Wednesday, July 18, 2018


You're not meant to feel this way, epic. That belongs to myth and legend. Epic doesn't even mean great, it means epic. Epic lows are epic low; epic highs are sometimes just the absence of the low. As in "Hooray! I don't feel like warmed over shit!"

It's a grind, a sisyphean toil and it's hard. To win is to grab a breather before the rock rolls back down. 

It's worth it though; for the only way to lose is not to play.


Wednesday, July 11, 2018

PTSD and Nailed It!

The Netflix baking show Nailed It! has a panic button and scream sound. I knew that it had one but I was not watching when it was pressed and the baking show screamed at me.

I yelled "Ahhhhh!" in a counter melody.

Baking shows can come with hazards for the PTSD peeps---such as a bright red panic button that when triggered will cause that viewer to also panic.

Just for a moment; I didn't trigger and cry at cake-based scaring. But I got a jolt.

This has been "Fun with PTSD" meets family viewing.

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

Excised shed tat

I have a bunch of fun stuff pinned to the walls of my shed with magnets, such as my hilarious trail of documents of meaning and worth combined with certificates from day long courses I attended as a white collar worker. There's newspaper clippings I've been sent or have kept and artwork I did that I found when rooting amid the remains of my working life pre-injury. It's all joyful stuff. Until, of course, it is not.

There are holes on the walls now where stuff used to be but which I took off because they were reminders of a re-framed childhood—where due to not-great pregnancy care I'd been plucked from the body of a to-be-tall man and thrown into that of a broken puppet. Photos had to go, news clippings too. 

But I didn't destroy them, I just dropped them down the side or to the bottom to sit curling in a shed frame outcrop or lie tangled on old spider web.

Some day they may even go up again. But, for now, I had to blank them from sight because their sight caused distress. 

It's a bit like Soviet Russia where former beloved figures were literally photo scrubbed from history when later presented as false comrades who merely fell as part of party politics V a sociopath supreme

I have in view when I ride the exercise bike a Blue Tak'ed copy of MR. HAPPY so if I blankly stare ahead at least I am staring at that. 

Also in view is a stuffed Angry Bird the size of a tennis ball and sitting on a roll of duct tape.  

The MR. HAPPY was put there to blot out a pair of mad eyes from a sticker I couldn't get off and to remind me to be happy. The Angry Bird was from theboy and the duct tape was its plinth. 

One day as I rode I realised that is the duality of me; I am MR. HAPPY and I am the Angry Bird—the glowering red original (1).

Happy and angry is okay—they balance like yin and yang. I have now put the bird and its plinth next to the book for I iz MR. HAB.


(1) That's the main one.

Abruptly woken from nightmare

It was high school—or uni. There was an exam the next day and I had not done any of the coursework. I was panicked and other students were offering what would be on the test when I was abruptly woken, drenched in "I HAVE FUCKED UP" fear and asked if we could buy a TV series on iTunes. 

I said yes and dropped back down but sleep was stolen and the flood of terror was still through me. I have lingering anxiety–exacerbated by IT issues later—and my body and animal brain is telling me things are wrong and I am right to be distressed. 

My logic brain knows I just had a nightmare that I was woken in the middle of and the upsidedown brain is sorting that shit out on the down low. 

But I have PTSD, OCPD, depression and anxiety so that sorting out is going to take a fucking long time. I just have to use CBT to remind myself nothing is wrong, 

I am not in trouble, there is no exam and no enemies are coming to get me.

This has been "Fun with mental injuries and dreaming".

Monday, July 09, 2018

Let's mingle!

In Oz our pool balls are known as "Bigs" and "Smalls" with "Bigs" being the striped ball and "Smalls" the one without the stripe. 

In our chickens we have the same; the "Bigs"—the survivors of the fox attack—and the "Smalls" who are adult-sized Bantams, Silkies and a Polish Scruff but which are physically smaller than the surviving adults.

Today I let them mingle. There was some chasing but by and large it was all cool.

But when I tried to share communal treats the "Bigs" stalked the area where the treats were and chased off the interlopers. 

Alas the big brown took exceptional exception to the brown Silkie and in a hidden area of the yard I heard much distress then saw the brown girl come back with a beak full of Silkie feathers. 

Here endeth the mingle. I lured brown back with sunflower seeds then quickly shut the pen only I shut it on the big grey chicken and she got a big fright. 

The mingle; I tried again and I failed. It will likely always be this way; the "Bigs" segregated in their smaller fox proof pen from the smaller "Smalls". 

Sounds of a chicken in distress are not pleasant; I imagine being a livestock farmer with PTSD would be next to impossible unless you had your ear drums removed.

Left on a high note

I made theboy laugh by making fun of a TV show that had failed on basic reality and I compared it to them doing a show about his school but where there was a year eight kid in class smoking and one of theboy's mates down the back inexplicably with his shirt off.

He was in hysterics so I said "I've been Mikey; have a great day" then left through the sliding door and walked off. I only stopped when he said "... but I want to keep talking about the funny TV show ..."

I went back and explained what a high note was and that I was mandated by comedy law to walk off at that moment. I referenced George's attempts on Seinfeld where he nails a joke at a meeting table then gets up and leaves while the laughter is still cooking.

