Friday, April 20, 2018

Outside micturition

I have a body that's best described as "a fat hairy cherub that grew up".

That was not lost on me as I did a wee outside, one foot raised because it was sore and copied the pose you sometimes see on a water fountain cherub statue that is pissing out the water.

I'd like to see that; an aged-out adult cherub with a pained expression as he blasts forth a tepid dribble.

Take that, fountains! (shakes fist)


I woke up maudlin knowing there was horror work to do and asking myself if it was worth it. What will it achieve? Will it do anything? Is trying making me sicker?

I lay on my bed with my tablet with that looming grey mist ahead. 

Then I saw my battery level was 69%.

Heh heh ... 69.

So it can't be all bad if I can still laugh at that.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

And the pedal connects to the ... shinbone

It's not meant to, it was an accident, but I managed somehow to slam the pedal of the BYB into my shinbone just outside a McDonald's. I yelled and said words that are not great as I went down ramps to reach lakeside and ride.

A pedal connecting to the shinbone is painful. Not piercing and squeezing an ever boil painful but painful nonetheless. I have a bruise across my lower leg where it struck. 

Fucking hell. I'm out getting exercise and processing distress and I ding my shin with my own super pushie.

That's such an Oz thing to do. Next I'll be dinking into the lake.

Later I got my ever boil pieced and squeezed.

Universe! (shakes fist)

Sanity check succeeded

I copped some distressing crap early in the day then had to deal with the outcome. I did a combo of a response, shower then exercise with music. Though my thoughts were still with the distress I didn't rage. I did bust out two Valium though just before the shower. 

The exercise was an outside ride and the chain came off. With little power and an upward slope I had no chance to glide back on battery. I had to stop and deal with it with the added drama of an urgent wee. I got the chain on after two goes and it stayed on. My wee was safely and legally received by my own toilet.

I took the mental equivalent of a tree branch to the face but so far have not lost it. I applied CBT and meds and dealt with the distress with almost detachment. I didn't lose my shit---or wee---when the chain came off either.

I may have nightmares later. But if I do I know what to do to stay sane when I awake.


Belly button hurt by chair

I was leaning across the old wooden chair when my gut rested on the edge and it went right into the belly button. It hurt. I stupidly went "what the fuck was that?" then poked myself there to confirm that's what it was; a self-strike with a chair to the belly button.

The confirming poke hurt as much as the chair-issued one. 

I'm short and fat; it leads to adventures with furniture. Not sexy ones, just basic attempts at avoidance or use.


Childhood, school and work; the three phases of getting to two legs all afflicted with horrors that invade my sleep. I wake brooding.

The boil

It's still going. Each night it is opened and ichor comes out. It hurts to move sometimes 'cos it's so tender. I didn't ride for five days to avoid chafe.

My cracked skin is appealing to someone who picks their skin. I have to rub moisturiser into my feet so they don't get crusty and picked and look like a baked dry river bed. They hurt to walk on. It hurts to move my legs into a position I can do it. I look like the world's worst contortionist.

The battle continues. Some days I feel it and my Valium use has dropped back---I've only had one in a week as a preventative for a public outing with noise and crowds.

The Ouroboros begins as it ends; I wake brooding but it doesn't define my day or cause snotty deep rage storms where you're wild-eyed and panting, tears and snot streaming from your eyes and nose. They used to, and still can, but for now I just brood instead of wail. That's better for everyone but especially for me.


Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Permanent guest star "leg boil" popped; non-hilarity ensues

My ever boil on the inside of my right leg—it's been there since last year—got popped. We let it rest in case the lump was inflammation from popping but the boil just rose up and had to get popped. Out came ichor and blood. There was much shrieking from me.
So it's back to the doctor for more advice or a what now?! Something is keeping the boil on the boil. I suspect it's an ingrown hair but I'm no doctor; just someone that meets a lot of doctors. 

I have many ailments. But I'm like a special car with a pit crew needed to keep at max efficiency. And I have a wee cup so I don't have to stop for breaks after lap 40. 

