Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Fooled a cat and other happenings

Black cat, bad cat
The black cat has a habit of sneaking under the double bed around bedtime so she can come out and lick someone at 3 am.

We have two ways into the big room—through the shared bathroom or the door to the room from the corridor. She is black and waits in the dark. If you open the door to the room she will dart in and go under the bed.

Thus far the only way to get her out is to entice her out—or rage lift a double mattress—by luring her with promises of wet cat food, the kind that comes in silvery pouches. The crinkle of the pouch and a nudge of the bowl the food goes in is usually enough to get her out from under the bed.

I made the noise and held up the packet as both cats came, the black one from under the bed and the ginger one that doesn't sneak under the bed for a surprise morning licking. I held it up, unopened, then when the black cat was past me I threw it into the kitchen and hustled to shut the bedroom door.

Then I went back and actually opened the packet and fed them; I'm not an arsehole.

Pwned by David Sedaris
I got the second of his books and asked him it dedicate to thewife because I failed to give her a present due to a leg boil which she opened on Christmas morning—the only "present" she got from me.

His dedication said "You deserve better".

Then he did a prop comedy bit for my son—likely the youngest person at his reading. It was gold; a personal comedy bit from David Sedaris.

A thanks for a thanks
I pitched a project plan in October to some peeps and they wrote back to say thanks. I wrote back to thank them for taking the time to read it and that they made my day for actually getting back to me to say it was useful. Then I got a follow up thanking me for the thanks. How nice is that? I pitched it with no expectation it would even get looked at and it did. Here's hoping the ideas get passed on.

When you're born the world is thrown at you; some lucky fuckers get to push the world back. 

I want to be one of them. 

Recumbent Bike II
I passed the Booger-looking dude with the recumbent bike. He was riding it—is that the right word for it?—with an open-faced motorbike helmet on and aviator shades. To me recumbent bikes are to bikes as fanny packs are to the world of fashion, a wound on its soul. 

But then who am I to judge? I ride a adult-sized trike with the only thing not making it a 2:1 scale tricycle is the fact all three wheels are the same size. 

And I've crashed it more than once, toppling onto roads and the ground. He's not going to topple unless he's stunt riding and I've yet to see anyone stunt ride a recumbent bike.

What's the bet they're safer to use as well?

Maybe I'm like one of those arseholes from the '60s who refused to wear the new-fangled seat belt on the unlikely grounds he might get trapped in flaming wreckage versus the far more likely result of smashing through his windshield.

I have been very wrong about things before. Like that time I thought the next President of the United States would likely be a centrist Democrat sliding into office on the strength of Obama's performance. I actually said "I am not worried".

Then Donald Trump became president.

On his recent cognition test—the one they give elderly people to confirm if they're mentally damaged—he bragged he got the highest score any president before him got; one hundred percent!

One of the questions is apparently "who is the current President of the United States?"

It's a test they only give to people they suspect have physical brain impairment or degradation.

To be honest I thought they wouldn't even do the test on the risk he'd fail it. 

So he's not got dementia; this is just him and how he operates.

Probs save us all—for this truly is the darkest timeline. 

Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Danger period

When you have a wound you keep teasing at the danger period is when you wake up. I lay ten minutes in bed idly having a go at the healing volcano on my face before summoning the will to rise, to shower then to dress the wound.

My psych said to make the process a ritualistic healing one, when applying the cream and the band-aid to tell the wound that I am now looking after it and that the sensation of cream and band-aid is a healing sensation to bring calm to an angry welt.

It has mostly worked. Except for this morning where I had a minor go before following the steps needed to stop having a go at my face.

I had bad dreams—when you have depression, anxiety and PTSD then bad dreams are typical. I woke with feelings from the dream then worried at the wound. As with most dreams I can longer longer recall it; just the despondency upon waking from it. 

Then I picked my face.

But then I stopped picking it, had a shower and dressed the wound site to stop further picking.

Modifying your behaviour is hard when you're deeply damaged, especially when damage of the moment (picking a wound) helps salve against the deeper damage (why you're picking at your wound). If you pick at a site your mind tends not to space out into horror recall; you're just in the present and pick, pick, picking. It's pleasurable—because the pain and pleasure centres in the brain are so close you can fuck up your brain chemistry where something that is clearly wrong feels good to do. 

The wound site has been healing since my intervention; the days of 'pick, pick, pick' for now have been arrested. I still have this desire to claw at my face but it's not as strong as it was. I had a backslide on waking but it was only for 10 minutes. 

