Sunday, December 30, 2018

Atop a steed I am a warlord

Thanks to a abandonware site and a DOS emulator I am able to play Warlords II again for the first time in years. It's a little harder without a physical mouse and keyboard and you don't get the revved up effect where the animation speeds five times as fast as the AI players take their turns like you did on the laptop version. 

But it is bliss and I am stoked I can play it. 

I've stopped daily riding of an exercise bike for about six months but yesterday I went back on and this time I had Warlords II with me. I braced the tablet in the spot to put tablets and tilted it forward to avoid skylight glare with the spare pare glasses case then played as I rode. I got to 27 minutes before I checked then 55 when I suspected I was near the end. Because I was playing the game I zonked out for most of it and got the heady joy of total distraction during painful exertion. 

Near the end though I was pissing skull sweat and it gushed into my eyes. Between moves as the AI players played I removed glasses, grabbed the sweat towel and daubed frantically at my eye sockets to sop up the pooled water of salt. 

I chewed up a chunk of battery but it was in service to its lord—a warlord atop his mighty seed. 

WFTW. 

Monday, December 24, 2018

The Lawnmower Man

I woke to sounds of the electrical cord mower having at rain-fed grass that was ankle high when we got home. I wasn't fussed---though machine noises can cause distress---but it was in the shower that I discovered I could become a lawnmower man. theboy had enjoyed a fearsome flow motel showerhead and when we got home attempted to replicate it with our variable flow setting. As I ran my balding head neath the adjusted flow the rasp of three jets that had entwined thrummed onto my bare scalp with the noise of that same mower by rocking my head I could even replicate the sound of the mower going back and forth over a long bit because when grass gets too long the blades will get stuck and the mower switch off so you do a number six, three, two then one until the patch is cut.

I hate haircuts and lawnmowing. But I liked the setting that replicated the noise because that steady heavy jet was pleasing on a balding head.

Balding; it's not all bad. 

Sunday, December 23, 2018

A pool and bolts of lightning

I went to a pool. It was outside and with a decent spray of adults and children. There was no echo to compound it and I handled the visit. I handled being in water surrounded by noise that could trip my brain into unreasoned panic and I did not trip into it.

There were storms all through the week. There was a set of three bolts that hit near to where we were staying. I was on the balcony when I saw them strike then got palm-heels-to-ears before the noise of their strike hit. They were so close that you could physically feel the bolts with puffs of air for each thunder crack.

I did not trip into fear. 

Meds and therapy and therapy and meds. It's taking a reverse-toll; I feel trending improvement.

WFTW.

My pussy is a wrist licker

I'd not seen the cat in a week so when I lay on the bed she hopped up and spent a dozen minutes licking my wrist. She'd pause then go again. Eventually I got sick of it and stuck my wrist under my pillow and she tunneled into it to lick some more. It's a sign of affection—and she wants the salt in my skin—but irritating. I got she needed it though and gave her that dozen before it was "JESUS CHRIST, STOP LICKING ME!"

My pussy is a wrist licker. I accept it and have moved on.

Wednesday, December 12, 2018

Scared out of K-Mart

We went late presuming kids abed at that hour, shopping for a Santa pressie swap. I was a dozen feet in when a two-year-old screamed but it was as if she'd come up to me while I was asleep, opened my ear wider, took a breath then yowled as loud as she fucking could.

I countered with a "HOLY FUCK!", left the Xmas section and ended up in toys where happy chocolate-covered toddlers were shriek-babbling at each other and forcing another retreat. I tagged out when I could and as I made a break for the carpark a joyful screech pursued. I left with palm heels against my ears and counting to ten to drown out hints of child.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and Xmas shopping." As in avoid it where poss.

You learn to keep your mouth shut in Canberra

In addition to the Official Secrets Act and need to know principles you learn to keep your mouth shut at times of the year in Canberra. Like in summer when bits of plant or animal float, hover or fly and are small enough to be inhaled if you're riding. 

I hit a cloud of gnats then went lips shut for the next few kays until I was clear of the places where swarms of gnats live. 

Later I saw one of those Cottonwood tree balls floating along, like a sky mine ready to choke anyone not applying lip closed sensibility. 

Canberra: they don't warn you about the inhaling of floating things. 

There should be a disclaimer.

For I am now the neighbourhood Sonja

I was riding my trike alongside a skate park when a teenage boy screamed at me "ON YA, SONJA!" then started clapping and laughing at me.

I nearly turned back to ask "What's the matter, never seen a fat man on a tricycle?" only he'd almost certainly say "No."

I don't know if that's slang for a fat man or if it was just hilarious yelling of a name because of the rhyming but he and his mate had a good laugh at my fucked-up body.