It's not all glamour, ladies. 

UPDATE: It got bigger overnight—like the peach from James and the Giant Peachwhich meant it,whatever it is that causes the lump was close to the surface.

When the lump was deep and pressed on it didn't hurt that much. But, close to the surface, after it was lanced with a needle then pressed on it hurt so much I thought I'd pass out. Apparently I didn't scream but did register vocal disquiet. But it means that hopefully the fucker is on the drain. It already feels better, movement wise, in the hours after its brutal open then contents squeezed. 

There's a weird pain after-glow you get from moments like this—or such as when you've passed a sizable poo—where you think back to that pain and the relief you now feel from whatever caused that pain. It's an odd euphoria.

But during the squeeze phase it felt like a broad bladed weapon gouging into my flesh. It was worse than the Xmas one.

Here endeth the ever boil? We shall see... 

Thumbed self in the balls

My left hand was aiming for underpants elastic when it happened and I misjudged where the thumb was going and I thumbed myself in the balls with my over-long thumbnail. 

It hurt as indeed almost all non-sexy testicle contact hurts if it's delivered with any force.

I trimmed my nails back the next day; no mean feat for someone with PTSD and jittery, shaking hands. The right thumbnail was the hardest as I'd let it go the longest and it was so thick the scissors held by my non primary hand ended up cutting into the nail at six spots just trying to land the killing blow to trim it all back. I'd have used nail clippers but I couldn't find them. 

People talk about the facts of life but rarely about the facts of mid-life. Where's sage old men telling middle-aged men that their scrotum is going to drop and they will likely hit themselves in the nuts more so be more careful? 

Balls; sometimes they're balls.

Sunday, April 08, 2018

Disappointed Queen

A while back I gave theboy a money tin I'd filled with spare change over two years from whatever coins were in my pocket when I walked into the shed. When it was full—it was a money tin from a Fathers Day stall that said "My DAD Rocks"—I was always going to give it him to say thanks for the tin

So with money from his tin he bought me a fancy swear box—a tasteful wooden effort with glass frontage allowing you to see the coins and notes fill it up. It wasn't meant to curb swearing, he just liked the box and told me when it was full then I had to spend the money on myself. 

It will take time to fill it. Since I am not in salaried work I don't walk around with a wallet with money in it and rarely enter the shed cashed up.

But there is a scattering of coins and a single five dollar bill, Queen-side facing out. She's in there sideways and she looks pissed off. 

I think it's about all the swearing. 

The swear box; there's an angry Queen in there and she's fussed about the cussin'. 

I still find it weird there's a Queen of Australia. She's nice and all but she's a historical affectation that should be cut loose. I look forward to currency in my lifetime that doesn't have a Queen or her spawn from a distant shore laced throughout our cash.

Saturday, April 07, 2018

Fat king great

I was on my man trike—the BYB—on a weekday afternoon ride when my path intersected with with another on which were three groups of kindy kids in red shirts. There were twenty to a group with teachers in the gaps. For no reason other than sheer enthusiasm they started waving at me as I waited for their pilgrimage to clear.

It was too socially awkward not to wave back but they weren't moving at speed and I caught them at the start of their parade. I waved the entire time and got apologetic thank-you nods from the teachers that were with each group. 

Halfway through I started waving like our current queen, a light hand twist that wasn't too irksome and felt majestic. For they were too young to revile me for being fat and just decided I was worth waving at.

So I felt like a fat king and I felt great.

Then I sped off into the afternoon sun.

Royalty, I get the buzz. I was, after-all, the queen of my high school class's last swimming carnival. 

I got overthrown into the pool.

And the three little ducks went CRACK, CRACK, CRACK

I was taking a cube from the dishwasher powder cube box when the set of three plastic nested measuring "spoons" that are duck-themed with bonnets added to their heads were nudged off the shelf and fell to the floor.

I knew it was going to happen—so I was ready for the noise—but when they all hit it sounded like derringer fire from someone shooting over my right shoulder. 

