Thursday, May 31, 2018

Stigmatised the brown

I'm still having occasional goes at my foot skin; I've yet to successfully consciously stop myself from doing it for more than a day.

Last night I got off a postage stamp sized layer from the back right heel. I had a brown slipper on.

I saw it later, the imprint of stamp-sized blood across the white fur of the brown slipper's lining.

It looked a bit like a messed-up passport stamp too, from a no longer European country from the industrial past. 

Maybe it will serve as a visual reminder to stop picking my fucking feet until I bleed and then even more after that.

It's a not uncommon habit to have—to pick at the body is part of the OCPD adventure—but it's still deeply fucked up and I wish I could conquer it. I stopped at the face but only by moving back to the feet even though they're harder to get to with an early-fail skeleton. 

Sometimes you feel like you just got a turn in the boat and the fucker on shore is yelling "TIME!"

But at least I got into the boat and had a go; that's better than not.

WFTW.

Chicken bullying causes flashbacks

The brown Silkie is on the bottom of the pecking order. If she comes out for food or water she will be bullied by the other five. She tries to get as much to eat and drink while dodging attacks then she hides in the hutch the rest of the time.

I know the pecking order is natural for chickens but to see it happening in real time where all off her pen mates alternatively attacked her or chased her away reminded me of my childhood where I was effectively a brown Silkie. I haven't cooked off with a mad self-rant about school and parental thuggery for some time but once she fled to the pen equivalent of a school library I triggered. I started shouting, slamming doors and freaking the cats out as I relived micro-memories off all those incidents caused directly or indirectly by my parents for putting me in an institution that had a pecking order mentality where weak boys were held up for ridicule. I was literally put on stage in front of the entire school to have my flaws pointed out. If that sort of shit doesn't fuck you up then I don't know what does.

I was treated as broken for as long as I can remember and that chicken's experience was my experience---at school and in the home. I got loomed over more times than I can count and was chased to be beaten more than once.

And all I can do for that chicken is give her a haircut to improve her visibility except I realised her puffy head feathers actually protected her from beak strikes to the skull. I may have made it worse.

Those micro-memories flashed across my skull like a zoetrope; being ankle tapped to fall onto gravel with bare hands or that time a fuckwit bailed me up in a maths room with the giant wooden compass with a thick metal point and tried to stab me with it.

It was a place that celebrated masculinity and I was thrown in there as fat effete chum.

All I can do now is note than was 30 years ago, that those fuckwits are hopefully having a horrid life and that I am my best true self that looked after a chunk of Oz I did not know.

They were formative experiences from my childhood. At least I can say I didn't pass that damage on.

But, fuck me, if you don't get sucked back into that moment of childhood vulnerability when the memories come running.

UPDATE: I may have made it worse by changing her appearance because the others may not realise it's her. And new chickens are exposed to pecking to re-establish the order. Shit. 

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

PTSD and coffee pods

If you've had a mental health injury such as PTSD then it impacts on your ability to do physical things like picking up an object and staying a hold of it.  

Coffee pods are light and easy to hold but also easy to drop for no reason. The solution? Pinch the pod lightly as you pick it up and slot it in; the pinch will counter your fingers from opening because, fuck you, dexterity.

Also, be prepared for startle reflex from the noise of the pod machine. Even when you're the one operating it the unit still makes an unholy howl of robot death and you might instinctively try to smash it out of its misery.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Cock-spank fails to understand alleged divine power

Pastor Jesse Duplantis of Louisiana wants a jet plane to spread the gospel according to Raw Story. One of the reasons given is the preponderance of demons or like entities that fly commercial and his dislike of exposure to that.

My fave bit is his idea that a returned JC would be tooling around in a jet; I really believe that if the Lord Jesus Christ was physically on the Earth today, he wouldn’t be riding a donkey,” Duplantis said in a video promoting fundraising for the jet. “He’d be in an airplane flying all over the world.”


No he wouldn't; he's a returned being of holy might. He does not, would not, could not ride in a jet. Unless he wanted to ... but Jesus being plane-dependent for flight somewhat undercuts the "ALL POWERFUL RULER OF THE LIVING AND THE DEAD" atmos he's trying to exude.


Plus I'm not sure what a halo would do to the pressurised interior.

The battery is my cornballer

The battery is incredibly difficult to remove from its sleeve on the BYB, my electeric-assist man trike, and every time I try I seem to hurt myself---just like the infamous cornballer from Arrested Development. It's poorly placed, forcing you to get it over the mud guard and there are no handles or grip points to make it easy. It's got a smooth surface and if you pull but don't extract it your hand slides along against the battery with your nails raking the back basket and then you bang your hand into the mud guard.

