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.