The high note; you'll know it when you hear it and then you just have to go.

PTSD and SpongeBob

I wasn't paying attention to the YT-through-the-TV show theboy was watching about animation so didn't understand what was happening when he span around in place then yelled "BAAAAAAAAAAA" at me like a demented sheep.

I got spooked and said not to do that again then he explained it wasn't a mad sheep but a happy sponge in pants of square and he was trying to do the voice.

Later he warned me before trying again and now I could hear the SpongeBob in it and also it was fired towards the TV and not right at me.

It did scare me in the moment, the first one. I was prepped for the second. But, Jesus wept, never do SpongeBob at person with fight flight unless you prep them first because they will cook the fuck off. 

This has been "Fun with PTSD" meets beloved cartoon characters.

SpongeBob Squarepants is masterful, btw. We got into it before theboy was even here.

Isolated V Typical

When it comes to assessing motivation for behaviour you reflect on examples. I nutted these through with my psych and she said the issue is for what you see as stand out examples of typical actions the other sees them as isolated, unconnected events that do not typify them.

Like the adage a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client if you're the one being assessed then you're going to be blinkered. You will see your acts as isolated, not typical, and resist anyone suggesting otherwise. If you're an all-time arsehole with glimpses of nice you'll see the glimpses as you and not the arsehole you are all the time.

I was lucky; I got woke early to the damage I could do with things that I said. I was an arsehole because I thought insult comedy was funny and it deflected from the fact I looked like a hairy Humpty Dumpty. I was mean to people and there are those out there who knew me for that time for who I stand out as a monster because each time I was with them I did shtick at their expense. 

But I learned. I learned that my acts made others sad and I curbed it. I accepted I'd been an arsehole and just because my life wasn't great in no way gave me the right to cruel others out. 

My typical became isolated; but not for some. There are people that loathe that version of me and they are fair to have that opinion because my behaviour gave them nothing else to go on.

I'm still not fully there but I am constantly aware and try my best to make the arsehole in me isolated and not typical.

Not everyone gets to have that journey and they go to their grave an arsehole through and through but convinced the world sees them otherwise though they gave them no reason to think that.

I guess being a not-man helped; to be a short, fat nonathletic male is to be effectively not male. You don't get treated as manly because you cannot possibly be.

Plus I have trouble opening jars.

I was a typical arsehole and now I've isolated it to moments that I instantly regret. That's deep progress but at deep cost; to me and those I damaged. I hope I'm not a tale of someone's horror but I accept there is a good chance that I am.

All I can do is what I do now; try never to do it and if I do to apologise profusely.

Arseholes; we all have one but we don't have to be one.

Sunday, July 08, 2018

Fun with OCPD

OCPD is not fun, though it makes me a better person. In addition to obsessive compulsion to do what I must I also pick my feet. 

Today I ripped a hole into the side and the bottom of my left foot. I pierced into blood and when my heavyset body pressed through my very flat foot it very, very hurt. 

After the shower then it was Band-Aids to both points; the compression stopped the sting and the padding absorbed the hurt of walking on that foot.

Hooray for Band-Aids; aiding the injured since they were made.

Of course the red plastic box the Band-Aids are kept in is littered with empty packets where the BAs once were and I have to root among the desiccated corpses to find a live one.

I could go through the box and remove them now, leaving only BAs yet to be used but that is effort and such and I like the challenge of balancing on one foot as I root among the box for an actual Band-Aid and not the shroud of a once was.

This has been "Fun with OCPD".

Saturday, July 07, 2018

Things as said by me III

"Oh balls deep in a salad."

As said when my trembling finger tips could not tease apart newspaper pages.

PTSD; I'll give it this, it is great material.

In other scaredy news I was at the bus stop and was twice spooked by air brake hissing. But I didn't cry on the ride home so that's a win.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Some rooms are magical

The locker room; a staple of childhood and school, though in Oz they are change rooms as there are no lockers, they are a scene in everyone's head who had a growing body and had to reveal it to others. What's it like to be a frozen, muddy boy then shower as a group? Hideous. I only did that the once before my body was ruled ineligible for such sport.

The locker room is now apparently magical because if you discuss sexual predation with authority figures in that room then it does not count; it's locker room talk, y'know?

I wish I had known a locker room was a magical place where you can complain about being preyed upon but the coaching staff will not act upon it. Phew! It's now a safe place where you can kvetch about someone pawing at your junk but you don't have to worry about someone trying to stop it.

So people should understand that argument as put forward by former assistant wrestling coach now GOP luminary Jim Jordan; that locker rooms are magical places where you can be nude, have your junk fondled and discuss the junk fondling but where nothing will happen to stop that. Because it was said in a locker room.

Trump had a locker room moment on an Access Hollywood bus while he was wearing a suit and surrounded by crew. He was fully clothed when he bragged about the casual assault of women by him and his defence was it was locker room talk.

I look forward to impeachment when Trump argues the Oval Office is also a locker room and so he can do anything he likes there like telling Russians secrets and bragging about sacking the head of the FBI to said Russians.