Derringers are small handguns but small guns still make noise when used and it sounded as if the person's wrist had been resting on my shoulder when they fired. 

PTSD is balls; even when you know a sound is coming it's still unpleasant to go through it. I had just enough time to register their knock, fall and prepare for impact.

And non-holy shit that was a nasty set of cracks. 

My body tingled with fleeting fight flight and left a rattle-stain, the emotional after-glow of a loud noise as your wounded brain recovers from the scare.

The other shit one to dropping things that clatter is the self-slamming a door as you pass through. If the backdoor is open but the screen closed and I pull too hard on the laundry door knob to close it as I pass through then the extra air means it will slam with force while I am in the impact zone. I'll sense the speed of the door is too high and think "shit" and then WHAM!, right in the fucking ear. I did it to myself; no-one to blame but me.

If a portal closes with force next to a person with PTSD, will they make a sound?

Sometimes—"shit" as said as the brain thinks it, "fuck" is another and "Jesus ant-fucking Christ I did that to myself" is a rare one I may have used.

PTSD; it's the fucked-up brain response that keeps on giving.

UPDATE: Seconds later... I turn to lock the toilet door and nudge the bottom toilet seat to fly up with my leg. I turn back as it slams down and blasts me with unexpected noise.

I yelled "FUCK!"

So it's the middle one.   

UPDATE2: I later went through the front door and slammed it behind me. Right into the right ear. Which makes a nice change; usually it's lefty that cops it.   

Wednesday, April 04, 2018

D&D with Lego figs

He had a fishman with a returning trident. I had a figure with bat wings with a panda mask and who was armed with a spiked chain. He came up with the Lego combo and concept and I kept track of stats and mechanics in play using adapted D&D 3.5 rules.

So, how did it end? He downed me with a wing strike, pinned my spiked chain to the ground with his trident, grabbed the still 5' of chain I could use from my hands causing me to stumble prone and then did a called shot to my groin. We used lives instead of hit points but a called shot was two lives and that's all I had left

I couldn't be more proud

(panda mask doffed).

Hurt self before and during sleep

I gave up to the impulse and picked the bottom of my right foot before sleep. I managed to peel off chunks of deep layered skin to the point it hurts to stand on that foot—more so than the day before when I had let the previous effort heal up.

I ripped the index nail off from my left toe. That I can remove entire nails is due to years of doing it and fucked-up feet. 

It was during sleep—or it happened in that null-space between sleep and awake—when I turned my left knee and wrenched it. I won't be able to ride until the wrenching feeling is gone lest I damage what little cartilage I have left. 

By the time I will die, presuming old age is reached, I'll be going into the corpse recyc with two artificial hips and knees. Yes, the knees—for their time will come to an end before me. It's just one of the advantages of having a skeleton warped in the womb—you wear out and replace bits of you way earlier than you should and people hang shit on you for having a body that doesn't quite work properly and apparently reflects poorly on them.

But I'm here, I'm weird and I'm used to it. I am a body and brain that survived in spite of it and even thrived in part because of it.

Fuck survival of the fittest; try the grittiest. 


Tuesday, April 03, 2018

It's a process

I was thinking of the twin horrors of childhood and workplace and reflected on those who've gone through this shit before me.

It was a process and they got through it. They did various things, such as therapy, but time was a factor. It took two years for relationships to settle to a point where they were happy.

I'm still fresh, in the early months of re-trauma and it's a recovery process that will take effort and time. Then I will be through it. 

There is an end point to this; to be both be mad and come to terms with that which caused it.

I felt Zen. There may be some wobbly bits I'm wobbling along the line of the process and then it will be done. Or it may not be; but I will have tried to make it so.

Acceptance is a bitch. It's hard to embrace it because it bites, there are fleas and there is something manky hanging off its ear.

Short shorts fart fail; crockery exposed

I was unloading the dishwasher when my doctor-ordered short shorts fell past my arseline. Behind me was the crockery cupboard, at arse level, which was open to receive that which I was getting from the dishwasher. 