This time I broke righty middle finger's nail, it ripped a hole out of the top of the middle leaving upsticking bits that look like the side hair on a balding man. I needed to trim it off, put on a Band-Aid and my finger is still ouchie. No one is awake to kiss my boo boo.

I am irked. There's no solution to the problem that I can see. It seems I will always have my hands at risk on extraction.

Poor design gives me sads; my missing finger nail is proof.

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

PTSD and shopping

If your PTSD is up and you suffer hand tremours or finger spring you will drop your shopping. When putting it away try to start will a non-fragile or light item first. For me it was a box of ice-creams. I picked it up, one of four items purchased, and my hand said "NO!" and opened up like a flower and dropped it on the floor. 

The ice-creams were okay; hooray! But it also gave me a sign I needed to take care.

So if you're moving heavy or fragile items like cans or glass jars wait until the end and when you do it actively concentrate on maintaining the hold until you get it into position. If you succeed at putting it all away without dropping one then give yourself a shaky pat on the back for mission accomplished after normalcy was stolen from you by a mental health injury.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Fanged it downhill as the rain came in

I got pre-rain splatter on the way to the shops on my electric-assist man trike and forded on knowing that if it did hit then it was a downhill ride. 

So it did hit and because it's an electric-assist bike if you use the assistance as it rains then there is a small chance of electrocution.

Battery off I pedaled furiously along the straight bit then fanged it downhill as the rain came in.

I'm pretty sure that's an Oz word—to fang—which means to go quickly. And fanged it I did. 

I timed my ride for between estimates. That's just how much of a fucking nerd I am.

Nerds—I think the Beasties said it best in "Intergalactic": 

Well, I gotta keep it going, keep it going full steam

Too sweet to be sour; too nice to be mean

Well, on the tough guy style, I'm not too keen

Trying to change the world, I will plot and scheme

Darn tootin', Beasties.

WFTW.

Policy nerd

You know you're a policy nerd when you're doing an outside wee with one hand whilst holding an iphone playing a live feed of senate estimates in the other and trying to hear it over the sound of your urination slashing onto a dead potted plant.

Monday, May 28, 2018

PTSD and Dr Who

Dr Who is an awesome TV series that is branded across my childhood (the Tom Baker era). The 2005 re-boot is stunning and theboy, being old enough to not freak out at the scary, is watching his way through.

In Dr Who there is a lot of running along corridors as noises of alert ring out---be they from sirens, klaxons or tannoys and blaring forth barps, bings, bongs, bleeps or awoogas. There's a fucking host of DANGER! sounds and they travel through a house. If you have PTSD and you're watching it then I presume you'd be okay since you're invested in the story. If you're not and are in ear shot Dr Who may fire your startle reflex.

I had to do horror delve and my anxiety ticked up. I had a V after noon then went for a ride. When I returned Dr Who was the house's backing track for the day. So I ended up in the study with the door closed to take my mind from yuck and block out alarming science fiction noises of systems in distress that were inflicting distress on my system.

If Dr Who is on make like a TARDIS and dimensionally shift yourself to a place of pleasing ambience.

This has been "Fun with PTSD" in time and relative dimensions in space.

Ever boil money shot

The ever boil was squeezed and it blew its top, the wad of ichor shooting out my leg and somewhere on the orange carpet. The boil still has muck inside but hopefully the ever boil will eventually become no more boil. The alternative is opening it up and using wadding as it heals.

It didn't hurt until the end so it's awesome it blew below where the nerve endings were. 

Take that, infection.

PTSD and socks

If you're putting socks away or trying to put them on then you will drop them. Try to consciously grip the sock, tell yourself to clutch, as you maneuver the sock. 

If you have mobility issues as well, and you're trying to put on a sock, then, yes, you will drop them. I have to splay a sock open with an outstretched fingers then slip it over my pointed toes whilst braced within a door frame. I had to do that before I got PTSD; with the PTSD it's a lot more challenging. Sometimes the fingers will twitch before entry and I suffer premature sock drop.

Yes, dressing yourself with trembling fingers is an adventure, as is putting away clean clothing because you will drop a sock onto a pile of dirty socks that are at the foot of the hamper you then have to work out which is used or not—hint, it's a dry, nice smelling one that is the clean one. Not the moist one with sweat and foot blood.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

PTSD and keys

You will drop them. Consider gripping them when you pick them up and consciously staying hold of them.

But they will drop. It will be irritating—especially if you also have physical issues that make it hard to bend. Picking them up may not be guaranteed on the first attempt; try to be cool with that.