I got annoyed at being fat and yelled at for taking exercise—how's that for logic?—but later, on a different ride, a couple heard me coming and moved off the path and after I yelled thanks he said "No worries, brother."

So that made up for the Sonja. 

I guess that makes me Brother Sonja. I can dig it. 

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

Emoted

I had to speak to an issue and cried at the end. I left the room to avoid hearing those speaking against. The person whose issue it was then flensed any opposing views with cold fact and got the full win.

I didn't want to but got convinced to try; I got to Shake for her Bake.

WFTW.

Trod on a foot

I have wretched feet—utterly flat, as if drawn by a lazy cartoonist. If there is any imperfection upon the surface that I tread in bare feet I will notice. It's a bit like The Princess and the Pea only a reboot as a Rumpelstiltskin-type antihero and she has deformed feet like they have been drawn by a lazy cartoonist. 

So when I trod on the foot I felt it as sure as someone who trod on an caltrop

It was 1:32 scale and the foot was still standing but snapped at the ankle. Not only was my move reduced in half it fucking hurt like you'd expect within someone who is heavy-set with failed feet who stands heavily on the snapped off remnants of a toy soldier's foot.

It was not lost on me that he too had flat-feet, from being a toy soldier, who in real life could not serve because of their flat feet. 

If I was a cartoon, badly illustrated or not, the words I yelled would be represented by an asterisk, an asterisk, a hash mark, "... what the actual...", asterisk, question mark then exclamation point.

In real-speak it was likely "Fuck, fuck, fucking hell, what the actual fuck?!"

My body; failing miserably since prebirth.

Saturday, December 08, 2018

Flying mudguard

I was speeding along a sloped straight bit on my trike when I was overtaken on the left by my mudguard as it snapped off and shot over my shoulder. It nearly hit me. I don't know why my trike decided my mudguard would snap off then try to kill me but it did and it failed. 

I don't use it in the mud so the lack of a mudguard isn't too irksome. But it looks funny with one on and one off—like it passed out on a couch and its flatmates shaved one eyebrow. 

This is not the first time a pedal-powered conveyance has had at me or caused me ill—once handlebars snapped in my hands and I fell off that bike in the middle of an intersection and the car behind me fortuitously stopped as opposed to running me over. 

You understand the normal risks of riding and accept them as part of the experience; but the firing of bits of itself at you is typically not one of those risks. Unless it was assembled on an ancient burial ground re-purposed as a tricycle factory. 

My suspicion should have been aroused by the instructions that told me to pour the blood of a chicken slain at midnight upon one of the guards of mud except I fully put it on the right one and it was the left that came off. 

Stupid instructions.

Friday, December 07, 2018

Toe fingers

I cannot bend without afearing my legs will snap off. But I can lift my foot up whilst free balancing on the other.

So I use my toes as fingers to grab an floored object then lift it to finger height. I don't have terrific feet either but my toes don't tremble like the fingers so if I drop something the toes get it and hand it back to the fingers.

I dropped seven pieces of clothing, mostly socks, whilst putting away dried laundry. And it was simpler to use my toes and lift than reach for the grabber to grab.

Toes; useful for when your fingers fumble.

This has been "Fun with PTSD and the lower extremities."

Tuesday, December 04, 2018

A royal trigger

I'd accidentally gotten hooked on The Crown then got to the episode about schooling—the sentencing of a child to an institution that is in no way applicable to that child. In this case Prince Charles being sent to a horror show in the highlands where cold showers and dawn runs were the norm. He hated it; every year. 

So I got triggered. I got triggered seeing his shitty school experience in mine; of being a square peg in an institution for round people and suffering as a result. I got angry and stopped watching it. Then got angry again when I finished the ep.

What I think pissed me off the most is his mum gave a shit; she wanted him to go elsewhere but deferred to her husband's decision to put the man into his apparently weak son. My mum was fully on board my distress which included physical, mental and sexual abuse.

I told them at the time and they either didn't believe me or presumed I drew the aggro that caused it.

Private schools that allegedly make boys into men make for shitty men; egotistical scumbags if they're athletic or fractured shells if not. I'm a Humpty Dumpty of spider-webbed cracks from breathtaking cruelty gussied up as elite education.

It's been thirty years since I took myself off to a state school and at least had my final teen years a scratch less fucked. But the damage that fucking place did to me, damage caused by my parents' deliberate, malicious decision to send me to that place still boils my fucking blood—especially in now knowing my shit body was my mother's fault.

I'll never get over that; that an institution took pride in putting its boot on my neck and squeezing down as hard as they could.

I didn't break. But I remember; I will always remember and to never forget means to never forgive. 

And I am just fine with that.