That's when I farted into the cupboard. It's not like I backed up with a reverse beeping noise, and there was no "spackle" as best I could tell—it was just a dry rectal cough. But still I farted on our cups, plates and glasses and that's not cool.

I confessed to the accident but there's little to be done. It happened, we have to accept it and move on. The only other option is to call in an airstrike to remove it or take all the crockery out and wash it solely on the basis it may have had a brief exposure to some arse gas. 

Needless to say neither option was on the table. But if it was John Bolton making the decision my house and the surrounding street would now be irradiated glass

That Mikey, he always has to bring a fart joke back to geopolitics. 

Here's to my big opening

With thanks to Elvira.

My ever boil gets tended every night. It's on the inside of my right thigh. It gets squeezed, stuff comes out and a poultice is applied by thewife.

Unless we close the door the black cat will come, hop on my tummy and watch the show. Because all the action is down there it means I get a great view of her enormous arsehole. As far as cats I know she has the biggest actual action area and the feline eye of Mordor was two inches from my eyes. There were no dags and it didn't smell. But I enjoyed the double-team of having unpleasant things done to my self whilst watching a cat's enormous starfish. In truth it's more fish than star and were it affixed to a wall and man-sized you'd presume it was an organic rip in spacetime to the upsidedown dimension from Stranger Things.

That would explain the nosebleed afterwards.

Saturday, March 31, 2018


"Stop talking about your childhood," he said. He was right, I shouldn't have been. I told him I was proud that he was a better kid than me but added "but then you had better parents" because I pride myself I am in no way like the pair who made me self-hate from his age on.

He walked off down the corridor after saying it and I had a deep anxiety attack where I cried and struggled to articulate because I was ripped to the core. He was right. I should stop talking about my childhood. Because all it does is make me sad and people around me are weary of it.

thewife had to talk normally at me for about five minutes until I could stop crying and interact like a normal person. Then it fired again and I escaped to shed to bleed out here.

"Stop talking about your childhood" is sage advice from a younger me. I'll try. But my anger is so deep at what happened to me that it's hard to see the sun from the bottom of the hole.

Friday, March 30, 2018

Sundae spoon as food projectile delivery system

I don't have any corncobs to feed the chickens with as a treat but we do have tinned corn kernels. 

But just ladling out the kernels is not stimulating for them or for me. With the cob they have to actively engage with the food whilst dealing with other chickens. Just dumping kernels is not. 

I enjoy McDonald's hot fudge sundaes—though I admit to being disconcerted to hearing kitchen chatter of "someone heat up the hot fudge" since in theory it's already hot—and I get them for the freezer for a late-night treat. 

They try to give me spoons. I reject them but sometimes they're in the box and it's too socially awkward to hand them back. I typically have a dozen of these spoons lying around.

That's when it came to me; they would be ideal catapult spoons to fling kernels with force near chickens so it would be fun for them as it was for me.

The first few shots hit the tree and corn rained down from above. Each time I aimed for the bigs' fox proof cage where they live until the chicks are their size I landed kernels on the UV sheeting part of the roof and thus they didn't get any.

So in the end I entered the pen, balanced the tub of kernels on the open door of the chicks' hutch then sat on a eight hole four legged stool and side-flicked kernels at the bigs' cage knowing some would get through the grill to them and others would bounce off into the greater pen for the smalls. 

It was a lot of fun. For me and, as far as I know, for them. 

As a kid I used to lie near an ants nest and draw a square near a hole or around it then blast a water pistol at any ant that entered the square. It was a bit fucked up but mainly on the WHS front because it was on our drive-way and people were fine with me lying on it shooting ants with a water pistol. 

That was not cool; the ants were not killed but the water pistol I used though small had a powerful jet and it could knock an ant backward a few centimetres. They'd be groggy then stagger off.  

So I like to think that making life as fun for my chickens as it can be is some payback for the crap I did to defenceless ants thirty years ago. 

