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.

Shit sleep

I was severely constipated and could not sleep after I woke at one thirty am until three or later. I redid my hot water bottle twice and munged more meds until sleep won over pain. Then "NIGHTMARES! NIGHTMARES! NIGHTMARES!" until waking. I was at least able to go after a false start. 

The after glow of pain is still firing through my system, from my abdomen and my head. No one in pain has good dreams unless their pain is so well managed that they punch through to the other side and bliss. I'm guessing they must be fucking awesome dreams like where they are Jesus and flying like Superman.

The shit sleep; if you can't shit your sleep will be shit.

This has been "Fun with IBS".

Sunday, June 10, 2018

Chickens, magpies and parrots

In the one moment within a dozen feet of me I had three types of bird life around. Some of the chickens were trying broccoli bits, the magpies were chasing the parrots. The only ones who gave a shit about me as a being worth knowing were the chickens who did not like the broccoli bits and were pissed off.

That's a lot of avians for one small Mikey; lucky I'm not Tippie Hedren.

PTSD and boisterous singing

It's a fact that if you're the cause of noise that you're less likely to cook off your PTSD startle reflex, the onset of fight flight when a sudden loud noise happens because for you it's not sudden. When I'm in a good mood I sometimes sing and sing loudly just because. It's normal. Many people do it. theboy's been learning to sing and play "Rocking Robin", a go to standard in primary school when teaching the basics of music. It's also catchy as fuck and a total earworm.

And if your startle reflex is up and someone unexpectedly starts singing "Rocking Robin" with the sudden noise perceived differently depending on where the burst occurs when sung it will get triggered. I had to remote myself behind a closed door.

It's fucked you don't do it to yourself if you sing; it's unfair your ingrained habit doesn't afflict you but the exact same habit in someone else makes your brain prep for a defense response and floods you with adrenaline and dread.

Exposure therapy in the long term for that is the way ahead for sudden noise but I am nowhere near that stage of treatment yet; it's just too fucking scary.

That's how it is with a psychological injury; sudden bursts of song get you headed for a bunker.

This has been "Fun with PTSD".

Stinging may occur in deep cracks

I had abraided layers of skin across the middle of my soles with exposed new or gouged inner layers open. To arrest my attempts at picking foot skin we put heel balm on.

There's a line on the back of the tube about stinging---see header---but I didn't read it. So when it was applied it was spread richly over the entire craters of both feet. I thought the stinging would die down but it sped up. With haste I made it to the shower and realised the pH of the balm was nastily either side of water so I dropped a face flannel over the drain to puddle up the shower well to bring my feet as close to seven as chemically possible. That meant having to march in place, splosh, splosh, splosh, so the bottom of my feet would connect with water each time and hopefully take some of the sting off. It took about two minutes to clear the balm from the afflicted zone of "most of each underside".

The fail is mine; I picked my feet. The heel balm would work on dry not-picked feet. That is what it is meant for. It was a good idea to do it, it stopped the rigid skin that feels good to pick, but at the cost of burning feet I had to dance-douse off in the shower. 

I liken it to the nasty pet duck experience; that happened, now we know better, let's never have a pet duck again. But, holy shit, that was epic while it lasted.

I have the relief of pain relieved. Pain stopped glows hotter than nice things had; that's fucked up, no wonder people hurt themselves.

Saturday, June 09, 2018

Legit day off

It's gotten harder as I've aged to maintain a daily hour of exercise as rigid as an exercise bike on medium resistance. Some days I ride the BYB instead, some days I have to have off. 

The 18-chain-put-back-on efforts with the BYB with sumo wrestler like squatting as I faced off with PTSD V sprocket und chain meant strained thighs and my body says to take a day of rest. I feel guilty but it's a legit day off so less guilty for the self-imposed regime of an hour a day. 

So I don't have to do it; my body says no. But will my mind agree? I don't know.

UPDATE: I decided to do just ten minutes and ended up doing 10.5 kays and 32 minutes—so I compromised and did a half day. The top part of my body felt great, the breathing and heart pound, the bottom half was not happy and sore thighs were made more sore. It's like I'm a paintaur; half man, half "why, Universe, why?!"