It's amazing to be in a place where you can celebrate not hurting yourself. But that's what it is to have depression, anxiety and PTSD—taking pride in not making your body as fucked as your mind.

WFTW.

Monday, January 22, 2018

The YouTubers ... they were screaming...

It was on the other day—streaming through the big TV—with a pair of YTs playing games. One was American—super American—the other a British girl.

My anxiety was up and I wasn't even in the room when she started screaming. It was happy screaming but my brain didn't hear that as happy, it heard it as an incoming threat. I asked theboy to turn it down at first then eventually had to ask him to turn it off because I was in and out of the room. He countered that at low volume the sudden screaming shouldn't trigger and then I went into my exhaustive PTSD "my brain is injured and it cannot perceive the screams as not threatening" speech and he stopped me just a few words in because he's heard it so many times. 

He shouldn't have to hear it so many times because he should be able to watch YouTube without factoring in the mental wound of his dad. I felt like a fucking arsehole asking him to turn it off all together—even with the low volume—because that's bullshit he can't do normal things when I happen to be in place.

My anxiety is up because I am procrastinating on damaging work. I need to do it but I've not been doing it because the first day was too stressful. I have to look at it as I look at my thigh boil bandaid; deeply unpleasant in the moment of trying to find the edge of the wet bandaid in the shower to pull it off because I forgot to do so before hand. It's nasty, it takes a minute or two because have you ever tried to pull off a bandaid in the shower when you're wet and soapy and have injury and medication robbed coordination? It makes the shower fucked until you get it off. Then you feel like you accomplished something and enjoy the rest of the shower far more because you earned it.

So ... here I go on my mental soapy wet bandaid...

UPDATE: That'll do for today, little pig, hat'll do. I lasted less than 30 minutes

UPDATE2: I had three Valium after the shakes kicked in. I can feel the storm coming.

UPDATE3: Used the first mindfullness exercise from the CD my psych gave me; it was about perception of body and breath. My mind kept going back to my half hour as a piglet sheep-whisper but then I'd be prompted to return to where I was and what the air inside me was doing. It was Zen. I'm going again!

Thursday, January 18, 2018

Sanity check

In the RPG Call of Cthulhu, set in the 1920s as human investigators chase down and gibber at Lovecraftian monsters, they have a sanity game mechanic. You start off with, from memory, a stat value x5 (creating a number from 5–100) and you typically go down from there. Fail a sanity check means your sanity value drops by a number of points—in addition to whatever temporary derangement may seize your character such as a love for stroking fungi.

And, deliciously, the forbidden arcana that is Cthulhu Mythos, the skill that allows you to identify the powers and type of these monsters, is tied to your sanity value in that your maximum sanity score cannot exceed (100 minus Mythos %). The more you know, the less sane you are. If your character goes fully insane then they become a non-player character belonging to the game master who may have them re-appear at some point as an enemy. 

There are books found in the game that increases your mythos lore but you pay sanity for reading them; take damage and lower your maximum Sanity value.

In real life such things do not exist. But mentally damaged people have to engage with texts that cause them harm. It's a bit like one of those Chernobyl debris responders—termed "bio robots"—who could spend but a short time on site before they hit their lifetime radiation exposure count; if you have to engage then do it for a limited time before forcing yourself away lest you cause damage.

So after an hour I stopped, had one and half Valium and a shower.  

I'll see how I go with that.

Apologised to self for noise

One of the crap aspects of PTSD—and there are so many—is being scared by sudden, loud noises. Your animal brain takes command, decides it's a threat, and logic brain can at that point take a back seat in a car that is aquaplaning. 

Sudden is the unexpected part and that's the bit that triggers animal brain to think "defend yourself" but even if I make a loud, sudden noise I apologise to myself—and the rest of the house since they (the other house members) try to avoid sudden, loud noises as well.

When the laundry screen door is open it means the wooden door into the house will close with a bang if you just push it shut. 

It happened to me; I caused the noise but was not startled—but I said in a raised voice so both I and all could hear "SORRY!"

Because even if a sudden noise I create doesn't scare me because sensitivity to loud noise or making them is contagious when you live with someone with the condition it scares them that you might be scared.

So I had to own up to the noise and with the cheery aspect of the "SORRY!" indicated I was okay. In fact I'll say sorry for a sudden noise even if they're not in the house because it's a baked in habit.