Plus I get to make use of my many, many wonderful McDonald's sundae spoons that I will never use for me because I prefer a metal teaspoon when it comes time to consume said sundaes.

Chickens; they're a lot of fun even though they are, in essence, food consuming poo machines that occasionally produce an egg.

Thursday, March 29, 2018

Zen and the art of throwing off a bicycle chain

There's no art to throwing a bike chain—though being in first gear is always riskier—but in my case it's physics. I am a big person on a big bike frame and over time things get loose and the chain starts coming off.

I had accepted that the outside ride was dead after the chain came off the fourth time and I had enough battery to throttle home. Angry mentally ill Mikey would have had a spack attack at that and ranted about forces working against him. Zen Mikey just went "it's not happening" and back home I went.

Before the ride a loud motorbike had roared past our house and I barely registered it. During the glide back a murder bird—the Australian white cockatoo—swooped down in front of me screeching its death wail (DC15 Will or shaken for 1d6 minutes) and it did not phase me. Even after the whole chain thing.

Thanks to thewife I know the best way to get the chain back on—and that I got it on three times with a minimum of effort (though it's still effort to drop and lift a man trike) was a miracle in itself given my shoddy hands that were fucked in the womb and then outside of it. Though I confess the second time I put it back on it I had shouted "Fuck you, Newton" as if he was the embodiment of physics that I had just defeated but which later fucked me back twice.

My recent psych session was brutal; we went into extra innings and had to figure out the billing code to pay for it. But today I am Zen, or feeling more so, than I have before in the aftermath of a session. I guess though it was a difficult consult it hosed off some of the mental chicken shit that's built up on my mind path.

Here's to the battle for acceptance of things past. It might never be won but it's a battle worth fighting.


Wednesday, March 28, 2018


I am always in pain; it's the severity that's the issue. But I bear it because I have no choice. It was inflicted on me by someone who should have known better. 

My son knows I have a body that's not sound and I am scared my rotteness passed on to him. But no, mine was gestational and not genetic so he will be okay.

He knows I'm in pain. He knows severity is the issue. He also knows I told him that I accepted what happened to me because then he happened to me.

He asked to show me a song; he chose "Believer". 

I'd never heard it and it came off the back of a brutal extended psych session where I had talked of my doubled over anger at childhood after my surgeon told me my mother did it to me.

He knew I would like it—and he chose the version with lyrics so I could take it in. It fit hand-in-glove—except for the god bit which he asked me to forgive because the rest of it rawked.

That he thought to show me that, knowing my pain but knowing I'd resonate to it because I'd embraced what happened because I got him. 

The song is religious in intent; the pain of life forged them for challenges and made them a believer in both themselves and their insert-spiritual-being-here. For an atheist I'd simply swap out "a believer" with "accept it".

I won. I told my psych my entire ancestral line from both sides wasn't fit to lick my taint then proceeded to tell her what that meant in case she wasn't across the slang. Pain, it made me a believer in myself and that I have the power to accept it because that pain made me consequential. 

The challenge she laid down was finding a path back to acceptance that it happened but without the burning snarl of "but it should not have". 

It's a big challenge. But it's made easier by my son who cares enough that when he finds something that will help me he offers it up.


Tuesday, March 27, 2018

I'm no Rusty Boardman!

There's a lane-way near our house that is bracketed by original wooden fences falling into disrepair. One day, as I was either walking or cycling through it, I saw two of the boards from the right fence had fallen, rusty nail side up—a disease-inducing caltrop in other words. I saw where the boards had fallen from, stopped, bent with pain to get them and then slotted them through the hole, nail side down, so they were against the right fence but on the inside.

As I did it I said "I'm no Rusty Boardman!" because my OCPD can't let things like that go; if I can fix it then I have to fix it. 

Yesterday I did an outside ride. I had to remove three things from the path, the third one I had passed but I stopped, turned, and went back.

Case one was a flattened cardboard box. I maneuvered the bike until I could kick the cardboard off the path and onto the grass that borders a causeway. 