Also if due to circumstances of house design a key rack is above the kitty litter then, yes, you will drop them into the kitty litter. 

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Sunday, May 27, 2018

People shouldn't be forced to make people

The people of Ireland have stood fast against the past and voted to lift abortion restrictions in a country-wide vote. I find it weird men were allowed to take part but there you have it.

People shouldn't be forced to make people; specifically women who don't want to be pregnant should not have to be. It's forcing a life altering situation on half the world's people who ideally should have access to reliable birth control.

Ireland had it particularly bad; this cultural affectation that forced nineteenth century standards on twenty first century women. It also led to appalling treatment of abandoned children when they were in the "care" of the church. Children that should never have been if women had been given full ownership of their bodies.

That's what it comes down to; it's your body. And the State should not force you to grow a whole body inside you if you do not wish it.

Thank fuck for the women of Ireland that they can get medical care in Ireland for if they don't want to be pregnant; a condition that is ten times more likely to kill you than a safe termination would.

My grandfather had Hope as a middle name because his mother hoped he was the last child she would have ... of twenty. My great-grandmother was dudded by science and society both; forced to procreate because her horny husband kept having at her and she was weirdly fertile.

If she'd had had a chance of birth control then she'd have been on it like me with a McDonald's hot fudge sundae.

Finally as a fun side note my dad once hugged me and asked when I was expecting because I was fatter than when he last saw me. That was a life altering insult. Funny, huh?

Bled into a slipper

I could see a bright shein of blood on the white back heel part of one of the good blue slippers, from a foot skin picking session that had gone too deep. I'm reminded it's a dumb habit, picking at the body, that can cause clothing or footwear damage ... from blood that should be inside the body.

The urge to painfully haul up a leg into pole position to idly pick at my foot skin is screaming at me. It's like any addicition; I want to and need to feed it. If it was cigs then I'd be on a half pack a day.

I've had this habit since a child, a symptom of stress relief my wounded sad boy brain found solace in; I can hurt myself better than the world can and I control it.

Except you don't; you've baked in a warped habit where you dance on the line of pleasure and pain because your brain has made them next door neighbours.

Maybe the cheery cherry stain will serve as a hint to curb. The research I didn't do but someone who loves me does says it's a common habit that waxes and wanes with intensity but there are things you can do that help not to do it. My dad has it, he picks his feet in bed. And he has depression as well.

So it's like I got all the crap bits from both parents with gestational skeletal malformation as a bonus track.

It's the hand I was dealt; how lucky am I to have help to keep playing.

WFTW.

UPDATE: It happened again; added blood to the same spot on the slipper. It's now a blend of scarlet and rust. Good one.

Saturday, May 26, 2018

Proud Boys ... are not people!

The Proud Boys are a group of like-minded metaphorical cock-spanks---not literal because they abstain from self gratification and it only counts if it's going into a lady---whose hilarious name belies their juvenile outlook. To join you also have to be beaten up until you can name five cereals for breakfast because your mother got it all ready for you when you were a kid or some such.

In their rhetoric I'd be counted an Omega and not wanted because I would bring the overall masculine tone down with my short rotund bod. Unless they got me to tuck and roll and they then bowled me into their enemies.

Anyway they have some odd views about other types of people who are not hetero male especially about women and their need for them to fix their breakfast for them like their mom did in their fevered memory-scope.

They also don't like people who are women who are in the media.

At the root of it is the sundering of white hetero male patriarchy. Because it turns out straight white men do not own the world, should not be the only ones who decide things and by thinking as a man first negates themselves as they then shoehorn themselves into hetero male identity even if that's not them.

When your gender or orientation has been monstered for much of humanity then it's fair for you to identify keenly with that aspect of you; the box you were put into.

But the Proud Boys identify with the ones on top; the ones that hurt everyone else.

Because they think of themselves as manly men, whose mother got them breakfast as a woman should, and that manly men thinking is the right way to be.

I would likely see the world that way were I athletic and or tall, the upper echelon of manliness. It seems a great place to be.

The PB exist because they think like dicks. They are the old bigoted uncle at the family gathering who talks of times when men were men which meant anyone who was not was of secondary worth.

If you cling to your identity as a man first then no one else is people. Think like a person first, just try it, and I think you'll like it.

And no one has to hit you until you can name five cereals and you're free to gratify yourself again. Seriously, guys, you're doubling your prostate cancer chance by doing that. And once your prostate goes that's it for sex for you.

The Proud Boys; proudly ignorant of society and the body both.

