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.