Wednesday, October 31, 2018

One tried to eat me

One of the chickens tried to eat me. She jumped up and bit my right middle knuckle, I presume because she thinks I am part food. There are animals who can be partially food such as lizards that can drop their tail but I am not like that. Unless they're into hair and nails then there's nothing else I consider they could have from my person.

If I pass out in the pen then I shudder to think what will be gotten to while I lie defenceless. Will I try to open my eyes and find they're no longer there?

Vicious poultry, just vicious. Anyone can see that except for those without eyes due to chickens.

Tuesday, October 30, 2018

PTSD likes women's clothes

I don't tap online ads save by accident and thanks to PTSD and meds for PTSD my fingers flick open of their own accord. Or stab downwards when surfing with a tablet.

Because I've tapped on that ad twice I now see it populated across other sites in addition to the site I was reading.

They objectively look like nice clothes though as a potato man they'd be no good on me. They're for long slender gals.

My PTSD also likes short shorts; it has eclectic taste.

Paging Dr. Cohen

In almost every tragedy there are moments of hope, that a lesson may get learned from it such as in the Pittsburgh shooting in the reaction of the community affected.

Human caused tragedy oft means a counter force so strong it defies motion. To treat the alleged synagogue shooter with professional compassion shows their best against that man's worst.

Big ups to Pittsburgh and all who sail within.

Saved a mermaid

She fell off a shelf and onto the floor, brushed from her perch by a passer-by. Even though bending is a hassle I bent and got her then put her back.

It mattered fuck all in the scheme of things but it mattered to me that toy mermaid plushie could get wrecked and that whoever got her would be sad at the grime on her body.

I pay a cost to bend; it hurts to do it. But if not me then who?

That's why.

Monday, October 29, 2018

Pwned by grand dame

We were at a gathering when powerhouse host pointed at us and said "now none of your dungeon talk!"

It was only after she said "or your dragons" when we realised she was teasing us for being D&D players for 30+ years of life; for we'd outed that we were players (still) at a previous event and she pwned us by remembering that and using it against us.

I've been playing Baldurs Gate II obsessively so the first thing I said was "I'm a twenty-second level mage."

I was wrong; it turned out I was a dual class level six thief slash twenty-third level mage but in the moment it was a near-truth marred by an error in fact.

That stands in stark contrast to Donald Trump who just bragged that not only did the stock exchange open the next day after 911 so did major league baseball. Except they didn't; they took six days

He was right in spirit but super wrong on fact. It's his truthful hyperbole at play; there's a kind of truth even though it's bullshit in that it feels true, and should be, but it's not and never was. 

The fact they only lost mere daya after such an event is a miracle in of itself. It showed the resilience of New York after a knife to the heart. 

Trump as a realtor got compensated for incurring good will costs hosting displaced people and providing succor to businesses around the city affected by the act. Only he didn't really have any

But this is a man who once walked into an event for a children with AIDS charity, climbed on stage to sit with the VIPs who were being thanked for their support, then did photos and left having not only not donated but not been invited

You can't make that shit up. That someone who did that got to be president.

He's the real life equivalent of a child of Bhaal. 


Sunday, October 28, 2018

Scaring of younger men

Once you've been in the adult world a while the age differences vanish; you can be in your forties and have friends in your thirties even though at school you were just leaving as they were still in kindy.

Time is unkind to us all. Our bodies degrade as they age and things start happening.

Someone was turning forty and the older ones felt the need to share what happens to your balls. 

"They keep dropping," I said, "And they can be sat on or squeezed to the side if you sit wrong."

Another was how your scrotum lengthens and it's more likely to stick to an inner thigh and, as getting out of a vinyl chair in Summer, it makes a nasty noise and does not feel right when you detach. 

I noted that scrotal sag means you can fold up a small toy in it and see the impression of the toy through the stretched out skin. 

These are things that need to be said; that your balls will age in unpleasant ways and that it's not just an aesthetic blow but a serious physical issue.

To sit on or side smash your now saggier balls is not fun; balls hurt when struck and your scrotum and gravity means they end up in the way. Imagine a matador who swaps out his cape for a tablecloth then discovers the bull is more likely to hit it and you get the idea. 