Friday, May 25, 2018

Boil respite

The ever boil was lanced and gunk shot out the side and top. The during was the worst part, for the fucker had risen to where nerve endings are and the squeeze pain was exquisite. So intense that after it stopped, and the area now drained was less hurty than before, that I got an epic post-pain high. I keep walking around marvelling at just how fucking painful that was but that it's not happening now. It's like I'm happy saying "Jesus, how fucked was that?!" and feeling it too.

The ever boil; proof positive that something awful happening that then stops is better than something happening that is nice.

I feel like a high five is owed. Woooooooo!

The dissociation state

Sometimes when you have OCPD, PTSD, anxiety and depression and you go for a ride and a think you may end up in a state of dissociation

I had one on the lake ride, with angry crying and carrying a crippling amount of emotional baggage. I suspect it was triggered by seeing shitty parenting on TV then riding near my psychologist's where last session I'd spoken of what it was like to want to die as a child and you welcomed it. I told of the time I was coming back from a school trip on a minibus, with my head rested against a window, just thinking if I died now what a relief that would be.

I felt that way because I was made to feel that way; I got negged at home, on the bus, at school then on the bus then at home again. There was no place of safety unless I made one in my own head. 

I cried, swallowed by the hurt of a fucked childhood crippled by sneering arrogance and bullying then copping it as an adult in the workplace. It was all I could do to calmly restate that I was well, that no one could hurt me and that I am my own true person.

And I'm not passing that crap on. Never and no way. 

So fuck them and fuck my past. Fuck every single person who hurt me with malicious glee. I am not you and I am still here in spite of you.

WFTW.

Talisman lookalikes

The alchemist looks like my friend A---.

The urchin looks like a guy I went to the all boys Dickensian fuckthemupforlife factory with.

And the person on the ring of protection card looks like Will Ferrell.

If you play it long enough these things become clear.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Thursday, May 24, 2018

PTSD and hot water bottles

I spent five minutes with my left hand under cold running water then rested the burned fingers in a plastic cup of water as well. It was only quick thinking that avoided blisters.

My right hand had been shaking as the also shaking left hand held the bottle and that's how I came to pour boiling water on my fingers. That's down to the PTSD and meds.

Workplace mental health injury can lead to actual physical injury.

Isn't that a delight?!

It's not; it's fucked.

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Due south of ALDI

That's where my pants went in the ALDI carpark and it was only my jacket tail that kept my tail from view. 

It was a risk to go out in short shorts and PJs in that both systems could fail if they went below my waistline and that's exactly what happened.

Fortunately no one noticed.

I can only imagine tne horror of what it does look like.

Forgot about the head wound

Wait, what?

Forgot about the head wound

I bent to gather skin shards from the carpet from my juddering attempts to stop picking my feet now I've stopped going at my face---the habit just went somewhere it cannot be seen.

As I stood up my right forehead crunched into a projecting cupboard edge.

It felt as it it had impaled my head in the second it happened but it was just an ouch and no blood. I looked in the mirror but couldn't see damage.

So I forgot about it until I happened to touch the spot and felt the egg and scratch I got from the attack. It throbbed for a bit.

Stupid me. I pick my feet and then clock myself in the noggin; broken brain leads to a semi-rent scalp. It's head on head action for me.

If this is a simulation I want my money back.

Gave a chicken a haircut

The brown Silkie's feathers were obscuring her vision—her feathers like thick hair to the look and touch. She kept getting hassled by the others and I figured it was 'cos they could sneak up on her. 

I've never given a chicken a haircut before; it's not a bucket list thing—it's just a thing. But still, not something you usually do. 

I'm Just Cuts for hens—plus I then sold her a ridonk amount of product at 40 per cent above retail.

Stupid chicken.

Two chemtrails and a waxing moon

It was a clear mid-afternoon when I set out and I came back in the hour before dusk where all is in stark relief, shadows stretching. The sky held a waxing moon and though the first chemtrail wasn't headed in the direction it felt for a moment I was in the twenty-first century the twentieth envisioned with rockets to the moon—a moon where you could see the shadow of the full sphere. Then another trail, another rocket taking flight.

I was pumped for being outside on a grotesquely beautiful Canberra day and the trike chain only came off twice. I had happy jitters—if that's a thing—so it took five minutes each time to get the chain back on. But, fucking hell, it was so nice and even though squatting with a big tum is never fun once it was done it was okay.

When you spend a life locked in a body that feels sometimes a prison it's days like this where you feel free.

WFTW.