Men; we are fucked up. And the fucking up happens in places like locker rooms where acts and words foster toxic masculinity and young men are preyed upon but nothing will happen to stop it because it is a magical room separate from the rest of reality.

Go wrestling.

UPDATE: My subconscious has now reacted to the topic above---though I was molested by a psychologist and not a wrestling team doctor. My PTSD hand tremble is up and I look forward to dropping things and not being able to pick them up. 

That's the trouble with being abused; you're reminded of it when you read stories of abuse. And the greater the narrative of failure to stop it the angrier you get.

There are now millions of people being triggered by this story; where institutional failure is so acute it preys upon its shining stars to dim them ever more.

Thursday, July 05, 2018

Things said by me II

As said after the hairdresser noted for a balding man I had a lot of neck hair.

"I know; it's like my hair slipped from my head and cascaded down my back in a frozen hairy waterfall."

It's true---and funny. I'm glad I said it; fuck you for doubting me.

Wednesday, July 04, 2018

Gentle re-steer

I got a gentle re-steer that was deftly given—good idea / let's do it this way / less is more. I'd been so used to working one way that I'd not considered the new.

I appreciated the gentility. I called in to apologise for jumping the gun and ended with an efficient re-do that met the need. I got feedback and acted. I was scared when I called but soothed straight away.

When you spent a life being negged by people above you steel for the worst; be prepared to be told that you're shit. 

But I wasn't; I got a gentle re-steer. My idea was solid; it just needed a re-do.

I've forgotten what it is to work with those who care about you and want you to do well. I've had it less often than not but they stand out as beacons—those who valued what you did and who taught you what they knew.


Slapped own bum silly

When I ride an exercise bike my arse will eventually go numb. I don't know if that happens to other people but it does for me. It sometimes gets so numb all I can sense is my rectum and what it is brewing. It's not a pleasant feeling, the numb arse, and the way to bring it back to life is to rise in the saddle and let blood flow.

If you're impatient you can also rub or slap it to help relieve the numbing.

I was in a hurry, in a small pause and wanted to drop back down and keep riding. So without thinking I slapped my arse a half-dozen times with some force. 

It hurt. My arse awoke during the slapping and started hurting from slaps instead of the numb but my brain had fired the message to slap and I slapped myself beyond awake and it was like I'd received a vigorous punitive smacking.

I said "What the fuck?" and "Ouch" then sat back down. When I rose again to restore circulation I instead massaged my arse with a splayed hand that employed no smacking at all. It took a little longer for the same result of awakening but without my feeling I'd been assaulted ... by me.

Another lesson learned; numb bum then rub it to life---do not smack it awake. Because you may wake it up midway through the revivification with your brain having ordered three slaps too many.

Rub the bum; do not hurt it.

This has been "Fun with exercise biking".

Monday, July 02, 2018

Gave birth to a sock

I was pushing my right leg into the tracksuit pants when out of the bottom leg hole dropped a sock. It must have static-clung to the insides when in the dryer and remained bonded to the pants until it got birthed out by my leg.

It's a nice sock too, with purple trim around its own hole.

I did think though the doula, the scented candles and the paddling pool was a bit much but the pants insisted.

Sunday, July 01, 2018

Banana bus scare

It was a frosty arvo in the nation's capital as I achingly strode back from a mission when a passing banana bus, the double bus with an accordion-like midsection, triggered its air brakes.

The piercing whoosh caught me broadside but at a distance, not up close, so the startle response of my PTSD only kicked in for the moment it happened and ebbed in seconds leaving an energy boost after glow from the adrenaline hit.

When it happened I yelled "JESUS FUCK" and hopped into the air about a foot before landing safely another foot in a random direction opposite the noise.

I waited the seconds following conscious my subconscious was responding before heading off with fear-tingled charge to my painful gait.

Had I been closer the fright would have full triggered where you know nothing is wrong but you're crying and cradling yourself or an object and softly oooohing as you exhale.

Today is a winter garden clean and the mower and mulcher are going. I have my ear protector muffs on against the ambient sounds of robot murder.

That's life with a workplace psychological injury; years on your still healing brain is still fucking healing.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Saturday, June 30, 2018

Fell through the pen

I was on the way out of the bigs' pen, an egg in hand, when I found myself lying on the ground on the front wall, the egg crushed and chicken muck up my legs. It was a slippery surface and I have mobility issues. I likely just slid then fell but I had no memory of the fall—I was just lying dazed on a mesh grill pen side with egg bits streaked across my palm. 

I could get up and I put the pen side backbut not secured as my shaking fingers are not up to that. Then went and cleaned up. 

I didn't squash any of the small chickens—they would have been crushed between the mesh and the mud and it would be a deeply sad moment to lose a chicken we raised from a hatchling. So that's a win that my accident just did a number on my dignity and integrity of self.

The fall; never fun but I got away with minimal damage. I look forward to greater falls with higher damage in my ageing future; hooray!

Friday, June 29, 2018

Slipped right back into it

It's been a few goes now and I've slipped right back into it. I have access to better tech, better facilities and have cut-through. I was alone; now I serve a team. 

I get paid half of what I got but I insisted to keep costs low; I'm in it for the mission, not for the dosh

I'm a short, fat technocrat and I am fucking glorious. 