Case two was the most difficult. A cock-spank had smashed a VB glass stubbie bottle on the path with shards big and small of brown glass waiting to hurt someone's feet or tyres. That was the hardest to remove because I cannot bend without extreme discomfort. I spent five minutes side-shuffling the glass to either side of the path with alternating feet, dragging a foot sideways to catch the glass with the sneaker side then scrape my leg across until I got the glass to grass. 

I kept having to meerkat look every two or three seconds to check a bike was not incoming. No one came along while I did it. It wasn't even on a section of path that's on a normal route for me. 

I realised my action had set me five minutes into the past for this timeline onward. I reflected on what might have been if I had not stopped. 

Case three was a nashi—an apple-like fruit—that was sitting in the middle of the path. I was headed downhill and it took about three seconds for the OCPD to kick in and make me turn around to go back and kick it off the path. Canberra is a bike-friendly city and many ride racing bikes and they would have been going down there at speed. That could have potentially stacked them. As I had set the challenge to ride at power setting one—about the same as medium resistance on the exercise bike—that last case of self-inflicted chivalry was harder for going uphill to remove the fruit.

"I'm no Rusty Boardman!" is me; I can't let unsafe shit go if I can fix it there and then—or report it if beyond my means such as a neck-height for cyclists branch poking out across a path.

It's the Not Rusty Boardmans that keep us safe; my OCPD is a net-societal benefit. Even though it costs me time, effort and worry. Besides, it makes me a hero. I forget who said it but "a hero is someone who gives a shit and does something about it."

I've done that my entire life at every level—from macro-state to the state of my local pathways.

(Fist raised for Comrade Not Rusty Boardman).

Monday, March 26, 2018

Stormy Trump

The main interest point from the Stormy Daniels interview is the fact someone accosted her in a car park in 2011 and told her to lay off talking about her affair with the now current POTUS.

It fully reminded me of that bit from The Simpsons when Bart answers the door and takes a punch meant for Homer and the man says "don't write no more letters to Mr. Sinatra."

Maybe that's where the idea came from? The Simpsons is on Fox and he loves Fox.

This is not to take away from the terror she felt; she was monstered. But the cartoonish nature of the accosting is just so ... well ... Trump. If not ordered by him then someone near him took a broad hint to shut this broad up.

She didn't though and kudos to her. Trump had over 3000 lawsuits before he got the top slot with some of those suits occuring from his previous lawyers who he did not pay. He has also somehow escaped perjury charges for rubbery testimony. He had the power and reach to do that to her and someone did it to her. That it wasn't Trump or someone in his circle beggars belief.

You could not make this up; this hurricane of shit that blew in midday 20 January 2017 shows now sign of slowing down.

And when you think of the confected outrage against the sane Obama years with the poo storm that is Trump as POTUS and the seeming lack of concern in the house and senate underlies just how insanely warped the GOP is. It is a system with a feedback loop that removes it from reality to the point that government and governance can be fucked on ideology alone. 

The GOP own this. There are few in the GOP willing to stand up to him like they did when Nixon got tapped to go because Trump owns their base. He won it WWE-style and broke reality of US politics forever. They are stuck to him and to check him is to lose power even as that use of power warps government. Which they had already done pre-Trump such as nakedly stealing a supreme court pick from Obama.

They did it because they could and he does what he does because he can. That this man is in that position is globally toxic.

Probs save us all.

UPDATE: Trump has been involved in over 4000 lawsuits.

Socks as protection

Being home I go bare-footed save that I re-started an old habit of picking the thick skin at the bottom of my paddle-feet---"These are the worst feet I have ever seen" said one podiatrist---likely because I stopped picking my face. I picked at both feet and drew blood. Because it feels weird to have different levels of skin thickness due the depth of my sole skin it is incredibly seductive to someone with OCPD to have a go at.

Solution; I am now wearings socks. If I pull a sock down to have at it my hope is logic Mikey will recognise what is happening and stop me. It also cushions my feet from the pain from walking on wound sites.

I have a plastic slinky to entwine around the picking hand's fingers to keep them occupied.

