I had a friend into the shed and his bum was sore for sitting on the little red chair. So we swapped places.He removed the newspaper covering the shit cushion before sitting down. He did not see the stain before seating. I didn't have the heart to tell him why the newspaper was there but then he's a nurse so I am sure he would understand if I had. Perhaps it's time to just get a new cushion—and try not to taint it with my taint.
Articles from Harrangue Man
It's not me that's watching it, it's him. He's using my profile instead of his own.That's rat-cunning that is.
I was lost in an event, but more upset than angry, and I saw the cats were fine. One was asleep on the couch backrest and the other curled by the heater.They were not fussed by my fuss; maybe they've adapted to seeing a crying angry me so often. It's good to know. I hate these moments. I only broke it by physically leaving the house still ranting on the BYB until the exercise and vallium kicked in.It's draining being me. But I'll charge back up; I always do.WFTW.
It was Viconia who cast the finger of death spell on the shadow dragon—though I doubt it would have worked where it not for the Bhaalspawn's assist with lowering magic resistance—but still it immediately pleased me that not only did it work but that I had fingered a dragon to death.Yay, Baldur's Gate II: Enhanced Edition; even better than the original (even with the pro-bugs cleaned up).
It was right at ear level—outside for decorative purposes—when the balloon blew and right into my left ear.I froze with surprise but did not trip into a panic state.That's pretty sweet; a balloon pop in the ear for someone with issues about loud and sudden sound with PTSD not to cause me to scream "INCOMING" and hit the ground—though my PTSD is of the white collar kind—is a fucking miracle. Hooray for secular positive happenstances! Sure beats the shit out of the reverse.
I've a body littered with scars of dozens of wounds—because of my OCPD and my habit of picking at a scab as it is healing and therefore leaving a scar.The scar ridge on my cheek is the hardest wound yet to leave alone. When dried it's a lump of dried skin I know I could cut from my face (or pull it off) and it's a delight to pick.
I don't mean to---and they haven't done anything wrong---but my habit of falling into angry oratory V fuckwits in my life-wake causes them stress. They're typically in a lovely cat spot for an extended lie then I come in ranting and they perk up with worry in case they think I'm angry with them. Sometimes I'll catch myself and I'll turn mid-sentence from all caps shrieking to "... oh not you, sweetheart.
It was raining when I left the movies having seen Dunkirk---an unwise decision for someone with PTSD but I stuck it out with hands over ears for the loud bits---and so had to ride the BYB without electric-assist. For in the wet you have to turn it all off due to the system not being waterproof and electric.It was a thigh-busting ride in a decent spray of rain, a brutal laboured slog with more than one pause to catch a breather.
I’ve had a few rubbery moments of acute distress and I’ve noticed a new Mikey-response to overwhelming grief and that’s my need to hug something. The first time it happened—I was worried I’d made a mistake in an important career-defining email (I had)—I found myself hugging the wall between the corridor and the bathroom. I was hanging onto it because I was so overwhelmed in that moment I felt like I’d fall off a mountain and hugging the wall between rooms would prevent it.
A delicious part of trauma is the reliving of it; you get sucked back there again to that moment with all its attendant joy.Another yummy part are the anger storms that sweep across you as you recall an incident and all the failure that led to it. Then there are the deep, raging storms fuelled by childhood torment caused by the institutional failures that cruelled the younger you.They rage the longest because you were an innocent; whatever you did back then you were a child and if you fucked