Bus sads

The trouble with a bus ride home is that you have time to think. I'd had a convo about unpleasant work life then caught the bus. I sat and thought of that then childhood crap and started crying. 

Not hulking sobs, stone face with tears trickling. I didn't hide it nor did anyone pay it mind. I didn't make a sound, I just leaked. As if I was over-full and water pressure demanded a release. 

I stopped midway. I debriefed when I got home and discussed the way ahead then headed off to decompress.

It's been an epic year. I've landed where I needed to and I'm getting to work on my chosen nightmare. 

Epic year; epic emotion. We come back to the leak; there was pressure and I released it as tears down a grizzled, bearded cheek. 

I wouldn't change anything that happened because it happened for other things to happen. But you can still be royally pissed at what you went through, as a child, teen and adult. You just hope the first two don't do a number on the third and you can get to the fourth stage—death—with a life well-lived. 

I've already won my life; everything now is gravy. But, fuck me, that is some delicious fucking gravy.


Thursday, June 28, 2018

The Minstrel

I'm playing the Minstrel in Talisman. He had a Talisman but the swarm of flies he charmed earlier just fucked off with it.


Things said by me

"I look like I attempted matter transport with a potato."

That's gold; I shouldn't say things like that in formal settings like interviews---which of course I did---but it's still gold.

Acceptance of self for the win.

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Walking and then some

I walked and I walked and I walked. I got lost more than once and learned to navigate via artwork. It's not a place for running but fast walking is required and fast walking and I are not friends. I did a ride before I set off and the hour of riding an exercise bike was nothing compared to the pain of fast walking that came later.

I'll get used to it; I fast walked twice a day in my previous life though that didn't have rigid time constraints. 

Right now my legs are aching from rapid striding; but it's a small price to pay to be loyal to the nightmare of my choice.


UPDATE: The next morning and my legs feel and operate like the tinman from Oz; stiff legged and reduced gait. There's no fast walking today, slow and painful instead. Still worth it.

Patriotism expressed through chant

I am not one for overt displays of patriotic fervour but I got a win and started chanting "U.S.A! U.S.A! U.S.A!"—an ingrained habit from watching The Simpsons do the '84 Olympics with the next line being "Carl Lewis, I could kiss you" as said by Chief Wiggam (1).

So I re-framed the chant as "A.U.S! A.U.S! A.U.S!" for the first three letters of Oz.

I don't like the "Aussie! Aussie! Aussie! Oi! OI! Oi!" chant; it rubs me the wrong way. But I can get behind "A.U.S!"

Given I have nothing to do with sport the win had nothing to do with sport; but it was still a fucking win.

A.U.S! A.U.S! A.U.S!


(1) Who had just won another free Krusty burger because of a badly-timed promotion by the clown-themed restaurant by loading all their Olympic-themed "free burger?" scratchies with events the USSR was likely to win—who then boycotted the event.

Social engineering through theft

The SCOTUS has upheld Trump's travel ban saying it is constitutional. It was a five four decision with the conservative wing winning

This is where the theft kicks in:

The decision was one of a string of 5-to-4 decisions this term in which the justices on the right have reasserted themselves, after the addition of Trump-nominated Justice Neil M. Gorsuch last year restored a conservative majority.

The campaign of Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell (R-Ky.), who kept the Republican-controlled Senate from voting on President Barack Obama’s nominee to the court after the death of Justice Antonin Scalia in 2016, celebrated by posting a picture on Twitter.

It was of him shaking hands with Gorsuch

The GOP nakedly and deliberately stole a Supreme Court appointment from President Obama and then then doubled down on that fact with their evil gloating. 

They would not, could not win by law so they broke it to put one of their own in the chair to do the intellectual bidding of well-fed white men.

If the Democratic party had done this the howl of always heard aggrieved would be deafening. 

As Childish Gambino says, "This is America". A country with an inherent contradiction that offers up the American dream but it very much matters who does the dreaming and can then enforce it.

The GOP broke the institution of the Supreme Court and they hold all three sections of the Federal government through stealing from a black man and accepting help from an old enemy if it meant stopping progress that made America the light on the hill.

They turned that light off.

And they celebrate their theft with a smirking photo of a person they illegally put into a position to make their power lock complete.

Well-fed white men; why do we fuck everyone else over?

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Happy pacing

In the months after my psychological injury one of the ways I coped with, or exhibited, stress was pacing. Thinking, self-speaking, and pacing. I would pace for hours muttering, thinking, re-living, on my wonky bones. I paced until my lower limbs ached from movement I should not do because of the pre-natal trespass of my body meant a life of pain-wracked walking. 

I caught myself pacing between the kitchen and dining room, right hand flexing as it does in a deep think, but it was happy forward focused pacing not wretched grief and anger pacing.

I shouldn't pace---the only exercise I can do is riding, everything else puts stress on joints or risks a slip and fall. So I stopped.

But what bliss it was to pace with a mind space of healing and not hurt.


Sunday, June 24, 2018

Me oh my

I sent a detailed email and in a second read after I sent it saw I had used "me" in the place of "my". My first impulse was to send a correction but then realised the "me" still worked; it sounded piratical ("Me hearties") or ironically jocular given the subject at hand. 