I had a recent think on my physical and mental dross and I realised it's distilled me into the essence of nuggety fuck—and it's nuggety fucks that get things done.  

I caught sight of my be-suited self before an interview and I felt that then; that I am a nuggety fuck. 

Omega yes; nuggety for sure—nuggety fucks. 

Friday, June 08, 2018

Assassinated the Assassin and was then assassinated

I was playing the Talisman Ap game with the City expansion and had the Warrior armed with two stilettos. I landed on the AI Assassin who had one life and double stabbed him since the W can use two weapons at once. Stupidly I got down to three lives and the only remaining player was the AI Highlander, a wealthy Scotsman able to afford the maximum three lives taken you can opt for when you pull the Assassin Stranger card who will do an opponent for one gold per life.

That Highlander was going to get his kilt taken to the cleaners from all the double stab blood from my double stabbing but he triple stabbed me first.

Only in Talisman---and big ups to the Nomad crew for the recent update. So good.

Cracked the record

On an 12 kay round trip on the BYB I had to put the chain back on 18 times. Sometimes it worked straight off, other times it took two or three goes. Each attempt meant tipping it on its side then lifting it back up. The teeth on the sprocket look worn; I suspect it's just physics and me wearing parts of a machine before its time—just like my real life body only I was assembled with less care than a three wheeled bicycle.

I admit I raged at the bike and kicked it at least twice. I can't squat without effort and my stomach gets in the way when trying to get the chain back on. It's like a challenge from fucking Survivor but for sub-Davids; the ones that struggle to do basic things like put on short shorts without falling over (so many near falls putting on short shorts). 

It threatened rain and because I gave up multiple times the battery ran super low and turned off up hill so there was some pushing ... then I'd get the shits, put the chain on, ride it perhaps a dozen metres and it would fall off again. 

The chain was off for more times than it was on. Incredibly it stayed on after the last time when I got home. 

I achieved my mission though, to get an industrial strength micro-USB to USB cable because all the ones I've had have died—at least six cables failed through normal use. And it's because I bought cheap pieces of shit whose ability to flex and not break internally was low.

This cable has got a wiry metal like casing; I have much hope for it.

Because the last thing I want to do is go back to return a fucking cable on a bicycle that's also intermittently failing.


Thursday, June 07, 2018

Worm's eye view

I don't get the appeal of the penis but that's okay, there are plenty of people that do. But if you do happen to see one in go mode typically you see it from above or to the side. It's rare to get a worm's eye view of a dick because of the shooting angle and I presume lack of interest for seeing it from the ground up.

Thankfully someone thought of this hole in penile representation and under an overpass sprayed the outline of an erect cock plus two balls but with the circles for balls on top meaning the penis was to be thought of from that below to up angle. 

What I love the most about this particular penis is that some time after the initial shaft and balls were scrawled they, or someone else, like days or weeks later, came along to add some veins and hair.

It's that little bit extra that I appreciate. They looked at their cock pic underside shot and thought "we can do better".

I look forward to the pic gaining additional features over time such as a piercing, a tatt or a terrarium. Hey, just because it's the two dimensional depiction of the underside of a penis and scrote doesn't mean it can't have interests like mini-habitats for reptiles or amphibians.

Four hour nightmare

I didn't get to sleep before five and when I did it was all mare of night. Because I cannot have good dreams; they were stolen from me.

It's fucked, that's all there is to it. I couldn't sleep because of rage at a life I did not get and the one I got in its place. Every aspect of my life has been affected by my odd appearance with reduced capability and weird personality---the first I didn't choose, the latter afflicted by the former. Perhaps I am not a man because I never was. Oh, I have a penis, but I don't have a body or mind that is "man normal".

So to expect me to be a normal man, hell, boy, was utter fallacy; but I got bullied and rejected for it by kith, kin and strangers.

I spent my life being sneered at as worthless and I took that abnegation on board; why wouldn't I think of myself as a piece of shit when it seemed the whole world did?

Somehow I got through that still living and did things no one else could. And being forced to be a person first enabled that to happen. 

The cost was my sanity but a cost worth paying---and I'd still accept it given the choice; what I did with my shitty bod was too important not to.