It's balls to live like this; sudden loud noises are a part of life and brick and mortar of when you have a child and a family. Noise, noisy noise, happens. I have ways to cope, CBT techniques to talk myself out of an animal state if a loud noise drops me in it. But it's still balls my family is wounded because of my wound.

One saving grace is my trauma is heroic; I copped this wound fighting for others. It would be exceptional balls to have PTSD as a result of an accident; an injury that can stay long after physical wounds have healed. Because there is no rhyme or reason to it; you experienced trauma and got PTSD. 

But if you have it then know that it's not a failure of will; it is damage to your brain chemistry and the way your brain recalls and stores memories. You can have your condition treated, the quicker the better, and actually end up PTSD free.

That's not me—I left treating the PTSD aspect of my injury go too far before I got specific treatment for it and that means it will take longer to treat. But the treatment is working because my PTSD is less likely to trigger when faced with a trigger, and the severity of an attack is usually less; logic, for example, can take over and you can tell yourself to do things in a calm fashion even if you're pissing tears, have a fast heart rate and feelings of overwhelming dread.

If you can achieve a state of pseudo-calm in the midst of a PTSD-spawned severe anxiety attack then you've won; you'll know the physicality of the episode will now subside. That calm that you will be calm helps make you calm.

Or a clam, if I had committed a typo.

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Noisy ninjas

You'd think it a paradox but theboy got a Ninjago Lego set and as he's building it the team members that came with the set are fighting or training and making a lot of HI-YA!-style noises.

They're not PTSD friendly noises so I am staying well away from that rowdy melee.

Who are ninjas; I mean I know the classic ninja outfit is actually a puppeteers costume from dramas that used stagecraft with that costume to represent their stealth on stage. But I am pretty sure not making noises whilst fighting would be a prime ninja skill need.

But who am I to correct the anachronism? It's just fun. Noisy fun---which is why I'm hiding here ... like a ninja...

(Star fishes above bathroom wardrobe area)

Volcano face

In the '80s to have a volcano face, to me at least, meant severe acne. I had peers that suffered it to the point their faces were left pitted and scarred as adults.

I have a volcano on my face but it's not a zit; it's a scar ridge lump of tissue from my picking at that spot during OCPD-fuelled space outs where hours go by and all I've done is sit, lie and pick at it while my mind drifts.

It's as if the steady pick, pick lessens your mind storm; a metronome beating to take you outside of your head.

But because I've done this the scar tissue has risen above the smooth lines of cheek skin and when the head of the scar is ripped off it's a red and glaring crater atop the white scar tissue that forms the cone

I have to take active measures against my OCPD desire to self-mutilate. If my son was going through this I'd be shocked, deeply worried that he was hurting himself. But I'm the one doing it to me. 

Last night, before they got home and saw the damage, I bravely clipped the beard hair away from the around the cone—brave because the setting was at 0 at I risked snagging a chunk of scar tissue as I removed the hair—got my prescription cream, daubed the spot and put on a bandaid. 

I am going to cover the spot each day and not pick it. It's going to be hard. There is a pleasure pulse you get from hurting yourself and triumph if you rip a chunk of scar tissue off even though that tissue will grow back, probably thicker. 

I hate that my injury made this minor habit a major fail; that to pick at my body until it bleeds gives me peace and comfort is warped brain chemistry and I have to actively stop it. I have to stop picking at my face because it looks bad, it's an infection risk and I enjoying doing it. 

Now I am going to find the baby nail clippers—which I can use one-handed with reasonable dexterity given my injury-caused hand tremours—and clip my finger nails right back so if the bandaid comes off and the skin gets dry I don't immediately go back to pick ... pick .... pick (hours pass).

UPDATE: thewife clippered back my finger nails  We sat on the swing seat in the garden. I used an emery board to smooth out sharp bits. So maximum physical security against picking have been applied—I've covered the site and removed the finger nails to the quick. Let's see if that works. 

It is bizarre to be utterly sane but be mentally ill. Stupid duality of man balanced on the edge of madness and reason.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Naked out from the side hatch

With thanks to Tenacious D.

In all the efforts to re-secure the tarp on the hutch I hadn't properly closed the side hatch and as such one of the Polish Scruffs escaped. 

It was a hell of a thing to corner—it can't fly but it can flap and gain about three feet and it flapped / ran into the weird water heater room at the back of the house that contains the heater and assorted gardening crap. I had to pull the mower out to try to get to the chick and as I did so I screamed at it "I AM A MIDDLE-AGED MAN!"

