Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Noisy ninjas

You'd think it a paradox but theboy got a Ninjago Lego set and as he's building it the team members that came with the set are fighting or training and making a lot of HI-YA!-style noises.

They're not PTSD friendly noises so I am staying well away from that rowdy melee.

Who are ninjas; I mean I know the classic ninja outfit is actually a puppeteers costume from dramas that used stagecraft with that costume to represent their stealth on stage. But I am pretty sure not making noises whilst fighting would be a prime ninja skill need.

But who am I to correct the anachronism? It's just fun. Noisy fun---which is why I'm hiding here ... like a ninja...

(Star fishes above bathroom wardrobe area)

Volcano face

In the '80s to have a volcano face, to me at least, meant severe acne. I had peers that suffered it to the point their faces were left pitted and scarred as adults.

I have a volcano on my face but it's not a zit; it's a scar ridge lump of tissue from my picking at that spot during OCPD-fuelled space outs where hours go by and all I've done is sit, lie and pick at it while my mind drifts.

It's as if the steady pick, pick lessens your mind storm; a metronome beating to take you outside of your head.

But because I've done this the scar tissue has risen above the smooth lines of cheek skin and when the head of the scar is ripped off it's a red and glaring crater atop the white scar tissue that forms the cone

I have to take active measures against my OCPD desire to self-mutilate. If my son was going through this I'd be shocked, deeply worried that he was hurting himself. But I'm the one doing it to me. 

Last night, before they got home and saw the damage, I bravely clipped the beard hair away from the around the cone—brave because the setting was at 0 at I risked snagging a chunk of scar tissue as I removed the hair—got my prescription cream, daubed the spot and put on a bandaid. 

I am going to cover the spot each day and not pick it. It's going to be hard. There is a pleasure pulse you get from hurting yourself and triumph if you rip a chunk of scar tissue off even though that tissue will grow back, probably thicker. 

I hate that my injury made this minor habit a major fail; that to pick at my body until it bleeds gives me peace and comfort is warped brain chemistry and I have to actively stop it. I have to stop picking at my face because it looks bad, it's an infection risk and I enjoying doing it. 

Now I am going to find the baby nail clippers—which I can use one-handed with reasonable dexterity given my injury-caused hand tremours—and clip my finger nails right back so if the bandaid comes off and the skin gets dry I don't immediately go back to pick ... pick .... pick (hours pass).

UPDATE: thewife clippered back my finger nails  We sat on the swing seat in the garden. I used an emery board to smooth out sharp bits. So maximum physical security against picking have been applied—I've covered the site and removed the finger nails to the quick. Let's see if that works. 

It is bizarre to be utterly sane but be mentally ill. Stupid duality of man balanced on the edge of madness and reason.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Naked out from the side hatch

With thanks to Tenacious D.

In all the efforts to re-secure the tarp on the hutch I hadn't properly closed the side hatch and as such one of the Polish Scruffs escaped. 

It was a hell of a thing to corner—it can't fly but it can flap and gain about three feet and it flapped / ran into the weird water heater room at the back of the house that contains the heater and assorted gardening crap. I had to pull the mower out to try to get to the chick and as I did so I screamed at it "I AM A MIDDLE-AGED MAN!"

It was a statement with a clear tone of "I cannot deal with this shit". 

But I did catch it, trying not to hurt it, though it flapped in terror until I got it back into the hutch. 

I secured the side hatch. 

I believe that's the only time I have yelled my age category at a bird in anger at its antics that my now-aged-and-injured-crap-at-birth-body found a challenge to deal with. 

I love them to pieces when it's all going well, but fuck me I do get annoyed when they act like nature says when escaped from captivity and you try stay that way. I'm sure if I had left the hutch door open that the others would have stayed in and the escapee would have eventually joined them at dusk. But I wanted certainty they were locked away and ended up in an unpleasant not funny chase sequence with a fear-crazed bird which involved age-based shouting.

Fuck kids getting off my lawn; chicken, get out the fuck out of my water heater room! (waves stick).

Saturday, January 13, 2018


I have a womb-warped body with short arms and short fingers. Combining that with injury to my ability to handle objects due to PTSD it means I struggle to do basic things. 

We had fierce winds and lashing rain so I tried to move the cover on the chicks' hutch. Only I fucked it up and had to take it off and try and put it back on. But with my short arms, my inability to handle fine objects like small D clasps meant I could not put it back on. Plus my glasses kept falling off because the frames are bent and pain sweat kept causing them to slip off if I looked downward.

I had a rage attack at the cover, ripping it off and stomping on it, after 30 minutes of concentrated, deep painful bending and lying on the ground trying to get it back on.

This is something a normal person could do. This is something I cannot. This is when I feel robbed, that my life was stolen. First by my parents who couldn't be arsed to look after me in the womb then bullied me for the result and then by my workplace injury that makes my already womb-fucked life exceptionally more challenging.