So I have resisted sending the correction since even though it's wrong it still sounds right for the topic.

Fuck September 19, every day should be "Talk like a Pirate Day"; be like Pirate Steve from Dodgeball, but maybe not as intense on the piratical depiction given cutlasses, pirate boots and hook hands might be considered work unsafe.

Saturday, June 23, 2018

Meeting made hilarious by muted music through the wall

I was at a meeting in lush Canberran Wintery surrounds; a dimly lit room enhanced with candles—actual wax with the burning and the melting—and a roaring fireplace as like-minded met to discuss the way ahead. 

For comfort's sake and so I didn't have to sit next to people I put my chair against the wall. I man spread 'cos of my skeleton and people either side should not have to put up with that. It also meant when I asked questions I was separate from others and in a commanding spot to enhance my delivery. I didn't plan for that but that was the effect. 

The meeting was held in a dining hotel and through the wall of the room next door I could hear the music.

At one point, during a quiet bit of the meeting where someone speaking had a voice not as loud, the music dominated the soundscape, at least for me because I was up against the percussive wall. 

It was "Get up (I feel like a) Sex Machine" by James Brown.

Given we were seated save the speaker it was all I could do to not bust up laughing each time I heard "get on up" or "get up" followed by "like a sex machine".

Thursday, June 21, 2018


From what I can remember a chicken will head to a roost point at slightly one candlepower of remaining dusk light.

So the others had gone into the hutch but the Polish Scruff, the one with the greatest leap, was atop her alternate roost, the mesh roof of the big chicken pen.

It means me having to turn sideways between a fence and the pen, tummy rubbing the metal through my shirt, then shift to squeeze between a shed and the pen until I get to where I can grab her.

The last two nights I had a torch and with it in my teeth I successfully got her, the aim to pin her wings comfortably so she doesn't freak and flap. 

I didn't have the torch since there was light enough to see but I had a hand either side of her and was pressing down when she freaked, flap-ran in a huff to the edge of the pen and hopped off. Then she walked to the entry of the smalls' hutch where she is supposed to roost and as I returned along the fence and pen sides to get back she watched me then walked, on her own terms, into her night house. 

Dignity expressed in chicken terms; yes, I will go in—but for now I choose to.

The end result was the same; she went into the roost. If she goes in with dignity on her own then all the better for me. 

Chicken-based WFTW.

PTSD blindside

Sometimes when you have PTSD you blindside it; you don't react as an animal but instead enter serene calm as a storm crashes upon you.

Yesterday I was riding, bare chested, in the shed when theboy came in crying. He'd made me something at school but dropped it a puddle and was super sad.

I feel acutely vulnerable on the exercise bike; it faces away from the door and I am not aesthetically pleasing and know it. I'm sweaty and grotesque and the riding hurts. In addition the sounds of distress are an extreme trigger, especially from life than I love.

But I hit that serene moment instead, gathered him under an arm and told him it was okay, that he'd made me something was joy in itself and that I loved him for doing it. I said one of my favourite things he'd given me was a card that said thanks for loving him even when he was mad; that I don't get mad back and that he can always come to me when he needs to, even when I'm half naked on an exercise bike.

He was soothed and left comforted. I stayed riding the whole time and was not worried he'd seen me in a tragic not pleasing state.

It's the moments where you should have triggered but didn't that you treasure the most, especially when in service of someone you love.

It's a victory over injury, a win over a wound.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

Call that a feckin' pole-arm?!

My Leprechaun was attacked by Talisman's drunken Tavern Farmer with strength of three and whose pic has him armed with a pitchfork being used as a pole-arm---why he took his pitchfork with him to the Tavern is beyond me but the dust up happens outside.

Me wee green one had the Inferno Spear; a hellish fire weapon that adds two to your attack and if you take another character's life they have to burn an object.

I've fought that farmer thousands of times but that one was special. He's a bully and a drunk and I'm glad I pinned him to the wall with my fire spear.

Let that be a lesson to other drunk, bullying agrarians; don't fuck with a leprechaun when he's packing a flaming pole-arm twice his height.

Re-steered ping clears high bar

I'd sent another ping, one late at night, about an issue that vexed and the next morning I had an effusive thanks but with an ask to submit via the official website. 

The re-steer was generous and accepting and even though my pitch might get knocked back in that moment I felt valued—and they got back to me in the time between I went to bed then woke up.

It's a high bar to clear for me. Too often you get either nothing or an eventual sclerotic harrumph but I got a near instant "Great! Here's the link to submit for realsies."

I was delighted. I know it's socially engineered to delight but I appreciate the effort they put into the engineering. I felt they cared and I felt heard.

So hooray for well-designed responses to missteered feedback; they can actually make your day. 


Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Looked like Humpty Dumpty doing a rob

I've committed to the painful but needed act of getting once a day into the big chickens' pen to check their hutch for eggs. We'd let it go and there were eggs but they'd spoiled. There's no point in me enjoying chickens without the eggs so in I went. 

Their pen is a metre tall and I have to squat and hunch along with my odd bod to check the sides and middle for eggs. I am also balding, Homer style, from the top.