It was a statement with a clear tone of "I cannot deal with this shit". 

But I did catch it, trying not to hurt it, though it flapped in terror until I got it back into the hutch. 

I secured the side hatch. 

I believe that's the only time I have yelled my age category at a bird in anger at its antics that my now-aged-and-injured-crap-at-birth-body found a challenge to deal with. 

I love them to pieces when it's all going well, but fuck me I do get annoyed when they act like nature says when escaped from captivity and you try stay that way. I'm sure if I had left the hutch door open that the others would have stayed in and the escapee would have eventually joined them at dusk. But I wanted certainty they were locked away and ended up in an unpleasant not funny chase sequence with a fear-crazed bird which involved age-based shouting.

Fuck kids getting off my lawn; chicken, get out the fuck out of my water heater room! (waves stick).

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Stolen

I have a womb-warped body with short arms and short fingers. Combining that with injury to my ability to handle objects due to PTSD it means I struggle to do basic things. 

We had fierce winds and lashing rain so I tried to move the cover on the chicks' hutch. Only I fucked it up and had to take it off and try and put it back on. But with my short arms, my inability to handle fine objects like small D clasps meant I could not put it back on. Plus my glasses kept falling off because the frames are bent and pain sweat kept causing them to slip off if I looked downward.

I had a rage attack at the cover, ripping it off and stomping on it, after 30 minutes of concentrated, deep painful bending and lying on the ground trying to get it back on.

This is something a normal person could do. This is something I cannot. This is when I feel robbed, that my life was stolen. First by my parents who couldn't be arsed to look after me in the womb then bullied me for the result and then by my workplace injury that makes my already womb-fucked life exceptionally more challenging.

I had to take Valium, brace the cover as best I could without clamps or rings because my womb and work robbed fingers cannot manipulate them and because I was trying to do it bending which my womb-fucked body screams in agony when I do it.

Stolen; my life of being normal was stolen from me. I never had a fucking chance.

Sure without all of this crap I couldn't have done what I did t but that pales when you're in juddering, angry tears because you're not normal; you're sub-normal and you feel it. 

UPDATE: The wind tore the cover off. I have used kettle bells to hold it down on one side and a giant inflatable hot dog to hold down the other. Kettle bells and an inflatable hot dog; that's my solution. So far it's holding. 

Friday, January 12, 2018

Called it

I was interacting with the guy manning the till and for some reason felt I needed to defend the still wearing of the bike helmet and hat.

"It's not to hide that I'm bald," I happily confessed, "I just can't be arsed taking it off.

"Besides, if I did then with all the sweat my hair would sprout out like on a mad professor."

I got home, took off the helmet and hat then happened to see myself in a mirror.

Every last strand was standing at sweaty attention; I looked like a character from Dr. Seuss or The Hunger Games.

Balding; the icing on the cake of being short and fat.

On the ride back I went past ...

... either a tree stump that looked like a kangaroo; a kangaroo; a person in a kangaroo costume; or someone in a tree stump costume only it looked more like a kangaroo than a stump.

I was speeding downhill at the time and couldn't be fucked turning around to confirm it but presumed on balance it was likely the first one.

Only later there was a knock at the door from someone in a kangaroo costume who just heard I'd been talking shit about his outfit and he hit me with a tree branch.

So now what the fuck am I supposed to think?

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Nothing sneaky about Senator Feinstein

Trump, I still find it hard to preface his name with the word "President", just had a go at Senator Dianne Feinstein because of her releasing testimony from Fusion GPS (the research service that created the infamous pee pee dossier) that makes Trump look as guilty as he almost certainly is.

As part of that "having a go" he called her "sneaky".

Now I presumed Trump being Trump and in spite of him having a daughter who converted to Judaism was basically using a "Jews are sneaky" canard against Senator Feinstein.

I was curious to see if she was even Jewish—and she is—but even if she wasn't she sounds Jewish and that's all Trump needed to know to add the term sneaky. Oh those Jews, with their education and learning—and their occasionally being forced to convert to the Russian Orthodox faith which is what happened on Feinstein's maternal side.

There is nothing sneaky about Senator Dianne Feinstein. I read her wiki; she spent her entire life fighting for people she does not know and to improve her community. She is an exemplar of a positive politician who got into the game to fix shit that was broken and to make the world a better place. Someone even tried to kill her with a bomb at one point in her earlier career. 

