Tuesday, December 10, 2019

Keening animal noises

I ended up with a long consult with a doctor who wanted to explore my past food issues. The subject of fructose came up, a powder my parents forced me to use in place of sugar, and it turns out that likely resulted in weight gain as it coincided with reduced physicality as my womb-robbed body manifested more bullshit.

I made it to the new roundabout, the one that replaced the triangle, when I lost it and slipped into an epic altered mental state where I had to acknowledge being fucked over then bullied for it again.

It continued for about twenty minutes and ended with me naked in the bathroom unable to get into the shower because I was paralyzed as my throat warbled keening animal noises of existential loss.

They took me off sugar because I was allegedly hyperactive ... and put me on a substance which if that sugar theory had been true would have made it worse.

It was junk science then and it is junk science now. But I guess if you're a dud child, and I know this because of everything they said and everything they did, they're free to experiment. Fuck it, let's treat him differently with no acceptance and see what happens!

Well 37 years on that found me naked and fat and unable to advance three feet into a shower because of acute grief paralysis.

The past is not an echo; it's a symphony.

Saturday, October 26, 2019

Normal life stolen

I had to walk 45 minutes to get to a bus then spent an hour walking home after I got off. 

It was agonising. I started crying half way on the last stretch on normalcy stolen after not being looked after in utero then bullied for the result. I was forced into an institution that thugged over weak boys and used them as lessons on how not to be a man.

My gait is pain-wracked and slow from flat feet and failing knees and other hip. I endured a life of having bullshit slung at me for a body they caused and I get to enjoy the fruits of their ill labour in middle age with lower limbs and joints of an eighty-year-old.

So I cried as I inched along, taking an hour to walk what a normal person could do in maybe ten minutes.

I get that I am who I am and I couldn't change things even if I could. But I ache for that sad kid who heard parents and peers telling him he was a useless fat shit and a malingerer.  

Fuck them; fuck them all.

Thursday, October 24, 2019

PTSD likes women's clothes

I don't have a penchant for women's clothes but my PTSD does. It's not like a cartoon shoulder devil that only I can see wresting momentary control but it's is a akin to alien hand syndrome in that because of PTSD and medication for PTSD my forefinger will flick out whilst tablet web surfing and strike any right-screen mounted online ad that is there when I did not send a signal to do that.

It's a learning ad system so when I cross into other sites that fucked up finger predilection for lady garb follows and they're the type of ads where they crop the head. Because, I presume, they want you to imagine being the one in that spanky new dress.  

I did and it wasn't great. Though maybe if I got it altered...

A recipie for disaster

Ingredients: Donald Trump, government.

1. Take Donald Trump and add government.

Serves seven billion. 

Saturday, October 12, 2019

Fantastic advice from the Four

I was closing the toilet door when for a brief moment my brain registered the text burst on a comic cover of The Fantastic Four as “Hey, we all make mistakes.” The comic cover is one of about sixty on a poster on the back of the door to look at when straining one out.

Of course that’s not what it said. It actually said “Among us hide ... the Inhumans!” which is not sage advice but rather bigoted.

I prefer the non-racist misfire to that sordid business.

But we all do make mistakes. Maybe my under brain had to tell me that through the cunning of comic cover artwork?

Friday, October 11, 2019


I got grief swamped and trapped crying with the car door open. It took a good couple of minutes to break from the paralysis. I started walking then heard my name. It was a former colleague. We kvetched about the insane bullshit we faced and then I found out what she did now and that I could help.

If re-focussed me; that the best way to defeat the past is to win the present. 

I can't think of a better fuck you than that.


Wednesday, October 09, 2019

Tool used

Tools and I don't get on, especially after onset of PTSD because in addition the hand shake is that you drop stuff when your fingers spring open.

At school I was banned from tool use because I had to wear sneakers. I got sent to clean industrial sinks of industrial muck.

So we don't get on and I get my partner to do that shit at home 'cos she can and has a knack for it.

Today I had to bust my no tool use cherry and armed with a drill unscrewed multiple goods. Of course I forgot to hold on to the first couple and they spun as much as the bolts I was unscrewing did.

But I got to the end of it, cleaned up and without suffering a tool-based injury which is more likely for a damaged cat like me.

They say tool use is an indicator of species' intelligence. Here's hoping the aliens do not choose me to test 'cos they will have picked a super tool.

My arse is fine, though. They'd enjoy probing that. I wouldn't ... and frankly to be asked by our soon to be alien overlords to probe my own arse seems to be a bit much.

