Well, it's not really an ode but more of a list. Because of my PTSD and my meds I have jittery hands whose fingers have a poor grip. Which means unless I am concentrating I may drop what I am holding.Things I have dropped include: pens, keys, thumb drives, cutlery, glass mugs, my phone, phone cables, computer cables and, most of all, bottle lids. The latter is light and with jittery hands they are hard to get back onto the bottle and then thread them down correctly.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I'm still enduring IBS and gas pain, a situation I've decided to call "Hitler bloat" since that nasty little git suffered the same as me. It's funny since it means he was both figuratively and literally full of shit.
I'm afflicted with IBS and my guts are bloated with stolen wind.
The duck when it lived here would grub about in the muddy dirt he'd moistened with water splashed out from the big tub we'd put in the pen for his use.He'd then walk around with a mud mustache for the day in a display of authoritarian machismo.I noticed the big chicken recently tooling around with a dirt moustache and glaring about having adopted the look of the previous ruler.That chicken scares me---and the other chickens.I better make sure it doesn't try to re-annex the washing line.
The other day theboy rage quit the pen door when he bumped his head and knocked a hole in the mesh next to the gate frame—a hole big enough for even the big chicken.Later he realised the chickens were out and furiously attacking the greenery. So we had to herd the chickens which is difficult because I can only bend if I take care and effort and squatting involves extreme discomfort.
The black cat sits upon my raised knee when I'm on the couch. From her seated position sometimes she tries to lick my nipple. I'm guessing it is because I wear thin shirts and my nipple protrudes enough to draw the eye ... and tongue. It is genuinely unsettling.
I was taking a plate to the kitchen when I bumped into the fridge and the plate jammed into my nipple---like right into it. It fucking hurt.
"I'm watching TV in the ruins of my house!"
Ladies PJ pants; blackLong-sleeved collarless black shirt.Black bandaid across second stress scar on face. About to ride a black bike.Black; it's the go to for absence of colour and light for 2017.
Trump and Co. attempting to govern is like 16-year-old me learning to drive in the front paddock in the mini and my nearly driving it into the dam. My father's angry panicked reaction putting me off ever wanting to learn to drive with him again---and ditto for him.I had a look at a righty's blog the other night---all filled with ad hominum anti-Obama attacks.
I hadn't seen the scruff—who looks like Don Music—all morning so I entered the chicken pen to find her thinking her dead and perhaps needing to remove her corpse.As I went in I slipped straight into hyper vigilance—a common trait of PTSD—because of the duck who is no longer here.