And she's 84 for fuck's sake. She is an 84-year-old woman fighting for people in the Senate. She is entitled to walk off and enjoy the elder part of her life but she's rusted on because she is committed to serve. 

I dislike the GOP members who are pale, aged and male and spent decades in their slot denying people a chance to improve their starting condition. But on the flip side there's Senator Feinstein, their polar opposite. Same long service but fighting them the entire way.

(Fist raised for Senator Feinstein)

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Recumbent bike

I went past a man with a recumbent bike. He was in the middle of a phone call. He looked like Booger from Revenge of the Nerds only with a bike helmet and shades. His t-shirt said "Incontinental"—either that pun name or the actual hotel chain. 

Either way the thing was he was standing.

If you have a recumbent bike why would you stand to take or make a call? 

It makes no sense. But then my body and that style of bike would not work so it makes no sense to me how you use it. 

I did another lake ride, Dark Side of the Moon playing on my old Sony Mp3, with bird song intermingling. I flitted between power assist at level two and level three, choosing the higher (and easier) setting for the final stretch home. The last time I did it I did it either without power or risking electrocution when it seemed dry enough after being caught in a storm. It was joyful compared to the brutal slog of the lake attempt before and a reminder that shitty experiences make you appreciate the good ones even more. 

WFTW. 

Tuesday, January 09, 2018

Sharted in the shower

I didn't mean to—I don't think anyone consciously does unless it's for art, sex or both—but I filled the shower with the horrid smell of wet shit as it came out.

I cleaned myself, dried, then with a still damp bum went to the toilet and dropped the rest. 

Then I went back to the shower to get really, super clean. I to make sure there was no me left on the tiles of the shower well. I moved the head back and forth to really wash out the corners. 

A shart in the shower is no way to start a day; actually sharting any time or place is no way to start anything.

Later, as I let the adult chickens out of their fox proof sleeping cage, I found a thumb-sized rubber Darth Vader head. It had nothing to do with my sharting but it was a weird thing to find in your chicken pen.

Sometimes a day will start like that; with a shart and the find of a strange toy in an unusual place. If I believed in the rule of threes then the day will end with my alien abduction or passing out for whatever reason. 

Oh, universe, you do tease me so with your happenings.

Monday, January 08, 2018

Finger tips are also not food

After they vigorously pecked at my unprotected toenails I donned crocs then attempted to feed them a handful of pumpkin seeds.

Yeah ... the chicks tried to eat my finger tips. They saw the seeds, they knew that's what they were supposed to eat, but they tried to eat me.

Not cool, chicks, not cool. It would be just my luck for my coda to be reported as "found eaten by his own birds".

Take a sniff and see

I was in the middle of sniffing three-day-old Chinese food for eating risk when those words, or words like them, of "Take a sniff and see" burst out of the TV in the lounge room. It came from an ep of Teen Titans.

It was deeply congruent.

Rider in the storm

It sucked. The rain slashed into me just after I got around the lake. I not only had to turn off the battery but take shelter in bushes from the onslaught.

I rode back mostly on no battery. Once the trike dried a bit I risked brief spurts when legs were failing.

No one writes songs about riders in storms, well electric-assist trike riders, because there's nothing majestic about it. You're wet, there's wind and you can't use the battery.

The chain also came off at one point. Had I not got it back on I'd likely still be pushing it home.

Upset at being upset

My son wanted to show me something cool on Netflix. I got up to go see but I pissed and moaned about having to move. He watched me with wary hope as I watched the bit. It was funny—and I'm glad he showed it to me—but I was off-putting when he asked me to get up and had my annoyed face on. 

After I left I reflected that I had once again not acted correctly; that because I felt shit and pain-ridden and didn't want to move that I took it out on someone who just wanted me to see something he thought I'd like.

I said sorry, and that he can always come and pitch things I'd like. Then I crept away in shame because I'd been a passive-aggressive prick solely 'cause he wanted to see me smile.

Then I got upset and angry. A child should be able to come to his dad any time of the day or fucking night without fearing hostility. That's fucking bullshit behaviour. 

My injury is mostly-fucked. Sure I achieved self worth but at bitter cost. Not least of which is the damage to my immediate family; that they have to factor my crap in when dealing with me.

That's fucking bullshit they have to do that. Just fucking bullshit.

