As said after the hairdresser noted for a balding man I had a lot of neck hair."I know; it's like my hair slipped from my head and cascaded down my back in a frozen hairy waterfall."It's true---and funny. I'm glad I said it; fuck you for doubting me.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I got a gentle re-steer on work that was sandwich given—good idea / let's do it this way / less is more / good idea. I'd been so used to working one way that I'd not considered the new. I appreciated the gentility. I called in to apologise for jumping the gun and ended with an efficient re-do that met the need. I got feedback and acted.
When I ride an exercise bike my arse will eventually go numb. I don't know if that happens to other people but it does for me. It sometimes gets so numb all I can sense is my rectum and what it is brewing. It's not a pleasant feeling, the numb arse, and the way to bring it back to life is to rise in the saddle and let blood flow.If you're impatient you can also rub or slap it to help relieve the numbing.I was in a hurry, in a small pause and wanted to drop back down and keep riding.
I was pushing my right leg into the tracksuit pants when out of the bottom leg hole dropped a sock. It must have static-clung to the insides when in the dryer and remained bonded to the pants until it got birthed out by my leg.It's a nice sock too, with purple trim around its own hole.I did think though the doula, the scented candles and the paddling pool was a bit much but the pants insisted.
It was a frosty arvo in the nation's capital as I achingly strode back from a mission when a passing banana bus, the double bus with an accordion-like midsection, triggered its air brakes.The piercing whoosh caught me broadside but at a distance, not up close, so the startle response of my PTSD only kicked in for the moment it happened and ebbed in seconds leaving an energy boost after glow from the adrenaline hit.When it happened I yelled "JESUS FUCK" and hopped into the air about a foot bef
I was on the way out of the bigs' pen, an egg in hand, when I found myself lying on the ground on the front wall of the pen, a crushed egg in my hand and chicken muck up my legs. It was a slippery surface and I have mobility issues. I likely just slid then fell but I had no memory of the fall—I was just lying dazed on a mesh grill pen side with egg bits streaked across my palm. I could get up and I put the pen side back—but not secured as my shaking fingers are not up to that.
It's been a few goes now and I've slipped right back into it. I have access to better tech, better facilities and have cut-through. I was alone; now I serve a team. I get paid half of what I got before but I insisted to keep costs down; I'm in it for the mission, not for the cash. I'm a short, fat technocrat and I am fucking glorious. WFTW.
The trouble with a bus ride home is that you have time to think. I'd had a convo about unpleasant work life then caught the bus. I sat and thought of that then childhood crap and started crying. Not hulking sobs, stone face with tears trickling. I didn't hide it nor did anyone pay it mind. I didn't make a sound, I just leaked. As if I was over-full and water pressure demanded a release. I stopped midway.
I'm playing the Minstrel in Talisman. He had a Talisman but the swarm of flies he charmed earlier just fucked off with it.Glorious.
"I look like I attempted matter transport with a potato."That's gold; I shouldn't say things like that in formal settings like interviews---which of course I did---but it's still gold.Acceptance of self for the win.