Twirl advert fail

I saw a 15 second ad for the Cadbury Twirl. It featured an attractive woman in a subway car peeling the plastic away to reveal the Twirl's sexy sides, pulling out one or both of the bars up and then taking a bite. Then she's suddenly transported via chocolate-infused near instant onset hallucinogens to sitting on the back of a carousel horse as the carousel goes around.

Also she's now wearing a beautiful yellow dress and the Twirl is still in her hand.

I call bullshit. Even in the depths of the most severe hallucination anyone knows Twirls are crumbly as fuck and there's a fair chance shards may fall onto your clothing. And if it's anything like a choc top from the movies when it drops one on you it will melt there. 

That bright yellow dress be fucked—probably forever. All because of her Cadbury Twirl.

The Twirl; it's a nice choccie—but it's not for hotties, especially in dresses. 

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

Discharge

I got a result off the delve and was not expecting it. I got lost in an immediate return to the horror and my brain erupted on the quiet. I started crying, not big sobs, just tears running down my face. I've been steeped in it for so long that to get a result has made me happy and deepy wretched. It's an insane reaction to have. To get a return ping that was not unpositive and was not expected; it's like I've been screaming into the dark and a tiny voice said back "hello?"

A weird, horrid, wonderful, dark surprise.

It's WTF meets WFTW; a bizarre state to be in.

Post delve dreaming

The dream was a cacophony of horror involving work, childhood and trying to meet a deadline without having started the project. It was as if yesterday's active thinking and reflection was put into a blender then poured into my subconscious.

I woke in a state of anxiety, immediately sorted out a business hours issue and only then processed what happened. I ended up taking a Valium and curled up with a hot water bottle, a cat and Netflix. 

I need to avoid churning on the day before and the dreams I had. I'm already a sausage; let's not think how I was made.

The workplace mental health injury---your brain is branded forever more.

Monday, May 21, 2018

Tomes re-opened

In every attempt to delve into the horrors of Cthulhu mythos there's likely something you missed the first time round. You may have to do a re-read; make another roll to research it right. 

Then take a whack to your Sanity percentage. Once you're at zero per cent your player character is now a non-player character which the game master will decide to use as they wish.

I had to deep dive in to correct some things then found another set of books under a shelf I missed and cracked those open. 

It wasn't quite "Open the Ark of the Covenant" scary—no Gestapo-face melting for me. But I was two hours in before I got out and had to leave the shed where I worked because I was so worked up.

I took two V and went on an outside ride with a saggy chain that came off seven times. I had to walk the trike more than once when the electric motor could not carry me alone. At one point I was scooting with the tips of my crocs with just enough power for a slow walk. 

That ended with me getting off and pushing it. 

So tomes re-opened and some more found. Two hours in then I fucked off for a ride knowing that my chain would come off and accepting that would be true. 

Seven times. I counted. 

I didn't have a fit or chunk a mental about it; thanks to CBT, pre-acceptance and the letter V (x2). My return home was semi-amusing, difficulty of the end part and all. I arrived home on the thinnest of power left. It felt like a quest and I had kicked snot.

The beauty of the day stole my mind from the horror and my worries about travel took over from any thoughts of research re-researched. So happy and annoyed is not a bad result after being in the mental health equivalent of an MRAP that took a copper-headed IED which hits at three kilometres a second. I'm rattled but not mega-rattled. 

The MRAP's fucked, though. They typically are. But they do their job which is to keep a crew alive when someone tries to kill them that way. CBT is my MRAP and it saved me again.

WFTW.

Saturday, May 19, 2018

The finger test

This morning I held my hand up and watched to see what it do. Within seconds it happened, my index finger twitched. It kicked up just enough that if I was holding something but not gripping with intent then I would have dropped it. I waited to see if it would happen again and there was another after thirty seconds.

Close up observed finger betrayal. If we were a guerrilla movement my index finger would cop one in the back of the middle knuckle for being a government spy. 

Then I got up and moved on with my life. I'm still alive and I should not be. If the price to pay are occasional bursts of fight flight and random onset of momentary finger failure I'm okay with that.

It's amazing how satisfying a wonky life is when you've nearly lost it so many times.

WFTW.

Screed read

I was reading about the alt-right, a bubble of white who think they are a race by dint of the presence of all colours, and decided to plough through Elliot Rodger's "manifesto". ER was a 22-year-old who shot some people and ran them down with a car in 2014 because of his feelings about the world and what it owed to him.

It was a dense read and took a few hours but there were some take-aways from it.

First sorry to his victims and all the hurt for my reading his tome. I hate that his success at terrorism means it exists and that I read it.

Second, there were surprisingly few typos. 