Sunday, January 07, 2018

I did stop

It turns out I was buying Pringles more for the chickens than me. There are two full un-popped tubes on the counter and two half-popped ones. 

After the mass death of the adult chickens feeding the two survivors just wasn't the same—and they didn't seem to enjoy them either. I tried to feed some to them from the pre-popped tubes but took a bite first and noted they were stale—in spite of the tube being sealed with the cap (but not the freshness tamper proof seal intact).

So I popped and I did stop all contrary to the claims by Pringles and any associated industries. I proved them wrong. 

Now to throw out the dead Pringles—to the bin, not to the chooks. Even they said no.

Of course had I fed them before they went stale I'm sure they'd be all on in that Pringles shit.

So it's a note to future self. If you pop it then you must not stop or they will go off (eventually). 

To the binotorium!

Like adding hair would help

We accidentally signed up to what appeared to be a free trial of a product but which of course was a spammer's marketing scam to get our email.

Since then there's been a lot of blocking of spam. 

One of them was "Regrow hair in X days!" which, for a second, made me think the spammers knew I was bald(ing) but then rationalised it was just a broad spray hoping to catch the fearful bald in their web of hair regrowing lies. 

I am bald(ing). It started back in '98—I sound like a grizzled Canadian prospector—when my then boss stabbed me in the back of the head with a finger and yelled "YOU'RE GOING BALD; THERE!".

I had a pony tail at the time and that spot meant game over and it was time to shave back. The balding spread as my haircut stayed the same; a 0–4 clipper back and yes please on the eyebrows, nose and neck.

There would be little point in me regrowing hair, if I was for example single and trying not to be, 'cause I am also short and fat. It would be like adding hair to a potato—there's just no fucking point.

Both grandfathers were bald but I am the only male scion who it happened to—and the only one dudded by '70s wombcare.

But with short and fat already in the back paddock there seems little point to weeding the bald; it's all fucked, just accept it.

I was ordered out of the pool before I even knew what sex was; regrowing hair isn't going to let me back in. 

Art V life

Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy loses girl then does a series of escalating acts to win her back, girl gets back with boy (art).

Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy loses girl and respects her boundaries and does not communicate with her again or stays friends if possible (real world ideal)

Boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love [or boy thinks they're in love but they're not], boy loses girl [or never had her] then does a series of escalating acts to "win her back", girl freaks out at the idea there's a boy so deranged that he thinks the series of acts will be perceived romantically and there is much unpleasantness (typical worst case real world outcome). 

Some say fiction is life with the edges rubbed off; at its best it's a block of marble transformed into an elephant. But real life is a big chunk of imperfect stone, riven with cracks and if there's gold in it then it's specks per ton, not nuggets like stool corn 'less you're that one in a million.

Real life chugs on; reel life deflects it. On the book side it's no wonder bodice rippers are a hard copy market mainstay; risky in the bath or on the washer with a tablet. 

The romantic comedy; without the willing acceptance at the end then it's just a fucking tragedy.

I'm not going to do X

(five minutes later)

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO, X!"

Stupid near New Years resolution; you just made X sexier.

Saturday, January 06, 2018

On the death of a snowman

In this case it was a solar LED infused semi-transparent glass globe snowman with the traditional top hat. It went on a stand and glowed at night. It was balanced on a chair during pack up but it smashed to the ground.

theboy had an over the top reaction—"I HATE YOU, YOU RUINED CHRISTMAS!"—then gleefully announced "Acting!" and exited stage inside-the-house.

The death of a snowman is normal in the normal snowy world; springtime comes and the snow goes. In Oz we pathetically add louche touches of "cold" to our boiling hot summertime Christmas which includes putting fake frost triangles in the corners of windows. 

We have a range of celebratory Xmas tat that we put up and proudly exalt in 'spite the fact we're staunch anti-theists. For us it's a cultural thing; I dropped any active religious observance years ago and now refuse to go into a church.

But all the fun stuff of Xmas, such as frost, snow and ice as accepted decorations 'spite the season and searing heat that is for us and it was sad to see our top-hatted snowman dead—since were it not for the smash it was for us forever. It came from a set of three. I made sure to check the survivors to see which one it was that died then slagged the dead one off to help smooth feelings over loss; "Don't worry, it was just the fuckhead in the top hat". 

It did not work. I think I need work on my loss news skillz.

Xmas decs come down

"You're not putting away my baby," he hissed.

He was referring to the toy and formerly mobile Xmas tree that plays "Yakety Sax".