Saturday, October 05, 2019

Zeppelined with poo gas

I have IBS and one of its weird tricks is to pump you to bursting with poo gas. Last night the noisome reek was so bad I sequestered from others to spare them the stink, my already life-distended tum even more so by a seeming cathedral of rectal gas fury.

I took pain killers but they took an hour to kick in 'cause my belly was also full of cake and ice-cream.

Yep, I ate that whilst afflicted with gas pain. Did it make if worse, all that rich food conveyed to the top of the stink?

Oh you betcha.

It's still here on waking, the wrenching gas pain. But I'll try not making it worse with breakfast-launched dessert consumption.

Thursday, October 03, 2019

Felt it

I felt my beard growing so it was time to pare back. The wound on my face got snagged a mo' and I winced at it snapped free off the skin shard.

The beard was gray to mostly white; like a grizzled whale, the wound a barnacle on my face hull. 

It's an odd sensation; the real-time perception of facial hair growth then an urgent need to get it off 'cause you didn't want to Dr. Who it and transform into a fungus monster or something. 

Earlier I had a brain dump with new psych; we tackled grief. I cried at first but then I was steered to now and not back then. I'd gone in jittery from toddler playroom screaming where for five minutes I sat with hands pressed tight against ears against the unholy bellow of a shitted off tot whose older brother is fucking with his shit. 

I get that; I also got the result bore through my ears and right into the fright zone. 

Later I rode on a nice day on a sturdy bike then furtled home for lunch. 

Then I felt the beard grow. 

Real-time perception of facial hair growth; it's a thing now.

Wednesday, October 02, 2019

There's a snake in the toot

It's not in the toilet itself but on the shelf above the cistern. It is black and rubber.

I feel like Woody from Toy Story save my serpent menace is not colocated with footwear but excrement extraction.

Stupid snake with its toilet overwatch; it gives me the shits.

Fanged the electric pushie

All those words make sense apart but not together unless you're an Ozzer.

But fanged it I did and it was then for the fourth time that day my phone fell out of my pocket save this occassion at the speed of an epic fang.

My new phone case is robust and the phone was fine. Of course it happened at about the same spot my nerd bag fell one night when riding the former trike and I had to go back to reclaim it.

It was fun though zipping through the night on my electric pushie. 

It will happen again; the night riding ... and likely too the dropping of something from my pocket as I do so.

The universe does not want me to have nice things.

Sunday, September 22, 2019

Normal life stolen

Occassional yelling is part of normal family life; being yelled at, yelling at and yelling together or apart.

Except I have PTSD, depression, anxiety and OCPD with the former caused by a severe mental workplace injury.

Logic me knows this is normal; animal me feels existential dread in that life is ultimately meaningless but the terror of no life is greater.

That is deeply fucked. It is deeply fucked to experience normal life with the riddled cruelty of a tearing wound.

Saturday, September 21, 2019

Expectorant discharged on Jack Black

Jack Black is totes m'goats. We love him down our way.

I was enjoying his work on the tube of you when I saw a lung lolly I'd shot earlier was obscuring his face at about the below moment. 


I felt bad for him; he deserves better treatment of his 2D digital stele than me to be gobbing on it and with haste I tried to wipe it free but it was long and liquid and streaked down the screen. 

I hope there's no juju where bad treatment of a representation of you somehow entangles yourself in a quantum reverse Dorian Gray situation but apologies to his team if he feels a little facially icky.

We have to treat the good ones with care.

Friday, September 20, 2019

I got a little tank

With thanks to 'Allo 'Allo.

My already incapable body is aging fast. I had to carry two boxes about two hundred metres. I had breaks every 50 metres or so, boxes balanced on something to hand while I recovered my breath. Shitted to the max by such chicanery I resolved to purchase a trolley for forthcoming missions. 

I found one I'd scouted earlier, paid for it then sat in complementary seating as I used a key to saw open the box tape. It was a fold-up model with no assembly required. Within moments I was trundling back with my little trolley and chuffed for future me that he never again will have to struggle to carry a couple of boxes a couple of hundred metres without feeling death was upon him.

Aging also blows goats; I am the proof.

Sweaty waterfall

Balding men do not sweat pretty. Also there's nowhere for the sweat to be absorbed so it stays slicked to scalp skin.

Until that is you put on a hat. 

I did that with a max sweaty head and the hat scraping the scalp caused a cascade of salty discharge to roll down my forehead and into my eyes. 

