Saturday, July 06, 2019

Murder house

When you think murder house you think house made for murders like H H Holmes had at the Chicago World's Fair. In my case I think of a house being murdered. 

The other day murder was attempted on my house---construction involving drilling through brick. I stayed around so I could provide access to the builders to the toilet but after some hours and increasing loss of tolerance to a drill that my PTSD-afflicted brain said was coming through the wall to strike me like an ice pick through the ear I had to bail. I informed thewife I was going, told the builders I had to leave due to bureaucratic PTSD then drove off. 

I got maybe a hundred metres when I lost it, swallowed by heaving terror as I wailed inconsolable from my loss of normalcy; that I had been driven from my home by noise combined with injury and that I had failed as a man. For to be rendered to the state of a terrified child that knows there are monsters in the dark whilst in the flesh drape of a purported man leaves you useless and bereft.

It was the worse attack of industrial noise I'd ever suffered.

The next day my guts were roiled and and accentuated by a shart so fulsome I had to clutch my arse cheeks together to stop shit dripping down my leg and walk with a catoonish twinkle-toes gait to clean up myself without having to clean the floor as well.

It has been over five years since I got injured and the fucking injury is with me for life.

I had already failed as "a man" through dint of height lack and a fat form so to lose mental control and whatever manly stoicism I once had was the icing on the "have a penis; that's it" cake of masculine countenance.

I read the other day that gender expression is a performance; that we are culturally indoctrinated in how to meet a gender "ideal" for the benefit of those around us who we seek to impress. That to fail to play in that role is to draw aggro for not displaying what our brains consider to be a manly or femmine ideal.

I never had the bod to carry it off and then my manly mind was stolen by injury. 

I do take solace that I boiled for hours before I cooked off and days before I had been in a car with a wailing baby without issue due to CBT technique applied on contact.

But I'll not tempt fate another time. If there be construction again then I'll not be there to hear it; I'll fuck off to the library instead. Which is exactly what I did when they came back the next day.

The library; protecting not men from manly noise since they existed. Except, perhaps, for an audio library of manly noises.

Tuesday, June 25, 2019

Cat yowl

When you have PTSD loud, sudden and or sharp noises trip your panic switch. 

A cat yowl is all three.

The ginger cat would not stop, I think it's missing its substitute mum, and I couldn't find the ear protection for hot minutes of terrifying pussy action. Up until I did my panic escalated and I was now frightened. I'm still frightened.

A workplace mental injury did that to me and it's a seeming ever wound. That a household cat can scare me into an unreasoned animal state is deeply fucked up. 

There's no pithy coda; it is what it is. And what it is is balls.

Saturday, June 15, 2019

Murf is a king

In a small Texan town Murf King and friends voted to make their dale an abortion free zone. It didn't have a clinic so perhaps they were trying to stop drive by terminations.

Murf is a fat old white man and so is the rest of the council. Murf cannot have abortions and neither can his friends.

Not every legislature can have someone with a lived experience of something being voted on---that's where asking questions and understanding how people not like you can have motivations that are not yours matters. Such as being a woman who is pregnant and does not want to be.

Kings make decrees because they're in charge and whatever they say shall be.

Murf is a king as are his mates. Fuck women and fuck people not old, fat and white. 

Sunday, June 09, 2019

Still mad

Ever since my surgeon told me my body was not my fault I've been mad. Not angry, mad. The rush of unfairness for a life I missed has left me steaming. 

I think I could have handled it if I'd been supported but I wasn't. So my unreasonable anger is reasonable. 

If time heals all wounds then it's going to take a while. Like fallen number eight long.

The past; if only you could keep it there.

Thursday, June 06, 2019

Wet slippers

With chickens and winter I have to trade slippers for crocs when entering the pen, switching out on the patio. It had rained and pooled water soaked the blue slippers through.

I tried to dry them in the shed but the cool shade did not help so I pegged them out on the line.

Then one of the chickens asked to score drugs and I realised I'd given the alleged urban signal of shoes on a phone line that street meds could be had nearby. 

I said "no" and left then realised a chicken speaking was a big deal let alone its propensity for an illegal high.

It was the big brown one; she's always been trouble. 



The sexual abuse I suffered was mild; fondling by my child psychologist who diddled me via hypnotherapy. 

The hypnosis did not work and I watched through lidded eyes as he pulled my pants down and played with my junk.