My body could be described as an egg with a light dust of hair plus limbs. I'm concious my short fat balding form looks like a number of fairy-tale characters and none of whom are good or have a good ending. They are the sport of the hero to best; the grist for their manly mill.

I didn't want to rasp my tender head top along the mesh grill of the roof so I grabbed one of theboys's winter beanies and it sat like a condom tip atop my head but taut enough it stayed on.

So I looked like Humpty Dumpty doing a rob, with my balaclava rolled atop my head ready to be lowered just before I entered with my axe handle and leaped the counter of a high street bank.

I did do a rob, of eggs (or an egg), and I distracted the staff (big chickens) with a scattering of sunflower seeds so they wouldn't come after me (leave their pen before I could close it so I didn't have to round them up). Plus in my head I had a tough British crim voice so manly that jar lids would just pop off at first words said; "Now are we going to have a problem then?" (sproings, lids clatter).

I read a lot of books as a kid, as you do when normal body is denied to you, and as my weird skeleton induced fatness and short I was acutely conscious in mythic terms I was the evil to be thwart. In a way that's true; I'm a technocrat in a short fat bod which makes me a distillation of objectivist blanch---a literal opposite to Randian supramen.

I wouldn't have it any other way. My journey was anti anti-hero---an anti-hero that doesn't look like a Randian supraman---but I was only a hero because of my form.

They say you live on in the stories they tell, the ones who knew you. I'm an anti anti-hero, the reverse Rumplestiltskin, and I live on in the stories they tell.


I'm a steampunk cyborg

My neck joints hissed out gas as something gargled in my throat. It was just my body. I sounded like a steampunk cyborg---and I look like a jolly rotund 19th century clerk.

I know bodies make weird noises. But to feel bubbles of gas cook off from where ever it happens is weird and unsettling---much like my last trimester. Add to that the hip replacement of ceramic and titanium and other implants then that's the cyborg part.

It could be worse; at least there's no assimilation threat from a steampunk cyborg. We'd be spending most of our time just locking down food and coal and nothing left over for chasing Dr Who or world domination. Plus we're easy to find, what with the steam noises bubbling from our bodies and the waft of heated mist blowing out our trouser ends.

I also have spring-jointed little fingers. I can lock them back like a rearing snake and then flick them forward with minor force.

If I was a PC in a steampunk game I'd ask the GM for another character.

Monday, June 18, 2018

RIP, manky old slippers

I had manked up my twin pairs of slippers to the point of yuck and found they'd been replaced by handsome tartan innard coloured affairs. 

Hopefully I will not bleed through these ones. I'm still going through a rough patch of picking at the rough patches on my feet. I plan to stop doing this. I don't like this habit but it's deeply ingrained. How to ungrain it?

The wounded brain is a wondrous thing; like an outback road sign peppered with shot. It still does the job but the wind whistles through it.

Immediately fucked up

I immediately fucked up a basic task of not doing something utterly stupid. It sunk in within 20 minutes after I continued to watch what I'd critiqued and what was said changed my perspective. I realised what that meant and had to report the fail and that I would not do it again.

Fucking hell, what a rookie fucking mistake to make. I dobbed myself in; it's always best to admit a fail than have someone tell it to you. It's the equivalent of fucking about with a forklift after you just got your ticket and driving the prongs through a roller door.

Lesson learned. Fucking ouch.


The BYB is cactus. It turned out the bike was experimental in that additional gears and electric assist were fitted to a one gear bike. It was a first time build of that frame as well. The end result over time was a warped frame and it's now unsafe to ride.

I feel like Ney who kept having horses shot out from under him and had to get a new steed to keep fighting.

It was a confluence of events and so it's just is what it is; a new trike with better battery access and gears already present will replace it.

But the BYB while I had it gave me freedom I lacked; the ability to go to the shops with ease instead of pain-riddled walking or busing. I saw places of near where I lived that I had never seen---and the lake ride was, when the BYB worked, a great experience that filled my brain with happy chemicals from exercise and being outside on a nice day. An exercise bike ride is always a toil; the BYB was not. When it worked it was glorious.

RIP, BYB. You were experimental but your results are carved on my heart.

(BYB is shot into space in a photon missile case as a piper's lament fills the ship).

Friday, June 15, 2018

They Might Be Giants V a chainsaw

The former was playing in the shed inside as I rode and the latter was being used across the road.

They Might Be Giants won. I stayed riding and was not scared away.

Which is good; no one wants a chainsaw massacred legend band.

Ping! Ping! Ping!

The pinging paid off and now I get to fix things. 

Going insane was the best thing that ever happened to me; I gained acceptance of self and clarity of purpose. 

I'm the technocrat equiv of a restored pinball machine; let the games begin.


Thursday, June 14, 2018

Horrifying sequence of IT events

The following happened:

--The PDF would not save the entered data on the main PC
--It would save on the laptop but the PDF vanished when looked for
--The network fell over
--After a reboot of the router the laptop froze and had to be rebooted and the main PC goes into a weird hibernate state if the router is reset and it had to be cold rebooted.
--The network dropped out again and the laptop could not send the email to the main PC.
--Then the network was up and with the PDF working it was sent direct from the laptop.