I had to find paper towels to daub up all that head sweat. 

Some people find balding sexy; I don't. Sure there's less effort to dry yourself but the increased irrits with things like rainfall and head sweat put it firmly in the "not fun" category.

Added to that is my womb-shortened arms and fingers which means I cannot shave my own head; I have to get some poor arsehole to do it for me. 

Balding blows goats; I am proof. 

Thursday, September 19, 2019

The pitch

Technocrats are always thinking about fixing things or improving them. The trick is getting a chance to be heard.

A call went out for pitches so, fuck it, I pitched as hard as I could. I didn't receive a ping back but knowing a flood was coming in I accepted being lost in the deluge was a likely outcome.

Then I saw days later that I had not looked too closely and discovered they'd not only acknowledged getting it shortly after I sent it but let me know it had been passed upward for consideration.

They say luck is preparation meets opportunity; the technocrat is always prepared and always hunting for the opportunity.

So being born wonky has its benefits; I see the world as it should be, not just as it is. 

Technocracy for the win.


I lost my glasses yesterday in my room. I checked the usual spots then expanded the search. Knowing they were in my room somewhere but gripped in escalating distress since not being able to see clearly is distressing, I ended up with the mattress in the corridor and bedding stacked on shelves as in near tears I could not find them.

Then I found them on the shelf which I had checked a dozen times.

To have a not great body and not great eyesight is fucked. But eyes can be mostly assisted such as with glasses. Without them I felt as useless and pathetic as I have ever felt. Hence the distress.

Later at the shops I was thinking about it and as a man walked past I loudly blurted "Flummoxed!"

I suspect he was flummoxed by that outburst.

Monday, September 16, 2019

Rode into the fence again

Same fence but from the other direction. My Game of Thrones t-shirt took the impact, tearing of course, but all I have is a bruised arm with a long scratch.

I thought about choosing one of the two other routes but I did not want to give that spot power. So I foot pedalled the bike through instead.

My arm stings and is tender to the touch. But I didn’t gouge a chunk out so that’s something.

Second time out and crashed again; classic.

Sunday, September 15, 2019

Holy melon baller

In D&D a holy weapon does extra damage to evil creatures. So it felt like I was chaotic evil when my ear infection reached its crescendo and someone had scooped out the side of my head with a holy melon baller.

I brought it on myself; I pronged it and tried to blow my ear clear and that combo resulted in my most painful infection since childhood.

With meds afresh I am on the mend; I did not wake in fright with a canal full of muck.

Recurring infections; it's the body's way of saying don't get complacent---I will end you.

Friday, September 13, 2019

The Shining move attempted and failed

I had a nipple-shrouded rubber ball and tried to bounce it off a milk crate ala Jack Nicholson in the hotel lobby.

I threw it past that and it vanished behind a rolled up carpet. Straight away. And I was so confident. 

Also my ear infection is back worse that ever, I pronged it and tried to blow it clear through a pinched nose. It's about the worst it's ever been and I may die now. 

Well-played, myself.

Thursday, September 12, 2019

The Infernal Machine Deux

The Infernal Machine jammed five times and I used a stabby tool to snag remnants out.

The inspection plate fell off multiple times.

But I did not lose my shit; that is amaze-balls.

Sharted in the back room

If you’re going to shart then a back room is the best place for it. I was able to go out a side room to outside round to the front of the front room then from there yell I had to duck out for an hour.

I got home, stripped off, threw the dirties into the wash, showered, dressed and returned in just 40 minutes.

I grabbed a spare pair of undies for if it happened again.

The workplace shart; always bad but this could have been worse.

Wednesday, September 11, 2019

Ear discharge discharged out window

I had an ear infection with pus and wax co mingling and secreting from the canal. I'd finished the meds but the infection was waning so I let it be.

It was crossing one of the Kings Avenue bridges that I discovered it, a ball of dried wax and pus that had settled at the bottom just below entry.

I flicked the ball out the window.

So part of me is now forever Canberra ... a deeply gross part.

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

Chicken Crimpy haz chicken

I'd had a day where all I ate was half a packet of Chicken Crimpy. I was going to give the other half to the chickens. Given chicken salt has no chicken I thought that could be the case here but a scan of the ingredients showed "there be chicken."

I'm glad I checked. Otherwise they'd run over only for one of them to then go "Barry?!"

The Infernal Machine

Anxiety hampers the willingness and ability to gain a new skill, especially if there is biggly irritation to it.