Twinned with that was the physical and mental debasement suffered 'neath a posh veneer.

Child abuse stories make me sick. I will see a headline about a story then judge whether I go in—I owe it to a victim to know their truth but against the shit of my own lest I trigger.

More often than not I bail once in because it just fucking rips me. 

Even a positive tale—where someone lauded is now undone—are a risk.

It was the universe at its best then when I triggered to just such a piece then started angry crying and yelling before ending up on the patio in heaving, chocking sobs in a fucking fight pose, fists cocked, ready to punch out whatever was there.

I stood, battle-panting, scanning for threats or weapons.

It was completely instinctual, animal. There I was ready to kill though there was nothing and no one there because I was fighting ghosts only I could see. 

Trauma: it's the gift that keeps on giving.

Wednesday, June 05, 2019

Cheese dreams

It's near two am and I've just eaten two slices of brie.

Bring it on.

(turns off light)

Sunday, June 02, 2019

Dickensian palace of fuckthuggery

I was having an angry brood about the before ago and I spat that out. It's true—it's as good a description of one of my schools that I've spat. The events of then are thirty years gone—but they echo in the now.

It's fucked and debilitating. To be angered by past abuse is because you relived it. That magnificent gift of worthlessness and lack of agency.

I had nowhere safe to go—even alone because you're just alone with your stupid self. 

I can't see a way back to acceptance of that—save that it is a part of me as a bone or face. And to hate your body is self defeating because you didn't choose it; it was chosen for you. 

But to have shit hung on you for that absence of choice ... fuck...

Saturday, June 01, 2019

Hind claw to the pee hole

In the Amazon River there is a fish that may swim up your pee hole. It's not good---though a seeming rare event according to that wiki---but it's a risk I will never face because I won't dunk my junk in a Brazilian water course. 

But I do have a cat. Her dismount from my crotch involved a hind leg planting into my business and all I had down there were boxers. As she jumped off a claw flicked into my pee hole through the cloth.

I yowled as any man would when a claw goes the wrong way up an exit only. 

The odds of it happening again are remote but it will prompt a precautionary re-arrange lest she hole in one again.

The urethra; it's not for cats.

Saturday, May 18, 2019

Walked right into it

It was dark and I didn't see the bench so I walked right into it. The underside of my right knee struck first and I staggered abruptly and nearly fell. The left leg did the staggering and is wrenched.

It was an unexpected result. I presumed smooth passage and ran into something I did not see.

But I did not fall; upright I stayed. And a few steps later I was safe.

That's a small comfort.

Friday, May 17, 2019

Therapy for trauma is traumatic

It's an oroborus that; that being treated for trauma with therapy is traumatic You have to re-live the upset and it makes you upset.

The first 24 hours after a therapy session is when you're the most rubbery. For me the way I staved off thinking about it was to idly pick my face scar until I carved a furrow through it. I went at it for six hours before I put the cream on. Then with that mindless, meditative self-harm ended all that fucking trauma washed over me. 

I cried with angry hurt at being thugged over by those who owed me care; because to be hurt by someone that should help you magnifies it. And I don't have the mind numbing solace of raging at my face to stop thinking about it. 

Life. Don't talk to me about life.

Thursday, May 16, 2019

Saturday, May 11, 2019

In what order shall we eat the pets?

I think that's what they said as part of happy chatter to the new budgie. They told the bird they'd eat it last. That's nice, it must feel safer. I'm sure they meant it in a "if we have to" way and not "let's make dinner plans".

The budgie just trilled. It probably called dibbs on a cat.

Thursday, May 09, 2019

Failed to Kick Ass

In the movie Kiss Ass Nicholas Cage's character Big Daddy revealed how you never see the skin parts around the eye through a mask—you use make-up to match the mask colour to the point you have panda eyes so no matter where the mask moves in its limited run around the sockets there's no pink skin to show up and ruin the menacing atmos.

Being human and susceptible to Big Hollywood and having a black shirt on with a hole in it the size of a marker pen's nose on the front I grabbed a black marker pen and drew a spot through the hole so my pallid flesh would not spotlight through. 

I am large of tum and the shirt shifts. Within a moment I was showing skin and I put another spot on. Then it happened again. I realised I'd have to go the full panda eye, a big, Sunday lazy blob on my the left of my tum in order for that camouflage to work. 