It's like I'm being run by committee, there's the sane faction and then there's the fuckwit because it seems to be sociological law that a committee will have at least one fuckwit on it. That's my experience at least and I confess it was often me because I gave a shit. 

My feet are covered and legs stretched. I've done all I've can. 

I hurt myself and it's not right. At least logic me is giving sick me less chance to self-maim.

There is comfort in that; that I am doing my best when able to look out for future me.


Sunday, March 25, 2018

Dream ghost exorcism

It was a fucked series of dreams and I woke early. I had a shower and with calm reminded myself ghosts of the past can hurt you but only if you let them.

I'm not going to rev on horror dross. I am not going to re-live the fucked things done to me.

I'm going to read and do joyful things that remind me that I am still here despite the best efforts of others.

I'm still alive; that's a baseline win and everything on top of that is yet more winning.

I got bullied inside then outside of the womb. But I survived them, school and work. In fact I excelled, made possible in part by the very physical and mental dross I was monstered over.

The best revenge is doing well; especially when the universe throat punched you before life began.

I won; I just have to remind myself each time I wake with the screaming anger shits.

Friday, March 23, 2018

Vigorous shunting causes anal exposure

It was the off-week for re-cycling so what's in the bin had to be smooshed down so more would fit. 

On doctor's orders I am wearing short shorts to prevent thigh chafe and boils but if the shorts slide past my waistline then they can drop past my arse if they slip.

I had the recycling box on its side as a compression ram and was shunting it down when my short shorts wobbled past the line, fell and exposed me to the rest of the street.

But it's the middle of a work day and no one is around. That I know of. 

There could have been a person watching through a curtain slit in the dark, the room momentarily lit from the draw of a cigarette, saying in a smoker's croak "Now that's a show."

That would explain the $20 I found later tucked in my restored waistband.

Cooked off in the car

As a person who had to do presentations I'd practice them in the car or in the shower as part of my working life. But I also developed a habit of talking to myself or orating at things, people or situations that had caused me grief.

So on a drive from north-side to south-side of Canberra I worked myself into a foam-at-the-mouth anger fit about childhood bullshit. 

When I got home I had two Valium.

It's cathartic though to have a big snotty cry-yell where no one can hear you unless they're pulled up next to you. More than once I've been in mid-rant and traffic stops such as waiting at lights and it's like I hit a pause button and wait in silence until we're moving again that the vehicle-based ranting resumes.

I have a body that's shit; I'm almost as round as I am tall. But I can talk and I can write and in the former, when in full flight, sometimes what spews forth is sheer fucking magic.


Tuesday, March 20, 2018

Screamed awake

The other day I woke up to the sound of theboy angerscreaming. He gets himself to school in the mornings and I presumed one of the actions he had to do had fucked up and he'd cooked off. With fear I left the room but could not find him. I guessed he'd yell-screamed on his way out the door then tromped off. 

I was worried he was upset, teary and anger-storming to school. I texted to let thewife know what happened just in case he got to school still upset. I awoke at 8:34 when the angerscream happened.

It turned out he'd left the house well before then and he was fine; therefore I had dreamed it.

It was so real and so worrying when I woke to it that it sparked heightened anxiety for the day. When told I dreamed it I got scared and started crying and had to leave the room because my distress was distressing.

I didn't plan to cry, shake and get anxious but it was as real a thing as I have ever heard and I had dreamed it. I felt I'd slipped down the illness slope a few more feet where logic Mikey has to rigorously over watch that mentally ill Mikey isn't fucking shit up again. I don't want lucid dreams of my son angerscreaming—it's the scariest sound my brain reacts to. And I dreamed it happened. 

I had a work dream this morning. I knew it was a dream because I'm no longer in salaried work but it fired anxiety and now I'm going to use YouTube with music that heals. 

I wouldn't have been me if I didn't get injured and I wouldn't take away the injury for the catharsis it gave of self-belief. That I was worthy and true and I had been fuck-bagged by life; I was not a fuck-bag.