But the re-spawn has its devil payment due; you're forced to go down these paths because it's just part of the gig. 

I spent three hours grappling with a Lovecraftian Steampunk machine, a hybrid of computer and mechanical—arms, levers, arches, trapdoors and hidden compartments that could burn or rip skin off were you not careful.

It could have been a nasty fumble, a blind lurch through the dark. However I got excellence in helpdesk assist and that meant mere hours later I strode forth in victory.

New skills; old dogs can haz new tricks.

UPDATE: the machine jammed the next day and I cut myself clearing it. Nice.

Sunday, September 08, 2019

Toe stubbed

I have extremely broad and flat feet thanks to a wonky nine month ride pre-birth. They're like hobbit feet but without any of the benefits.

I am normally so careful when rounding the Cape of the Bottom Right Bed Leg, treating the ninety degree turn like in Frogger and stepping sideways to go around it instead of walking in a normative curve so I don't catch my outlying left little toe on the stupidly large plinth like bed leg monolith that is a sailors' lament if sailors sailed my left foot instead of ships.

So I forgot to do that, the Frogger step, and so the snagging happened.

I yelled. I yelled at the bed and its decorative fatness---like a plump nude lady from a Renaissance painting that gets German cannibals a dither---after my fucking toe crunched against the jagged maw of that foul ship killing rock if, of course, as mentioned, my left foot was a nautical vessel. 

But the toe is not broken, so there is that. And while it hurts it could have been worse.

Though who's going to clean up all those dead feet seamen floating around on the carpet? Not me I can tell you. Ask Lloyd; he'll know.

Saturday, September 07, 2019

Rode into a fence

I have a propensity to crash new vehicles into things—I once crashed a houseboat when I was watching TV. Today I got my third bike—an actual purpose electric bike with the two wheels not three.

I was wobbly at first but got the hang of it. I got too adventurous though; I zipped from the road to the pavement up a footpath dip then by error went on the very edge of the curb and nearly fell sideways onto the road at speed. But I did not and with relief was able to turn onto the path to the laneway then crashed into the fence on the right. I gouged a chunk out of my arm.

I was forbidden from riding while the others were away in case I fucked up again and needed assist with injury to cycle or self.

I have crashed or stacked each mobile wheeled pedal powered effort within a week of acquisition. I think this was a first for doing it on the first day.

Exercise in the outdoors; the outdoors can fucking kill you.

Too much TARDIS

I was wearing a blue TARDIS shirt whilst brushing my teeth and saw in the mirror the TARDIS shower curtain behind me. I realised if you saw me you’d think me a Whovian but I’m not, I dig the show and all but it’s not a life chord l; I don’t wear a floppy hat, dangerously long scarf or proffer jelly babies to all and alien sundry and nor do I have question mark themed apparel or tat.

I don’t have a sonic screwdriver.

Though I do appreciate the irony that in that shirt I’m much bigger on the inside.

Also I like shouting into a fan and pretending I’m a dalek

Sunday, September 01, 2019

Five bodies

Because I have PTSD and take meds for PTSD my hands and fingers have a light tremble and my fingers open of their own accord. I've watched it close up, like Attenborough five inches from an ant hill, and seen them spring open or twitch a little in the open direction. Unless I'm concentrating when I hold something there's a chance I will drop it. 

My usual spot on the couch has a side table and I eat my food from plates placed there and because I cut everything up first I just need a fork. 

Holding one and moving it twixt table and couch with the split to the floor a gulch for assist means I have dropped forks that went to the below place under that table—a fetid jungle of Diet Coke splattered Time magazines, fidget spinners, almost empty cans of the aforementioned, tissues, random crap and forks. Forks I'd dropped earlier. 

There were five found in the last clean out—like when property developments throw up corpses of mafia vics from the '70s. 

The other morning I was scared by YouTube screamers through a thin wall. I got a monstrous fear jolt and was quivery for hours. That's another tactical infliction of a shitty mind wound. 

PTSD. It's balls—unless you like balls; then it is no balls at all

Saturday, August 24, 2019

A courageous choice

With thanks to Yes Minister.

I have PTSD with large motes of depression, anxiety and OCPD, and one of the many wonderful ticks is revving on past hurt. Needing to fill the silence with sound to stop that I went to to stream content to discover that the trial had ended and it was time to nut up and confirm the package. That required a password.

