I hate making phone calls; hate it. I hate having to deal with the social niceties and then find a way into the topic to be discussed. I know in this day and age to make a phone call to a stranger to their phone who is not expecting it is treated with wary suspicion by the stranger—if they even take the call at all. I threw myself into it. I called and called then called some more.
Articles from Harrangue Man
That's what greeted me after checking the toilet post motion. It is decidedly unsettling and deeply unsexy to see a thin trickle of watery blood after going number two but I know at least it's not my arse spouting it but the right thigh ever boil "popping" against the seat. It's watery because it's not just blood, it's whatever goes into a boil as well.
With a change in psychs it meant I had to brief the new one on me. I stole half of someone's appointment and ended at ninety-two minutes. I cried near the end after I spoke of what happened and how to deal with the twin injuries of childhood and adult trauma.The hardest was talking 'bout self harming through gouging at my face, thigh and feet.
There's a path junction that curves up a hill that forces me to dismount unless I go the other direction, turn around, and go up it at speed. I failed half way up and had to jam brakes to stop sliding and the angle meant I tilted and nearly tipped; twice. For I went back twice to try it after the first fail to see if it could be done. Ridden up without dismounting,Could not do it without the run up from the other direction.
I was too keyed up so I hit up a speaker before photos and had half a minute to make the pitch. I was nervous, stumbled and did a bad job. I caught myself pacing on the fail when I got home; for like a typo in a report that is a forever mistake and I have the fail sads. But you can only fail if you try; to not try is to never chance to succeed.Wheels within wheels, turns within turns.WFTW.
I realised as I said those words—it was a plastic back scratcher skeleton hand—that it was an unusual set of words to say and it sounded a bit like an early reader that went wrong ala "the cat sat on the mat" only in this case body parts instead of furnishings. That would make those readers more interesting and it should be encouraged with other body parts twinned with cat-based antics; "the cat nuzzled the hip bone", "the cat stood on the metatarsal" and "the cat ate the hippocampus; where t
For as long as I can remember honking up goobs on waking has been a thing for me and my unsettled lungs. Sometimes the cough ejects with force and the goob is powered through the air, with two fat ends and a linking middle bit like chain shot and it lands on something. In this case I coughed into my cupboard and saw "it" fly into the clothes within.
Technocrats are always on the hunt to make society run better. I found a hole and pitched the patch.
White House staff: please don't disparage Dr.
It's lucky the mystery of the bleeding into the toilet was solved—for it was the ever boil popping and leaking ichor out when rubbing on the toilet seat—or today's deluge would have sent me to the emergency room convinced my insides were liquefying and a slurry of organs was sluicing out my arse. The blood, and lots of it, was disconcerting. But the relief to wipe the inside of your leg to confirm it's just ordinary boil blood and not rectal blood is insane.