Third, if I didn't know it was real I'd have sworn it was parody; Poe's law in action.

He was a deeply sad person but deeply, profoundly narcissistic. His entire worldview centred on self and that the rest of the world existed for his presence. And when his greatness didn't fire, which including attempts at bending the universe to his will by winning the lottery through psychic concentration, then he started down the path to "the Day". In his final section he laid out his intent on who to kill which included his younger half brother because he had likely touched a girl where ER last had friendly female contact in about year seven where he got to hold a girl as they danced. Then cue the megasads because girls did not like him even though he dyed his hair, learned to skateboard and had fine clothing.

He had a complex about his height and it was a fair complaint since short people get the shaft---in a masculine-focussed worldview your physical stature matters. But apart from that his body worked, he was not unattractive, it's just that he had a crippling mental disorder combined with a toxic body-centric fixation and an incapacity to relate to women as people. His sense of grandiosity was in no way belighed by skill or talent---a fact he noted more than once. How could he, meant for great things, not have sexy time with gurls?

The biggest stand out---apart from a severe strain of racism---was the expectation he put on his mother that she had failed him by not getting the wealthy men she dated to marry her. More than once he notes he told her that she needed to marry a rich man to improve his ability to get willing acceptance of ladies to have at his virgin junk.

And yes I empathised with him, which is what a terrorist wants, because his failure to have girls like him was my journey too--only he didn't have the added difficulty of a shit body. 

He was messianic, fucked-up person whose self-sads grew so toxic that he wanted a Columbine-style ending. And he failed; he set a big target number of victims and was convinced his now bound-for-glory ending would result in wiping out a frat house of the hottest of girls who didn't know he existed but was defeated in his quest by their not answering their door for the few minutes he knocked before giving up and shooting randos outside instead and then running down a bunch of other people who had done nothing to him.

It should also be noted he gave serious thought to obtaining dictator status and having a big tower he could sit in while watching mass torture with the height of his structure affording a greater field of view of the proceedings.

He doesn't call himself a "supreme gentlemen" in his screed, he called himself that in the accompanying YouTube video he uploaded just before his special day kicked off.

His delusion that his admitted behviour in said screed afforded him the right to say that again underlines the crippling narcissism that destroyed his life, the lives of his family and the lives of the families who lost people and the people he wounded but did not kill.

At no point did he consider what if he had been born a woman and had to navigate a world where he existed as a her; he thought of them as aliens whose motivations were always shallow.

It wasn't a waste of time to read; I got a better hook on his mindset and how it translated to committing an act of terror. But that there are sad men out there who hate that girls don't like them that look to him as an exemplar is fucked up. Women don't exist for our benefit and if we were them then we would want full autonomy of being as well.

You don't choose your body, your brain, your parents, your gender identity or your sexual orientation. But to expect that people you want to fuck owe it to you is delusion. To hate them for not giving it to you is self-defeating. I had a body that was not great and I loathed that girls did not find me appealing. Hell, I was mad at the universe from 10 onward because the normal world did not like me and I presumed most people found my being not wanted.

But I never presumed I was owed anything; that my sheer presence on the planet was the reason for its being.

Elliot Rodger did. And if you read his screed and think he was right then, mate, you're not. Because all you have to do is this; ask yourself "What if I were a woman?"

The key test

All I had to do to leave for the night was to lock the shed door. I picked up the key, walked three steps then my fingers opened and the key dropped.

I spent the next 20 minutes looking for it, crying as I did because my injury stole my hands from me. It was 20 minutes that ended with me asking for assistance to find it having moved all the furniture aside and fruitlessly dragging an envelope opener between the slab and shed wall because that seemed to be the only place it could have gone.

It had fallen into the overhanging fold of plastic bag that lined the bin, a bin I moved after checking it wasn't in there. 

Between the asking for assist and the find I was sent to get a Valium and kept apologising for my inability to hold an object unless I concentrate.

My fine motor skills were stolen from me by my injury. I predicted a cook off and it happened and it happened because I dropped something.

As noted workplace mental injury blows goats; I just proved it by crying for dropping a fucking key and for the not being able to find it.

Friday, May 18, 2018

The paper test

I have a day calendar in the shed that is A6 in size, about that of a hand.

A mental health nurse friend told me one of their diagnostics was the paper test where you drape a sheet of paper over a hand and watch it to determine if the person has hand tremours. 

I put yesterday's calendar page on my right hand and willed my hand to still.

I could not. Though it didn't fall the page lightly danced atop my quivering hand.