But the deep sad and broken part of me does not feel that way and in my dreams he rules the sleep.

I get nightmares that are fully expected and reasonable for what I went through. Anyone who got a sketch of my life would get it. 

But it's a wounded animal, dream brain, and his ability to howl sads to me when I sleep colours how I feel and act when awake.

I couldn't get to sleep because I was mad. I was mad from having a 13 hour nightmare that sat on me before. Maybe it was the same fucking nightmare and all that happened was a break of me being awake until I returned to it?

I tried to be well before sleep, to think of bounties I've had, of help I have given, but rage at past fuckery dominated then fuelled what came next.

I will likely sleep during the day as I still crave sleep. I hope for once it's dream free because do good dreams actually ever exist? I don't know; I can't ever think of one I had.

Wednesday, June 06, 2018

13 hour nightmare

I woke once or twice for the toilet but each time I returned to it. I can't recall it but I woke with the dreads and jitters, with the horrid feeling I fucked up and let people down. I know it involved my working life and family and me being bullied. I woke with a start at the end, the aftermath cloaked over as the substance of the dream evaporated but left a sludge behind.

That's life with a workplace mental health injury; sleep is no escape.

Tuesday, June 05, 2018

Murder name

I'm watching a MURDER! investigation TV series where the victim's name is Mikey. That is the first nickname I ever truly loved---I've had it the longest---but it's not an everyday type name to hear.

I keep wincing as the show progresses; no one likes hearing they've been murdered.

UPDATE: Wait, someone else was murdered but I was the one that should have gone. I have literally dodged a bullet ... if I was in that show and you accepted causality would have applied for the different choice of victim. Was it meant for me? I'll find out. It feels a bit like Cluedo where you're the murderer all along.

Murder. There, I've said that enough. It's not a nice word. Neither is murderer or "Tremulous Brown". That last one's not from the show, I just threw it in. But could he be a murder suspect too?

Muuuuuuurder; once more with emphasis on the "u".

Words; what fun!

Monday, June 04, 2018

One ping back

Solo man style bureaucracy kayaking has resulted in one ping back. It may be nothing but it's something---and it happened because of effort. You don't get a ping back unless you send one out.

Office inner space WFTW.

PS I call bullshit on the carefree intake of the Solo when you have a mo that bushy; I once had to be cut free from a can.

Feedback acknowledged

I had a chance for more windmill fixing and I heard the windmill company had a suggestion box bolted to the door. Having already tried for several years to get fixes done I went up to the box and stuffed some in.

I got confirmation they were recieved and will be added to the pile of possible positive solutions.

That's never really happened before; for someone to say "thanks" and they'll take ideas on board. They were well-crafted suggestions, I'll give myself that, but never did I expect acknowledgement and a possible yes to the ideas being considered.

I feel like a dog that caught the car it was chasing. Now what? Did that actually happen? What does this mean?

Happily flummoxed; that's how I feel.


Sunday, June 03, 2018

Insta-kill of a large spider and a line of stirges

I'm running theboy through a solo D&D 3.5 game, he has an NPC fighter with him, but because he's new to it and because he was a dwarven wizard and we had a fig of one with a flaming club I started him off with a club that could cast scorching ray three times a day.  

This session he insta-killed the large-sized spider that he, the NPC and three goblin allies were set up to take out and his readied action with the ray got a nat 20 with a confirmed crit. He was the first to act. Adios, spider.

On the way out four stirges came flying in and he nat 20 critted the first for so much damage I decided it had fed on whale, was rich with blubber, and caused a cascading series of stirge explosions as each next in the line blew.

Smoked stirges were crisped and left behind as the dungeon was exited. The goblins, with dreams of civilisation, were forced to live in the dungeon needing a hundred gold each to pay a bond to enter the city. They had money left over from entry to get apprenticeships to a legal firm specialising in maritime law (and have exp to get a level in Expert), but in time they will strike out and set up offices in their own names of "Rock, Stone and Pebble".

This is now the third set of critter/s he has taken out with scorching nat 20s, the first a dire badger.

So when he did it to the giant arachnid I said "I can't believe you dire badgered my spider".

Only in D&D.