a tissue instead of it being wiped off somewhere it should not. 

So the cough was lost but just for a second; I dealt with the unpleasantness in a timely, efficient manner. 

If you do have goobs honking it up in the shower is best; but this snuck out of nowhere and I honked into storage. I like to think that if that had been the Narnia wardrobe it would have crossed worlds and hit the witch queen's sleigh dwarf in the eye and caused him to stack it. 

Take one from a broken Son of Adam!

Friday, October 05, 2018

Technocratic freak gottten on

Technocrats are always on the hunt to make things run better. I found a hole and pitched the patch. I got a call to say it was a potential goer and they'd investigate if it could be done.

It was real time government; they got back to me the same day.

I had to celebrate and my song of success is "Something Good" by Utah Saints.

I cranked it up and belted it out in an empty office whilst lightly quivering with my attempt at dance.

It's yet another reminder that if all that hideous crap had not happened to me I wouldn't be the awesome 'crat that I am.


Wednesday, October 03, 2018

He put the boot in

White House staff: please don't disparage Dr. Ford who GOP senators agree has suffered a traumatic assault even as they cling to the belief she's identified the wrong attacker and not would-be "Justice" Brett Kavanaugh.

President Trump: fuck that shit, I am going to disparage the fuck out of her.

UPDATE: it worked.

Tuesday, October 02, 2018

A gusher

It's lucky the mystery of the bleeding into the toilet was solved—for it was the ever boil popping and leaking ichor out when rubbing on the toilet seat—or today's deluge would have sent me to the emergency room convinced my insides were liquefying and a slurry of organs was sluicing out my arse. 

The blood, and lots of it, was disconcerting. But the relief to wipe the inside of your leg to confirm it's just ordinary boil blood and not rectal blood is insane. Like "withdrawing from a uni subject on the last day you could" insane relief—the walk back to your car from doing that is just magic.

The boil bleed means no riding, warm compresses and later an expert squeeze but that's always preferred to the bum bleed. 

Bleeding; never great but some are way better than others. That's a motto I can get behind. Especially when it's not coming out of my behind.

Friday, September 28, 2018

Sex demand shouted

It was I who shouted it and a stranger---a middle-aged blonde lady---sitting perpendicular to me the one who received it.

I was on the bus and the bus tooted someone in front of us. A bus horn is loud and I was not watching the road so was not expecting the toot.

So I yelled "FUCK ME!" right into that poor woman's ear.

I normally apologise and note I have PTSD but it felt weird so we just sat in silence as fight flight swirled down the drain. She got off before me.

I'm mostly sure she took it as an exclamation of alarm than a genuine bluntly delivered sex demand but it's going to be weird if we meet again.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and sex shouting."

Thursday, September 27, 2018

Mob rule

"I told a number of countries over the last few days, I said listen, you’re a very rich country. We protect you. Without our protection, you would have real problems. You would have real problems."

Donald Trump press conference, Wednesday, 26 September 2018.

Wednesday, September 26, 2018

Boil blood not arse blood

I had to suffer the indignity of someone looking up my arse to see if it was bleeding and it was not. When shown where the blood appeared on the seat or just under it the ever boil was poked and blood shot out. So it was not arse blood; just boil blood. It rubbed on the toilet seat then bled.

It was like a parody Nancy Drew; "... and the case of the toilet blood" where the anus had been set up, framed, by the ever boil with the mystery solved with a final confrontation in a brothel. I know, I didn't think Nancy Drew would have a scene there but this is parody.

What a relief that it was just the ever boil, still not gone after nearly a year. 

The ever boil; the ever un-delight.

UPDATE: not bleeding out of your arse is awesome.

Blood fart

Since the revisit of the bleeding arse each time I've farted I've worried I'm spraying aerated arse blood. It has not happened but when I change I've checked, Dexter style, to see if I Jackson Pollocked my pants (Red Spots Number 12).

It's a worry I've never had that I now add to the list of things to worry about. Aging is balls ... that descend further with age. Is that why a grandfather clock is called that? Because it looks like a sagging old man with low swinging balls?

Probably. That's probably why.

Peeping Heatwave

On advice from my sleep doctor---the profession, not the mattress chain---I've been throwing open the curtain when rising since bright sun will help wake me up. I did that only to sit down on the bed the other day to see the Transformer known as Heatwave---who changes from a fire engine to a member of the Village People--standing on the table outside looking in.

It must have seen me naked a dozen times.

I'd have chalked it up to a misplaced toy except it was smoking a cigarette and touching itself.

What is it with firemen and smoking?

Sunday, September 23, 2018

Arse bleed redux

It happened again—two days running—a drop of blood after a motion. It's bright so it's likely just a tear but to look in a bowl and steel yourself for what is there in addition to the normal unpleasantness is unpleasant.

I take comfort I should be dead a hundred times over and if it's arse bleeding that is my coda then, Universe, take another bow. It's a fine way to go; and most suited to my character. 

Of course this is semi-gallows humour; I should be okay but I'm not riding if it happens because to sit on a trike or exercise bike seat is to spread the area. 

There's none of that needed; no, sir. 

Aging is a shit and in this case semi-literally as in my shits cause bleeding and that's likely from wear and tear.

A cliff; I once nearly fell off a cliff. Near accidents in cars aplenty—and that one time from the scree of rubble from an explosion where the ejected matter tumbled down into the trees where we'd been in alleged safety.

The arse bleed; it's never good though as far as that goes this is the best way to get it. How's that for a silver fucking lining for my rent lining?

Friday, September 21, 2018

The man with his head stuck in a hornets' nest

That happened; not literally—I'm not a psycho—but metaphorically where I had to go through super old hurts and marshal evidence against it. I fucked up—I had to send it twice because I corked a date—but it's away and now I can leave said nest.

It was a horror; sticking your head into a metaphorical hornets' nest, and I had to break from the PC and do a lap of the building to discharge the built up terror that clogged me. 

I was a cog in MoG and my cog got fucked up; I've spent years trying to fix it. I'm close, and that's awesome, but at a cost to my mind and bod.

I had to do a DASS 21 the other day, on intro to my new psych, and it was inflicted after the initial consult so it skewed high.  Which is to be expected, because like that nightmare I once had I'm the only one on the planet keeping the ship hull from imploding because I am blocking the leak. At least, that's how it feels. 

I had a fucked childhood—for someone in the three per cent—where I nearly died hundreds of times or wished I was dead a dozen; a childhood rippled with regret, pain, agony, self-hate and harm on others. It's the latter I loathe the most; I know I hated myself but it gave me no right to slag off others who did me no wrong. Hence my inability to attend a school reunion—I'd have to do that step in the 12 step program where you apologise to the people you hurt. I entered the public school system in year nine—still flush with the concept that if you like someone you were attracted to you negged them—then proceeded to neg the female population of said school. How could I face them doing what I did? I made some of them bawl because of a snarky comment that in no way was deserved. Even now, 27 years on, I shudder with horror at the things I said and did because I presumed girls did not like me and was mean to them first. 

And so it goes. We had a fire to burn corro we hate, that made us sad. We wrote things that we hated and burned them too. I know I had to suffer what I suffered to do what I did—which was the technocrat equiv of "Blaze of Glory"—but I judder at the harm I inflicted along the way. There are women out there to this day for whom I am the greatest of male monsters; that represented the worst of our sex through sheer dint of being a woman I was near.

I am sorry. If that counts then I am sorry,

But I am doing my best to make amends; to look after people I do not know.