The running of the bulls; people have had injuries to balls from bulls since that tradition gored off. 

If you're hitting your forties then your balls degrade. Accept it and get used to moving them out of the way of animals or small children; they will hit you there. 

Friday, October 26, 2018

Cat's paw into belly button

That's a first for me, a strike to the belly button from a cat, and it hurt. She didn't jab it; she lay on me and a forepaw slipped in and then she pressed down. I felt a nerve fire down and burst out through my groin.

It was unpleasant. Not as unpleasant as a poke from theboy but hurty nonetheless.

Cats, a threat to the BB so B.b. beware.

UPDATE: ... and then she trod on my balls...

Thursday, October 25, 2018

Angry lake ride

I'd just set out to do to the bridge and back but, fuck it, kept going and did the lake. As typical I was angry and lapsed into a rant about crap. Now my knee is sore from doing too much too quickly.

I got angry at being fucked before I drew breath. I recently read a line about nature and nurture, that genetics loads the gun and the environment pulls the trigger. In my case it was pulled in the womb and I came out broken.

I didn't have a fucking chance; I was fucked before I came out. I try to fall back on the fact I am who I am because my flaws make me sing; that it is for the greater good I dwell in a house of pain.

It still gives me the shits though.

But I just yelled, I did not cry. That at least is something.

Wednesday, October 24, 2018


With thanks to The Games of Thrones.

I opened my laptop to look down at that sticker of the huntsman spider that I didn't remember putting there only to realise it was an actual spider that had been squished when I closed the monitor on it. 

I didn't know at the time and because of my womb-robbed fingers I can only two finger type and my finger fall is heavy I use a gaming keyboard that is plugged in because to use a laptop keyboard is an exercise in acute frustration. The spider was not disturbed by use of the laptop, only the distant rattle of fingers on the plugged in one that is an inch away. 

The transition from "I don't remember putting that sticker of a spider there" to "that is not a sticker; it is a spider the depth of a sticker because I squished it" was a bit yuck, I wobbled for a second before I swept it away. 

The poor fucker didn't have a chance. Maybe, like me, it found rhythmic noise relaxing and it curled up asleep near a steady rattle.

So it likely died in its sleep, unaware of its death when the lid came down on its coffin. It's brutal efficiency except I'm not letting it repose as a gruesome sticker, I just used a USB stick to push it off the desk then kick it out of view. The mice can have it, if they choose. 

Spiders, I don't like them. If I am generous I will attempt a catch and release but it's more droning that resettling I confess because I'd rather them dead than released since they will come back. 

In this case I feel a bit like Frank Drebbin and the drug dealers.

Songs to vent through

"Button to Button" by The White Stripes. You can overlay your own verses and spit them out in controlled, musical fury. Or keep to the real ones since like astrology readings they're broadly applicable to everyone—especially anyone who had a shitty childhood.

The White Stripes; helping make stripes stripe since they were stripy.

Creamed self post shower

Because I self harm through gouging at existing scars I at least have the benefit of an all natural approach. Which means I don't start up new locations, I just have at specific spots that exist. So I got up, I had a shower and I creamed the fuck out of the scars. I want to pick them when they are dry; the sensation is robbed if they are moist. The trick is the active application of cream when waking or post showering.

So I've done that; let's see if that holds.

That's the trouble with the ebb and flow of mental injury; you have to wait for the low tide of near normal to do things to prevent your high tide response.

Tuesday, October 23, 2018

Nearly all day

I didn't put cream on my face until after five having left my wounds free to be picked at the whole business day. I was convinced I could tear the puckered scars off and all I did was make it worse. 

I hate being so wounded in the head that I can't stop picking the outside of it. It's not right, it's not normal but it feels right and I am screaming in my head to keep going. 

It's fucked to want to claw at your skin; even worse to feel good in the moment for doing it. Then you see the red, scarred skin among the greying stubble and you shudder. 

Ain't that a kick in the ... well, you know.