I didn't do it. I didn't want to have to wash it off when I got home, I was already dealing with two small blobs, so I went "fuck it, I give up."

That shirt is now house wear; not for public use. Unless I panda eye my tummy and I don't want to do that. 

Pandas, those bamboo chewing tricksters with the cuddling and inability to fuck.

Monday, April 15, 2019

... rumoured to have its old frogs

That's what it told me Zarithpa was famous for. It's such an odd phrasing but pleasing. And also, old frogs. How do they know? How are they making sure someone isn't swapping out dead frogs for new to sucker in yet more into their brazen old frog trade?

Warlords II. Just about the must fun game ever.

Monday, April 01, 2019


I had to remote in from a new PC and it was terrifying. Not heart thudding terror but heightened awareness of it all having happened before; a sense memory of near death.

It went fine, the ill-ease ebbed and while it did not pass I did not trip into unreasoned panic.

That’s life with a workplace mental health injury; ordinary things can give you the deep frights.

Saturday, March 23, 2019

A day

In a re-spawn I gained access to resources I’d never imagined. It’s like having a bat cave but without the batabs to back it up. The flabs yes; abs no.

That makes me batecstatic

Bus sads 
I met someone who had no cash but was catching a bus that didn’t use MyWay. I gave them a ten without them asking and I waved off their offer of an e-transfer back. I saw them get on and they smiled goodbye.

When I was a student I was busted-arse poor. I lived near my brother. I ran into him at an intersection and he gave me a twenty. He earned money in band gigs. That twenty was magic. It meant I could pay house share expenses and get a can of Diet Coke. I didn’t ask for it; he just knew what it was like to have no money and he gave me a twenty. That’s the kind of generous cat he is. Ever since I’ve tried to pay that forward.

In the old days of Canberra a begging scam was “I’ve lost my wallet; can I have two bucks for fare home?” You’d hand over two bucks which back then covered a ride then watch them walk to another person and tell the same tale. In front of you; because they did not give a fuck. So the counter was to keep a ten ride ticket with two rides left and if they asked for money you offered that. I don’t think I had to use it but it was there at the ready. But this was the genuine deal and I re-dealt a good turn.

I had the glow of a rescue done and I felt batecstatic. 

Oh God!
I was leaving a complex on foot when nausea swamped and I threw up on the grass behind the letter boxes. In the distance was a muffled “Oh God!” from the unit nearest to me. I can’t be certain that was cause and effect but it seemed a perfect riposte. I threw up two more times before I got to the car and then dry wretched leaning on the back until throat burn. I drove to the nearest servo and got a Diet Coke to de-acid the throat and then, puddling sweat with the AC cranked, furtled home. As I drove the relief of nausea clear washed over and I re-felt batecstatic.

That’s a threefer; a fucking batthreefer.

Monday, February 11, 2019

Things that could have killed me: a minature Volxwagon

It was lying on the path twixt the shed and the house and had my lumbering, shuffling over-fed self stood on the one to thirty-two scale black Volkswagen Beetle then my flat feet would have slipped, I'd have fallen backward and caved in my skull heel on the concrete path. 

NowMikey saw it and kicked the car under a table. 

If the multi-verse theory is correct and the universe is but multi-versions of me then a decent chunk of those mes are dead.

That would have been some coroner's report though. 


Hands deep in whale spoof

I'm still wading through Moby Dick, reading it in bursts on my iPhone. I recently got through a chapter about the narrator's experience at de-lumping spermaceti, the oil taken from the whale's head.

Of course he shortens spermaceti to sperm and there are many passages of how much he enjoys being up to his arms in the stuff and how pleasant a task of squeezing the lumps it is.

The name of the chapter is "A Squeeze of the Hand".

An excerpt:

Squeeze! squeeze! squeeze! all the morning long; I squeezed that sperm till I myself almost melted into it; I squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and I found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules. Such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last I was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,—Oh! my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy! Come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness. 

I am not so old as to find that deeply hilarious.

Wednesday, February 06, 2019


The trouble with re-opening wounds of mental trauma is falling into expressions of angry grief.

I was reminded of my life of people with a duty of care for me thugging me over and I started yelling. Then I sat down with food, made whilst yelling, then yelled at my iPhone sitting next to me. I presume my angry trauma-afflicted self recognised phone equals persons being yelled at on the other end so I yelled at it even though the phone was off.