It's fucked having your body betray you. It's not its fault---it's from meds and injury---but that you cannot do some things---or will be doing something then inexplicably stop doing it such as be holding something and just dropping it because your fingers sprang open of their own seeming will---is maddening.

I had a poor grip before injury, but I could pick an item up and know it would stay held. Now unless I actively concentrate on holding it I know not.

But I can't will the tremours away and five years on from copping one in the neck for Oz it's likely my forever.

Workplace mental injury blows goats; I am proof.

Post psych shakes

It's common to have an uptick in symptoms the day after a psych chat, especially when you have to talk horrors like the recent deep delve and a side convo about childhood molestation ... at the hands of a psychologist.

I had to do a DASS again, the 42 one, and it was mostly a result of "1" where you sometimes experience the symptom. There was one "3" which is always which is hand tremour. It's always there, even on good days. I'm not flailing about as though the hands were shot up with novocaine but there's a fine tremble or quiver. Even with total concentration I cannot stop them from doing it. It's worse today, because of the psych visit, and I suspect my startle reflex is up and if something startles me I may have a full on illogical anxiety attack. One where my lizard brain is shrieking at me to run even though all that has happened may have been a one off sudden noise like a wooden door closing with wind assist.

I know I am safe. I know I am well. But I have the dreads and my tremble is trembling.

That's what it is to live with a workplace mental injury; it's with you for fucking ever after.

The childhood molestation part didn't help either. Typical, the first time anyone wants to touch my junk and it was a middle-aged short fat man with a beard.

Thanks, Universe, and well played.

UPDATE: I stupidly agreed to play Carcassonne with someone with the flu. Their coughing and sniffling kept firing my lizard brain and in the end we had to quit. He tried his best to dampen the noise but he was sick and could not. And because I was fresh off the raw brutality of the psych session I was over reacting. Well, not "I", as in conscious me; it was the lizard brain. 

I suspected it would happen—my startle reflex would fire up—and boy howdy did it fire the fuck up.  And all it took was being next to someone with the fucking flu. 

Hooray for a workplace mental injury—it's the gift that keeps on giving. 

Thursday, May 17, 2018

I just want to say...

It was at the end of the meeting when I stood up intending to thank people for all their efforts.

I wear my pants high, above my waist, and it was an elasticated waist band. As I stood and spoke I could feel them slip. 

So I announced to the room "I just want to say ... my pants are falling down" as I then clutched them before they dropped then pulled them back up past my waist. 

Everyone laughed, as well they should, and I still got to thank the people I wanted to thank. But it was a classic Mikey moment; to stand up then, begin a short speech by letting everyone know I was suffering a wardrobe malfunction in real time.

(bows deeply).

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

Heads of state in a twitter feud

Well it happened, heads of state have had a twitter fight. In this case it was Turkey V Israel's HoS, neither of which are known for their restraint.

Seriously, it has come to this, a twitter beef. Adios, previous means of ensuring pleasant co-existence through normative diplomacy.

Were there telegram beefs with hostile grams sent at each other back in the day? YOU ARE A TOOL (stop) YOU IS MAD DISRESPECTIN ME (stop) HOWS I DROP ONE ON YA (stop) KIND REGARDS BELGIUM (stop).

No, there were not. Mind you, the twentieth century had its moments---like the time the then Russian head of state at the UN expressed anger via shoe.

UPDATE: technically the HoS for Israel is the President and thus was not a party; it was the PM (effectively HoS). I'm glad I cleared that up.

Trump Cancer

Trump, politically, is an excited malign growth that has taken over the GOP. He owns their base and thus their balls and lady-not-balls.

This recent Politico piece,"Trump gives senators a lesson on how to filibuster", shows how that works when the GOP face off in a room with him.

What I fully love is that he took just two questions in the hour long meet then fucked off.

It reminded me again of this bit from The Simpsons when Krusty speed delivers his Talking Krusty Doll lines then leaves before the technican can even respond.

Trump University should have been a major red flag for these people; maybe Trump Cancer will?

Sigh

Experts: moving the US embassy to Jerusalem, half of which was seized from Jordan by Israel in the Six Day War, will cause unrest. People will die.

Trump: fuck them, what do I care?

(Unrest occurs and people die)

Right wing media: they brought it on themselves. How dare they protest overt US recognition that Israel owns all of Jerusalem both in deed and fact?

Experts: ...

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Soy fish

How did it get into the pen? Did someone chuck it over the fence? Did the chickens do a breakout, steal money from my wallet then go get sushi?

I suppose it's not as weird as the rubber Darth Vader head I found that time—it's staring at me as I type and now I've noticed that I have to move it ... there, I put it on the bobble head I have of Hawkeye. They look like they're in a symbiotic partnership.