During the half hour of trying to get it sorted I had an acute anxiety attack and got sent off to recover as thewife tried to fix the PDF issue. I hid in the end room. My son then coughed down the other side of the house and I had a fear attack. He tried to come into the room and I had to yell for him to go away. This all happened during the PDF fixing attempt and I had to tag in when the PDF was working and the network was up to do it except it wasn't because it had fallen over again.

We got a text from our ISP apologising for a network drop that lasted three minutes and of course it was during attempted emailing.

I thought I was going to lose my shit, I cried as I said sorry to theboy for telling him to go away because his coughing fit had scared me so much I was terrified to even hear him speak just in case he coughed again. He knows I'm injured and that I had in that moment lost control. He accepted my apology and said he knew it wasn't me who had yelled at him but my injury.

That's life with a workplace psychological injury; a cascading series of stressors can trigger an utterly irrational response where the sound of your child can frighten you.

PTSD and Swedish Chef muppet hands

One of the more common side effects of PTSD is an up-tick in hand tremour after an anxiety event. After the paperwork was done I had a Valium. And even though I am fine my hand tremours are so off the scale it's like they're like the Swedish Chef from the muppets in that without meaning to you make all these dramatic hand gestures and fling things about when attempting to use your hands.

I was trying to return a bottle of oil spray to the pantry and it shook around in my hand as the other shaking hand opened the cupboard. Without thinking I started singing like him as well; "A doo a diddy do a diddy do --- BORT! BORT! BORT!"

I laughed and laughed as my flailing hands attempted normative use of objects, being the Chef in the moment and going hard.

So if your tremours are up where you're finding it hard to pick up, hold and manipulate objects be the Chef and "BORT! BORT! BORT!"

I typed this in via tablet. That's hard too. I keep correcting typos from wobble finger missed targeting. And trying to select text to embed links is crazy difficult.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

A gold bit from Oz cinema

Malcolm from Malcolm (1986) on his tram ride across Melbourne. The song is "Music for a Found Harmonium".

Paperwork yips

If you've ever had a workplace injury there is a lot of paperwork. It's stressful paperwork and for me so much so I had to make thewife my appointed representative. 

I was filling out positive paperwork; there were no scary things there. But because I filled out forms I had the yips because it reminded me of the horrifying paperwork mountain faced before and what caused it.

It is not logical; I should not have been anxious. But I was and had the dreads because I felt useless, sad and angry even though I had no reason to be; it's just the shadow of that mountain is so overwhelming even a form letter to get lotto winnings would give me those heebies.

The last time I went through a pre-positive paperwork experience I had an acute anxiety attack and cried in the car on the way home from the coast because the fear of that awaiting paperwork had revived the memories of horror paperwork.

But once I got started calm overtook the fear and it came a matter of finding all those various details you need when you start something new. It's now done as best as I can do it and I need assist from others now. 

So I cleared it. I cleared the PP and now I am not as scared. I have lingering anxiety instead of being basted in it.

Half the journey begins with the first step; when you've got PTSD, OCPD, depression and anxiety that is a fucking scary first step.

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Shaved for tests

Sensors have to be stuck to me and though I am balding I have hair front and back from the neck down. 

That meant a shave back on the chest and the back of the head for electrodes to be fixed. 

It's not the first time I've shaved for medical purposes. Only this time it won't be a wasted fail. I once got my stomach waxed for surgery instead of shaving but got the wrong spot done so they shaved anyway; all that was left was the top left quarter—I looked like a reversed Oz flag with a clear one-nippled pink sky with the remaining hair and other nip replacing the Union Jack. 

Also, when my stomach was waxed, this happened. I'm about as hairy as Carrell save for my projecting sides. It hurt as much as it did for him in that scene. Like bite through the brim of your hat bad. Then the blood seeps up ... it's just yucky. Who brought this up? Wrong.

Monday, June 11, 2018

Fuck gunmen

It's almost always men. They have toxic man sads and guns and compete to be the bestest at slaughter. 

The Valentine's Day school shooting survivors "Seasons of Love" at the Tonys is more powerful and more special than you; the survivors will always be more special than you. Because you decided to shoot a bunch of people. They hid then sang "fuck you" back.

Shooting randos because of complex feelings of worth to fulfill yourself is easy. Lots have people have done it; you're not the first and you won't be the last. The survivors will always outlast you and will always win. Because you're locked up until you're dead, if that is, you lack the courage to shoot yourself.

So fuck gunmen; and yay for drama teachers that shelter 65 children in a small office until they know they are safe.

Distracted by a sexy blob man

I have multi-focal lenses but they struggle to turn some things into what they should be at a distance and my vision is skewed.

I nearly stacked the trike onto the road when I rode off the path because I was so distracted by the older man of two men walking because my brain registered his head as a faceless pink blob.

I realised how close I came to stacking it when the three wheels connecting to ground went to two I had to throw my weight to counter the angle of the slope. It was like an '80s ad of "man distracted by a sexy lady in or with product X and hurts himself" only it wasn't a sexy lady; it was a blob man.

My lenses are also smudged. That probably added to it.

I regained control and got the trike home. But that blob man is out there, man, it's out there. That's our new reality and we just have to deal with it.