I had to take Valium, brace the cover as best I could without clamps or rings because my womb and work robbed fingers cannot manipulate them and because I was trying to do it bending which my womb-fucked body screams in agony when I do it.

Stolen; my life of being normal was stolen from me. I never had a fucking chance.

Sure without all of this crap I couldn't have done what I did t but that pales when you're in juddering, angry tears because you're not normal; you're sub-normal and you feel it. 

UPDATE: The wind tore the cover off. I have used kettle bells to hold it down on one side and a giant inflatable hot dog to hold down the other. Kettle bells and an inflatable hot dog; that's my solution. So far it's holding. 

Friday, January 12, 2018

Called it

I was interacting with the guy manning the till and for some reason felt I needed to defend the still wearing of the bike helmet and hat.

"It's not to hide that I'm bald," I happily confessed, "I just can't be arsed taking it off.

"Besides, if I did then with all the sweat my hair would sprout out like on a mad professor."

I got home, took off the helmet and hat then happened to see myself in a mirror.

Every last strand was standing at sweaty attention; I looked like a character from Dr. Seuss or The Hunger Games.

Balding; the icing on the cake of being short and fat.

On the ride back I went past ...

... either a tree stump that looked like a kangaroo; a kangaroo; a person in a kangaroo costume; or someone in a tree stump costume only it looked more like a kangaroo than a stump.

I was speeding downhill at the time and couldn't be fucked turning around to confirm it but presumed on balance it was likely the first one.

Only later there was a knock at the door from someone in a kangaroo costume who just heard I'd been talking shit about his outfit and he hit me with a tree branch.

So now what the fuck am I supposed to think?

Thursday, January 11, 2018

Nothing sneaky about Senator Feinstein

Trump, I still find it hard to preface his name with the word "President", just had a go at Senator Dianne Feinstein because of her releasing testimony from Fusion GPS (the research service that created the infamous pee pee dossier) that makes Trump look as guilty as he almost certainly is.

As part of that "having a go" he called her "sneaky".

Now I presumed Trump being Trump and in spite of him having a daughter who converted to Judaism was basically using a "Jews are sneaky" canard against Senator Feinstein.

I was curious to see if she was even Jewish—and she is—but even if she wasn't she sounds Jewish and that's all Trump needed to know to add the term sneaky. Oh those Jews, with their education and learning—and their occasionally being forced to convert to the Russian Orthodox faith which is what happened on Feinstein's maternal side.

There is nothing sneaky about Senator Dianne Feinstein. I read her wiki; she spent her entire life fighting for people she does not know and to improve her community. She is an exemplar of a positive politician who got into the game to fix shit that was broken and to make the world a better place. Someone even tried to kill her with a bomb at one point in her earlier career. 

And she's 84 for fuck's sake. She is an 84-year-old woman fighting for people in the Senate. She is entitled to walk off and enjoy the elder part of her life but she's rusted on because she is committed to serve. 

I dislike the GOP members who are pale, aged and male and spent decades in their slot denying people a chance to improve their starting condition. But on the flip side there's Senator Feinstein, their polar opposite. Same long service but fighting them the entire way.

(Fist raised for Senator Feinstein)

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

Recumbent bike

I went past a man with a recumbent bike. He was in the middle of a phone call. He looked like Booger from Revenge of the Nerds only with a bike helmet and shades. His t-shirt said "Incontinental"—either that pun name or the actual hotel chain. 

Either way the thing was he was standing.

If you have a recumbent bike why would you stand to take or make a call? 

It makes no sense. But then my body and that style of bike would not work so it makes no sense to me how you use it. 

I did another lake ride, Dark Side of the Moon playing on my old Sony Mp3, with bird song intermingling. I flitted between power assist at level two and level three, choosing the higher (and easier) setting for the final stretch home. The last time I did it I did it either without power or risking electrocution when it seemed dry enough after being caught in a storm. It was joyful compared to the brutal slog of the lake attempt before and a reminder that shitty experiences make you appreciate the good ones even more. 


Tuesday, January 09, 2018

Sharted in the shower

I didn't mean to—I don't think anyone consciously does unless it's for art, sex or both—but I filled the shower with the horrid smell of wet shit as it came out.

I cleaned myself, dried, then with a still damp bum went to the toilet and dropped the rest. 

Then I went back to the shower to get really, super clean. I to make sure there was no me left on the tiles of the shower well. I moved the head back and forth to really wash out the corners. 

A shart in the shower is no way to start a day; actually sharting any time or place is no way to start anything.

Later, as I let the adult chickens out of their fox proof sleeping cage, I found a thumb-sized rubber Darth Vader head. It had nothing to do with my sharting but it was a weird thing to find in your chicken pen.

Sometimes a day will start like that; with a shart and the find of a strange toy in an unusual place. If I believed in the rule of threes then the day will end with my alien abduction or passing out for whatever reason. 

Oh, universe, you do tease me so with your happenings.