Monday, October 22, 2018

This little chicky ate roast beef

There was a left over slice of roast beef swimming in concealed fat and juices. It was okay to eat but off putting. It's not chicken so I fed it to the chickens. After feeding the bigs their share I tipped the last of it---juice, fat and slice---into an empty dustpan and set it down for the rest.

Gone, completely gone. They ate every piece, every white bit of fat and drank all the juice. It seemed to be the best reaction they've had yet in "will they eat this?", the game played by every backyard chicken enthusiast since backyards and chickens have been a thing.

Given the pecks I've had it seems clear that they will also eat people if they get the chance.


Saturday, October 20, 2018

0–100 in 165 minutes

I hate making phone calls; hate it. I hate having to deal with social niceties then intro the topic. I know in this day and age to make a phone call to a stranger to their phone who is not expecting it is treated with wary suspicion by the stranger—if they even take the call at all. 

I threw myself into it. I called and called then called some more. By the end I'd cracked almost half the sheet and done a hundred plus calls, I didn't need the script and I'd honed my patter as warm, engaging and excited. It helped the calls were for something nice not nasty but still for someone who hates phone calls who then has to make a hundred plus in a single sitting it was deliciously awful. I didn't like it, I hate annoying people so getting them past why they were being bothered was a burr I had to rub each time but it didn't go nasty. The first time I ever cold called for a group I got someone at dinner time and they chucked a screaming snit at me leaving me to complete just 10 attempts before giving up.  No one likes being yelled at; in person or via phone.

So I did it. It's just part of the gig and I have to accept the need to talk voice-to-voice. However it went as good as it could go and I had the grim satisfaction of completing, emotionally intact, a difficult task for someone with the added complications of depression, anxiety, PTSD and OCPD. 

The irony is all four—my horsemen of the apocalypse—make me a better someone. 

How's that for a win? Take that, life wake.

UPDATE: I finished the sheet. It took longer and was more stressful. Go figure.

Friday, October 19, 2018

A thin trickle of watery blood

That's what greeted me after checking the toilet post motion. It is decidedly unsettling and deeply unsexy to see a thin trickle of watery blood after going number two but I know at least it's not my arse spouting it but the right thigh ever boil "popping" against the seat.

It's watery because it's not just blood, it's whatever goes into a boil as well. It's gross and does not bear talking about.

The ever boil is a good metaphor for me; I'm leaking from an ever present wound that just will not heal. 

This morning I had to fight the urge to savage at my body and I succeeded. Just. I had a go at the thigh lump for a bit when I realised I had just returned to an out of the way spot I could have at where it's not disfiguring.

It's fucked to be caked in so much damage you get relief from damaging your body but that's just what it is; to have OCPD is to likely have a co-morbidity of picking at your body

You'd think someone born and raised damaged wouldn't damage themselves further but that's what being caked in damage does. 

I didn't choose this body but the rest of the world, parents included, presumed I did. I guess if the world says you're damaged what's one more puckered scar from picking at yourself to seek relief?

Stupid mental injuries—physically skin deep but in the brain all the way to the core.

Thursday, October 18, 2018


With a change in psychs it meant I had to brief the new one on me. I stole half of someone's appointment and ended at ninety-two minutes. I cried near the end after I spoke of what happened and how to deal with the twin injuries of childhood and adult trauma.The hardest was talking 'bout self harming through gouging at my face, thigh and feet. That to pick at your body gives you a weird peace because of damage to brain chemistry and how to break that habit of mutilation.

I'm like the bargain trolley at the gates of hell.

I was jittery after and had a V in the afternoon. My brain wants to revisit what was said and please I just don't want to do that. 

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

Near double stack

There's a path junction that curves up a hill that forces me to dismount unless I go the other direction, turn around, and go up it at speed. I failed half way up and had to jam brakes to stop sliding and the angle meant I tilted and nearly tipped; twice. For I went back twice to try it after the first fail to see if it could be done. Ridden up without dismounting,

Could not do it without the run up from the other direction. It was horrifying on the last tip where I thought I was going to smash sideways then slide down the path and it was luck it didn't happen.

That junction is my trike's baby with the one eyebrow; its nemesis.