A gold bit from Oz politics

Hansard, Thursday, 2 February 1995, from the end of a response to a motion of censure by the Prime Minister the hon. Paul Keating. 

... When we hear from John Howard, the very much recycled Leader of the Opposition, it is a case of back to the future. Years ago I did a little ditty in here about a family walking through a museum. They are looking around and the kid says, `Mum, what's that?' She says, `Well, son, that is the Morphy Richards toaster. We used to have one. We used to put the bread in that. You had to wind it down and turn it on.' The kid says, `What's this?' She says, `That is the Qualcast mower. We had one of those at home'. He says, `Who is this?' She says, `That's John Howard. He was the Treasurer who put Australia into moribund low growth back in the 1970s and the 1980s.' The boy says, `But what is he, Mum?' She says, `He is the future, son'.

Don't make us laugh over there. John Howard believes in the glib phrase. Somebody said the other day, `He just keeps on talking. He will do as many radio interviews as possible. He will keep running the line through.' But that will not change the central fact because, as I said at question time, when people go through the polls and they understand the code, the code is the one thing that he shies away from like Dracula from a wooden stake, and that is J-O-B-S—the one thing you have never been able to produce.

Do you know what John Howard's average was in jobs? It was 52,000 a year. In the years of his treasurership it was a pathetic 52,000 a year. Do you know what this government's average was right through the 12 years? One hundred and fifty four thousand a year—three times as great.

Let me tell you another thing about employment. Let me give you another reasonably impressive statistic. Do you know what the change is in real household disposable income? You know what that means. Do you know what the change in real household disposable income is since you? It is 40 per cent. The nation's household disposable income has come up by 40 per cent; that is the change since you.

Yet you say, in your tawdry opportunist way, that we have skittled families and small business. Yes, you believe in families. You arrogantly believe that you can speak for families, as if there is something you know about families that the rest of us do not.

You say you believe in families. Yet you do not believe in family support. You do not believe in payments to low paid families. You do not believe in a family allowance supplement or additional family payment. You do not believe in Medicare. You have been trying to give a kick-up to doctors for the last 20 years of your life. Let us not burden you with families because families are affected by those people coming back into jobs through the white paper. They are the ones for whom you think it is a spending spree, those very same families.

He talks about interest rates and small business. Small business died when he was in office. He left an industrial graveyard—industrial archaeology—in his wake. It was basically the old anvil industries of the pre-war years. They were watching them close in Alexandria and in all the industrial areas across Australia. When he walked out of office he walked out with his head down.

Let the people of Australia understand: this is the same guy, with no new ideas, only the same simple ideas. They are basically about cutting income for people on low and middle incomes, keeping income up to the rich, not understanding Australia's place in the world, not understanding Australia's psychology or its identity, of having loyalty to other countries and other forums and other norms, and being out of touch with the modern Australia. John Howard would be a disaster for this country, a poor choice for the Liberal Party and an absolutely disastrous choice for Australia.

I know Keating lost in ’96 to Howard but I’d argue he was right because of what happened to government next.

But this is top notch stuff. I wish I could craft words like that; just friggin’ glorious. He went in with the bit about the toaster ready but the rest is just on his feet spittin' stats with scatman fury. 

Oz politics at its best.

(Fist raised for Comrade Paul


Trump rips up papers when he's done with them despite being legally responsible for their physical care.

The actual government's solution is assigning resources to literally tape the paper back together.

The recent G7 fiasco will be seen through his toddler eyes as a triumph because the news was all about Trump. The attention was on him and if it's bad attention it plays well to the other fucking toddlers who love him.

He is governing like TV Trump did; my way or the highway, you're fired!

He does not give a fuck about MOG (machinery of government) unless he gets press for fucking it by chucking rocks, gravy, small birds and a life-size plastic Christmas reindeer into it just for the delight of the yummy sparks and smoke and chunks spinning or falling off it.

He's not mentally ill; he has been like this his entire life. The existence of government is only useful if it applies to him and he can bend it to his will even if he rips cracks through the foundations of institutions like the EPA.

For technocrats who actually do government Trump is akin to Lucifer knocking the God triptych from their throne then laying a turd on it like a public poo jogger.

There is a fat layer of actual government that exists in all countries that inter-link and liaise to get things done together no matter the political storms that weather them from above. And when their political shit gets epic it's all they can do to say sorry and let's batten hatches until this storm has passed. I can only imagine what it is like to be a US senior GS and talk to their allies with sorrow in their eyes for an orange man child who thinks stopping government working is a moral good.

It's been 500 days of "All Trump, All the Time". If a Democrat had acted this way they'd have been rolled via impeachment at day 50 as the legislative white bodies fought the infection when all the house Democrats would have sided with the GOP to dethrone this loon ASAP.

Having seen the treatment of Obama where any minor glitch was blown into a gale of bottom storm by the GOP their acquiescence to the severe governmental harm committed by Trump is ethical treason. 

In Oz we went through five leaders in nearly as many years because of both politics and perception of failure. Trump wouldn't have made it out of the Yarralumla driveway of Government House before he got knifed had it been us.

Big ups to the actual government GS that run the MOG in the US; you have our deepest sympathies.