Angry yelling at people who are not there is actually normal; there's a bunch of therapy techniques that use it. It's not the first time I've yelled at a phone either but traditionally that was applied as a phone was ringing or after a call ended.

Trauma: it's traumatic. For me and my phone.

UPDATE: I was lying on my bed and lifted my phone to use it when my hand sprang open to throw the phone into my teeth. Well played, iPhone...

Monday, February 04, 2019


The side-effect of wins is they remind you of wounds. And even if not actively mulling your subconscious does and leaden fatigue sets in. I've been wretched for two days, entwined round a body pillow as my body and brain semi-hibernate. It's a common reaction, I slept weeks away after initial injury. 

I feel old already with early-worn joints but additional lethargy makes me ancient.

But it's just for now and not for long. There are sunny wakeful hours ahead.


Sunday, February 03, 2019

Levelled up

My psych was the one who told me, that I had landed on my feet. I hadn't realised and she was right---there was a golden cross on the top right of my character pic indicating I'd levelled up. 

I got to a tavern, sold some loot and clicked to go up and I rolled a one for hit points. Typical.

Saturday, February 02, 2019

Ford fail

Ford just exhorted me, via YouTube, to consider their latest sale where "I could walk away with an X for only fifty-two thousand [something] dollars."

I am targeted via my Google presence and the bolshi in me recoiled at the idea someone could be wealthy enough to consider walking away with a fifty-two thousand dollar car to be prudent good sense and masculine presence wish fulfillment. And it recoiled that Google felt so little of me that it would think a Mikey would purchase a vehicle of such a high price. For what purpose? Well, masculine presence wish fulfillment ... if your idea of a man is a tool who tools around in an expensive manly car that he got at a crazy low 52k. 

But then I am an un-man so that works out.

Friday, January 25, 2019

A dirty joke

I slipped in the mud, pen mud, so shit and mud. My foot slid into the start of an escape tunnel and then I was on the ground in the rain, shit and mud and sore from smashing the shed gate down. I worried I'd blacked out because it seemed so sudden with me slippping then finding I'd fallen but then my bum was sore too and there was alien writing on me so it was just a bog standard alien abduction time lapse

They could have fucking beamed me back standing up, not legs akimbo in chicken shit and mud.

That's just so rude.

In the process of writing that last bit the suggested words for the clump of wrong letters were Amateur Thatcher.

Like where you fuck up a coup in Africa.

Moby dicked

I'm reading Moby Dick on my phone and I'm up to the bit where Captain Ahab is practically chewing the mess rug in his monomania to get Moby Dick, an albino sperm whale which last time ate off half a leg (Ahab's).

I'm guessing it's all going to go tits up and Ahab will #Fail.

What if someone gave it an Ahab-happy ending? Like in Wayne's World where they have a number to choose from but the final is the most-happy.

Where you get to learn that platonic love can exist between two men (Russell).

I'm technically nuts, I have papers that say, but I've accidentally dicked the White Whale. Twice.

I went into wrenching, howling maddened grief the first time. The second was numbed delight. I phone-tubed and hummed the rest of the day.

I'm the Ahab that made it. That's something. Two Dicks, says I, two!

Thursday, January 03, 2019

First bite of the year!

In the New Year we run around our house announcing the first time something has happened for that year; first wee, first poo, first shower and so forth. 

We get it out of our system by Jan 2 most years.

Then there are other firsts, the unintended ones, like being bitten. As a member of the top of the food chain I expect to bite the dead not be bitten by the living.

I just got bitten in the crook of my elbow by an ant.

I didn't make it past the first week before Australia's fauna struck back.

Australia: where things go bite in the night—and day!

UPDATE: I got bitten later that night, by an ant, at the top part of the ankle. Kismet.

My cat has a drinking problem

The black cat loves me; she friggin' loves me. She's always trying to nuzzle, lick sweat off my skin or sit on me. 

Such as the knee. 

Because she loves rubbing herself against me and if she is on my knee and I am using a glass she will lurch up to rub on my arm when I raise the glass to my mouth and when my arm comes down I bounce off her and smash the glass rim into my teeth. Or I'll have a glass at the ready to drink and she will stick her head under the elbow then push upward to smash the glass rim into my teeth. 

I should learn to drink left handed since that arm hovers over a table instead of the couch.

When she gets to step eight of AA she better have me marked for an apology.