Anyway, the empty soy fish—a thumb-length transparent hollow plastic fish with a red cap nose that holds soy sauce—it's in the pen and since it has not been eaten then I can presume it can stay there safely breaking down in that pen for the next 1000 years. 

It turned out the fourth Reich was my chicken pen—who'd have thought it? I bet it's going to make those 14 and 88 people have sads.

It would also explain why Reinhard Heydrich was hiding in the big hutch. I had to swat him out with the straw end of a broom; "Go on, get out of it ya mucky sociopathic catalyst of industrial genocide!"

Sunday, May 13, 2018

Toilet reflection

I sat on the closed toilet to blow my nose then remained in the dark, door open, thinking about Mothers Day and what that means to me. My son walked past to get the shared wooden back scratcher from the study bookshelf and he re-affirmed it. His mother loves him to hurting point; even when annoyed there is no fear of abandonment, shame or distance. I didn't have that but he has and that's the important thing.

As parents we keep what worked but we've done our best to fuck off the smug entitlement and ownership mentality; if we fight we make peace. We don't leave a child sobbing in the dark from lack of love.

That was my journey but it is not his. I take comfort in that; it's quiet revenge against how to be a bullying emasculating shit.

Mothers Day; the future is bright---and the past can go fuck itself right in its own earhole. 

You heard me; the other ear still works.

Wrong timeline pulse

I just had a stabbing moment of shifting uncertainty that we are in the wrong timeline; that somehow Trump is president. That it feels so wrong like a rip in spacetime wrong. 

It's magical thinking; we're just sentient meat on a rock billions of years old. To the universe we're of less interest that an ants nest at a building site. We're not special in celestial terms for it to owe us a re-do but it still feels wrong. Like "crime against time" wrong. Did some future fuckhole come back to 2016 to do it? He didn't collude with Russians but time travellers?

In Fire and Fury it is said Melania cried the night they won. Not tears of joy but for what her Dorito-beau would do and what it would do to her. Maybe she got the pulse then; that it all seems so wrong?

Magical thinking I know. He won because of a blend of factors one of which was to be his true bloviating self. People admired his certainty and promises of turning back globalisation even as the rest of the world moves on, such as his consumer-hurting tariffs and hard limits on immigration, even temporary legal visitors who do the actual hard work of farm labour. 

The wrong trouser of time; that's what it feels like. But, like Hitler, we grit our teeth and bear it. His time is finite. But then we never thought someone like him could get in. If he had time travel assistance and his doctor said he had a 200 year lifespan and ... no ... I am doing it again and presuming it's a temporal tear that could be time-fixed.

Fucking hell. For someone who loves good government as much as me it's like being a proud holder of stock in the Zeppelin company after the Hindenburg news has broken.

"I tell ya, kid, the future is up, up and away with airships! Wait, what's that? Turn the radio up."

Oh the technocracy! (Institutional governance burns)

That's how it goes

I love government; love it. I love the positive power a dedicated servant of government can have if they have the wind behind their backs. Good government is and always striving to do government better, in times of union with their rulers of the day, or in the dark times when politics makes good government treacherously difficult.

I read a bunch about Trump before he got in. He was and is the most offensive of creatures to government: a rich person who suborns it.

He's doing it now, with shameless abandon, because he won office as a foul mouthed rich man and to expect him to not do that in office is insane.

Trump's life was only possible because he and his father suborned government to their personal benefit to secure real estate deals and in doing so deliberately put the boot on the necks of people of colour who needed housing. Their cunning code on the application form was an added "C" for coloured so they would be rejected or directed to lower-standard housing where other "C" people were sent.

A rich arsehole with no experience in government except in breaking it took over from Obama, a methodical technocrat whose life was soaked in a need to look after people he did not know.

There will always be a fat chunk of America that will support Trump or the next one along. The same way there are people convinced they have interacted with a religious figure or have been body snatched and had rectal-based probing adventures with beings from other worlds. It's the same in Oz. 

But it doesn't mean they are right and probs help us all if a rich stupid fuckwit gets into high office and who uses their station to pimp their shit.

Good luck, America. Here's hoping the antibodies kick in for the midterms.

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Fridge surprise

Sodastream bottles have changed; they look like sort of a genie lamp with a transparent middle and thick white plastic at the top and bottom. 

It was empty when it fell out as I opened the door but the bottom end of the bottle landed edge on to where my big toe meets the foot. I yelled "FUCK" loudly. 

Surprise!

Thanks, fridge.