On Christmas day he used a zombie garden gnome to create a stop motion movie of it walking or fast lurching through various vistas provided by a program on his iPad, using the greenscreen theatre from his stick bots.

He scored it with "Yakety Sax", the music provided by the paralysed tree.

A zombie gnome fast lurching to the theme of The Benny Hill show past city streets, fields and beaches was pretty funny. At one point the zombie gnome passed a bemused stick bots who watched the zombie's journey left to right.

Santa hat doffed.

Wet surprise

I was bending down to inset a fresh tub of water for the chicks to paddle in when I felt it; cold, wet liquid running down my crack. But it wasn't from within but without. 

It was the garden tap I had just used; I had not turned it off properly. And that's how it came to be that cold water dripped through my butt as I bent over in front of it to put the tub in.

I didn't know what to think in the initial moment; I was flustered. Much like the chickens outside who are pissed off at me for whatever reason. They always are; every time the grey one stares at me she seems mad.

They were PJ pants, the thinnest of pants. All else that sopped it was undies. 

Not cool, garden tap, not cool. Well, actually, it was cool—temperature wise—but not intent wise. If, that is, objects have malign intent. I'm an atheist but sometimes even I think they have it in for me.

Friday, January 05, 2018

Bee heart fail

I was looking out the window when I saw a bee clinging to the underside of a branch. Then it fell off the branch. It didn't fly—it dropped—like it had died of a bee heart attack.

But I wasn't up to getting to the place to where the presumed dead bee lay and just have to assume (because I cannot base it on anything else) that the bee just died of a heart attack—if that is a likely cause of bee death. I've not bothered to Google for bee deaths by heart attack but I am sure there would be some interesting findings. 

That Internet.

Black swan moment
I saw one on my ride around the lake. It was paddling in a concrete pond catchment storm drain entry point to the lake itself. It seemed happy, that black swan. I wonder why they get such a bad rap?

Successful cheeriness with local man
I went to my local open every day place where I outed myself as having PTSD and I exchanged greetings with the owner again. This time it was fine—I actually did a "great, how are you?". I'm not super fine but it meant that moment passed quick then we got back to ignoring each other as I looked for treats for my sweets. 

Felt wiggy as all fuck then realised why
Though thewife has literally written letters AM under the word Morning on the morning / evening pill box I still munged the wrong pills. Why? Because morning was facing backward and instead of actually looked at words and letters just gobbled the first ones in line (the evening ones). 

As I rode off to the shops the med failure had kicked in—though I took them on discovery of the fuck up late afternoon they take a while to kick in themselves—and it was a bit of a wonky ride as my sense of balance was well fucked with. 

I literally have just the one job in the morning at the moment and that's to take my morning pills.

And I took the evening ones instead.

What a fail

It also probably explains the angry shouting on an a bike ride earlier. There was much swearing and cursing at ghosts.

Wednesday, January 03, 2018

Deflated

I received a thanks for my sorry but it left me deflated. It didn't give me what I wanted; that clear proof positive. It was messy, nuanced. You could see how a decision got made even if it was wrong. 

I went for a ride and for a short moment I left my body; I clung to the idea of what that sorry would do and the reality is it does nothing. 

I sat, foot bakes on, knee crackling, as I texted thewife to let her know I'd gone wobbly and was coming back. I closed off the loop with peeps and now I have to adjust to reality re-framed. 

I predict another 72 hours of the wobbles. That momentary out of body feeling is worm sign for shakiness ahead where logic and feeling will clash, crash and bash against each other in the crackling storm. 

(takes pills; prepares for wobbles)

UPDATE: Have just realised I've had the first angry cry of the year, and two days after braggin' about not having one. Ha! Hubris, now Mikey, hubris...

Monday, January 01, 2018

New Year and no tears shampoo

In the '80s ads for shampoo would sometimes pimp their tear free qualities; the suds didn't sting your eyes in other words.

I didn't cry today. I went for a ride with a cluster of horrors to dwell on but I didn't shout, yell or cry. I just reflected.

Then, on the home stretch, I passed by a sea of green leafy trees that curved overhead. It was magical, like I was in Middle Earth ... on an electric assist man-trike.

Last year threw some nasty shit at me, and this year will as well. But there are days when you can lazily think of torments past and they don't elicit a response; no tears shampoo for the mind--cleansing without sting.

It's a good start to the year.

WFTW.