But the downside is this; the bad dreaming and how it impacts your waking world. I now have to take steps to fortify my mind lest mentally ill Mikey cooks off again.

Monday, March 19, 2018

Robots with moustaches

Some robots have moustaches; deal with it.


I have on my hutch a MR. HAPPY book still in its plastic wrapper to cover up the remains of an '80s sticker that I had peeled off but I could not remove the final part of—a pair of Village of the Damned eyes staring right at me when I rode my exercise bike.

It wasn't until I used official Blu-Tack with a ball at each corner of the wrapper and pressed long and hard that the MR. HAPPY book remained in place and thus I would no longer be greeted with the mad eyes because the book had fallen off

I have a bunch of shit in the shed to jolt me into active mindfulness such as "today choose happy", "WAKE UP & BE AWESOME" and, of course, MR. HAPPY.

I was riding looking at it and cried because I knew I could never be that; that I was MR. ANGRY and I would stay that way. MR. ANGRY is not from the series, presumably because it would be too unsettling. Why would a kid want to read about the un-sexy adventures of MR. ANGRY where he fumes, rages or imparts cold fury from page to page? It would be a totes bummer. 

Imagine being that; MR. ANGRY.

But, as with Pink, there are cracks in the wall. Today I started off angry and then began laughing because what I was saying was actually positive and self-affirming but I was yelling it like I was upset about it.

The laughter broke the anger spell. 

Maybe I don't have to be one or the other? Maybe I can be both? Maybe I can be MR. HAPPYANGRY because that is the duality of my mind? My anger is woven into my depression and anxiety from failure of duty of care from people who owed it to me. But I get to bliss out on simple shit like being alive, having a normal shower and know that I was a person of consequence—that my life as a bright burned bright indeed, no matter what comes next.

Perhaps I've always been MR. HAPPYANGRY, a yin yang whose pattern is ever churning? 

If so I'm cool with that. Because just being MR. ANGRY is unsustainable and not fit for children's publication.

Sunday, March 18, 2018

Taste the weather

It's a windy day the the nation's capital and like a dickhead I thought I'd risk an outside ride anyway, at power one for penultimate non-assist.

Things I learned.

Squint and close lips when going under a bridge because there will be grit; I can still taste it.

Just because you're over one hundred kilos and your bike is a man trike does not mean you can resist wind; I was nearly blown sideways into a lane divider.

Gum trees drop branches in heavy wind and other trees can lose theirs too. Whilst none dropped as I rode the evidence of branches blown off was gathering with the wind. It became less a case of "I'm enjoying this ride outside" to "I hope a tree does not maim me." That last point meant I gave up on power one and went to max assist to speed home to avoid flying flora.

Australia; even the trees are out to get you.

UPDATE: The ABC article about the dust storm.

Saturday, March 17, 2018

PTSD and noisy motorists

We live off on an arterial road and it means we get traffic noise.

In Oz, and indeed in many places, there appear to be those that re-tool their vehicle so they become louder.

We call them "cock-spanks on patrol" because they drive or ride their vehicles about to inflict noise because it makes them feel better.

Unfortunately to someone whose shed backs onto the road it means I enjoy their presence more than most.

I wasn't even in the shed when the chopped motorbike or de-muffled ute went past but outside having breakfast as they farted their vehicle through the otherwise pleasing ambience. Because my upside down brain has reacted already I had to put on ear protection again in case another CSoP went past.

I didn't get it before I got injured; the need to max the noise of your peacocking choice. But for some peeps they enjoy it. They enjoy the sense of power it gives them and they enjoy fucking over people they don't know. People like me.

Car people and bike people who make their vehicles louder are evil. Not super evil but selfish evil. They know what they do causes annoyance for the normal and distress to the distressed and they get joy from it. It's bullying via vehicle and if you're into that then you're a bully.

Stop tooling your vehicles to make them louder. Unless, that is, you're a cock-spank and you need to patrol the hood to let everyone know what a massive self-pleasuring tool you actually are.