I have PTSD. The remote is so small you could arse-conceal it without too much issue----and without even Googling for that I just know there are people who have gone to casualty with a streaming remote up themselves---and trembling hands from that condition and meds for that condition make using such things for password entry---with their line item alphabet and numbers selection---deeply frustrating. I was creeping forward along the sequence with numerous false starts and corrections and laughing maniacally at the absurdity of creeping claims against my damage making a normal person job a courageous Kirk roll equivalent. I gave up after one attempt.

Then I wrote this as a fuck you to that.

(Awkwardly fumbles for mic with intent to lift to head height and drop and drops it one third up, stands there a moment to absorb the effort has failed then meekly backs into dark).

Wednesday, August 07, 2019

Ravaged face meet salty tear

I have OCPD. One of its quirks is picking at the body. Only I chose my face and thus have a puckered scar patch on my cheek I keep tearing open.

I raged at it today, convinced I could tear it free, with hours devoted to tugging at raw skin ridges trying to rip my face off. 

It is and was deeply fucked up. That I can't stop is also fucked up.

Later I cried at past hurt and big tears rolled down my cheek ... and through the wound site.

Holy shit that stung like fuck. Like dance around stinging. I had to daub it dry,  tenderly because it's a fucking wound.

It'd be nice if something that fucked up gave you an edge and then I remembered it did and it does. My mental trauma and its expression of grief makes me frigging awesome---even with the face peeling then crying tears through it. Because I give a deep shit about things worth caring about then try to do things about it. 

Trauma; there's growth in them thar hideous literally scarring memories. 

Sunday, July 28, 2019

Happiness is ... warm cat secretion

For as long as I can remember, until they went away, there were a set of hard cover cartoon books---redolent with stale piss and dust---on the window sill of the toilet cubicle. A couple of them were Peanuts books with one specifically Happiness is a Warm Puppy. It featured the phrase "Happiness is..." on the left page with a Peanut cartoon with accompanying text explaining what the happy was on the right. One of the cartoons was the warm puppy as per the title of the book.

I wasn't reminded of that when I lowered myself to the ground to sop up the cat sick from the sick he just sicced onto the floor. It was mostly a green paste with lumps of ruined cat biscuits. The heat and feel of the brew was gag inducing.

But, here's the happy, the nature of his chuck up confirmed that what I stood in with a bare foot hours before near the laundry was sick and not a ghastly poo puddle. I had washed the foot in the shower, perched on one leg like a fucked up flamingo whilst waving the other 'neath the spray, generous foam cleanser across the flat sole, but still did not feel totally clean after.

So treading in cold sick is preferable to runny shit. That's a life lesson right there.

I'd also like to see the Peanuts take of that.

Saturday, July 20, 2019

Flashback in shower

Thanks to my dad when I soap myself in the shower I sometimes feel I am a pregnant man. Because I had once driven 10 hours for a visit and he asked when I was expecting.

Because I am fat.

Oddly that's not what caused the flashback, or flashbacks since it's oft a medley of fraught moments stitched together like the human centipede (have not seen; will never see).

I cried as the medley still ran as I got out and dried off. I later stood in my room softly shouting "No" over and over.

That slipped right into me; a corking beauty. Primal anger at shitty trauma. 

But what can you do? What the fuck can you do?

Friday, July 19, 2019

Foot rob

I have flat feet. For the most part they work like normal feet but they tire after not much and I have to take care when bare on a slippery surface because I will slip.

Last night the left one cramped. I'd had fatigue pain before---wearing flat shoes inspires much pain---but this was something else. I couldn't bear weight on it and was forced to hop about on the other not great one. It took an hour of rest 'fore I could stand again. The day after afterglow is not great either. The one "sliver" lining was the spasming foot caused a hang nail to pop up and I could de-ingown the nail without intervention.

Middle-age is when your body starts going but what shits me is that rip cord pulled pre-birth. I've had to cope with reduced functionality twinned with an apparent lazy facade (fat c___; it's a nice day, why aren't you outside?; you're on the floor again) my entire life. So to cop normal aging on an already fucked body is a double helping of fucked. 

I was rooted before birth then got rooted in life. Now again in mid-life. 

So I'm aggrieved; aggrieved for this life led and for the one that was stole.

I could have accepted this as "stuff happens" but I got bullied for it by people who got off on it.

I never really had faith though I was raised Christian. Part of me admires those who feel there is magic and the divine because it makes acceptance of rando shit possible.

But I don't have it; I am meek but my reward lies not on the other side. This is it, all there is, and I is grumpy cat at my body and the judgement it received.

Here endeth the lesson.

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.