I wish it wouldn't drag me into its fights; it's a high conflict machine.

Also my microwave got in a twitter beef with the fridge. Honestly, they should stop stuffing AI into everything.


Sunday, October 14, 2018

Mangled approach

I was too keyed up so I hit up a speaker before photos and had half a minute to make the pitch. I was nervous, stumbled and did a bad job. I caught myself pacing on the fail when I got home; for like a typo in a report that is a forever mistake and I have the fail sads. 

But you can only fail if you try; to not try is to never chance to succeed.

Wheels within wheels, turns within turns.


UPDATE: ... and mangled the follow-up email. I was using webmail and the fucking email was sent two lines in and without the pared back edit of the below text. I had to grit teeth and re-do and accept the fact that happened. To help accept it I had valium; but it's been more than a month since I last some and that's been the longest break so far. Today was applicable use; the technocrat equiv of punching yourself in the balls.

Saturday, October 13, 2018

The cat knocked the skeleton hand from the table

I realised as I said those words—it was a plastic back scratcher skeleton hand—that it was an unusual set of words to say and it sounded a bit like an early reader that went wrong ala "the cat sat on the mat" only in this case body parts instead of furnishings

That would make those readers more interesting and it should be encouraged with other body parts twinned with cat-based antics; "the cat nuzzled the hip bone", "the cat stood on the metatarsal" and "the cat ate the hippocampus; where the fuck did it get that hippocampus?!" 

I think the kids would get more value out of that; plus it's early exposure to anatomy and situational appropriate cursing.

The lost cough

For as long as I can remember honking up goobs on waking has been a thing for me and my unsettled lungs. Sometimes the cough ejects with force and the goob is powered through the air, with two fat ends and a linking middle bit like chain shot, and it lands on something. 

In this case I coughed into my wardrobe and saw "it" fly into the clothes within. I confess to a weary sigh at my Something About Mary lost lung ejaculate but the silver lining was I found it within two seconds; it did not remain undetected hanging off an ear

It was tacky enough I could pick it off with my fingers with the snot hanging between them and I got to a tissue instead of it being wiped off somewhere it should not. 

So the cough was lost but just for a second; I dealt with the unpleasantness in a timely, efficient manner. 

If you do have goobs honking it up in the shower is best; but this snuck out of nowhere and I honked into storage. I like to think that if that had been the Narnia wardrobe it would have crossed worlds and hit the witch queen's sleigh dwarf in the eye and caused him to stack it. 

Take one from a broken Son of Adam!

Friday, October 05, 2018

Technocratic freak gottten on

Technocrats are always on the hunt to make things run better. I found a hole and pitched the patch. I got a call to say it was a potential goer and they'd investigate if it could be done.

It was real time government; they got back to me the same day.

I had to celebrate and my song of success is "Something Good" by Utah Saints.

I cranked it up and belted it out in an empty office whilst lightly quivering with my attempt at dance.

It's yet another reminder that if all that hideous crap had not happened to me I wouldn't be the awesome 'crat that I am.


Wednesday, October 03, 2018

He put the boot in

White House staff: please don't disparage Dr. Ford who GOP senators agree has suffered a traumatic assault even as they cling to the belief she's identified the wrong attacker and not would-be "Justice" Brett Kavanaugh.

President Trump: fuck that shit, I am going to disparage the fuck out of her.

UPDATE: it worked.

Tuesday, October 02, 2018

A gusher

It's lucky the mystery of the bleeding into the toilet was solved—for it was the ever boil popping and leaking ichor out when rubbing on the toilet seat—or today's deluge would have sent me to the emergency room convinced my insides were liquefying and a slurry of organs was sluicing out my arse. 

The blood, and lots of it, was disconcerting. But the relief to wipe the inside of your leg to confirm it's just ordinary boil blood and not rectal blood is insane. Like "withdrawing from a uni subject on the last day you could" insane relief—the walk back to your car from doing that is just magic.

The boil bleed means no riding, warm compresses and later an expert squeeze but that's always preferred to the bum bleed. 

Bleeding; never great but some are way better than others. That's a motto I can get behind. Especially when it's not coming out of my behind.