Tissue in the washI checked every fucking pocket, I swear, every single one. But I missed have missed one because I opened the lids and saw the results. There's the good result where a tissue stays in shape—I found one that went through the wash and dryer and separate into three intact dried sheets on three separate garments—and the bad one where it shreds and pulps through your clothes.It was the bad one. I yelled as I shook the shards free, snowing the laundry with their crud.
Articles from Harrangue Man
It's not often you get to write a string of seeming nonsensical words that actually make sense but that's exactly what I did; I de-shanked my mid-tine.The jagged stump of the mostly-missing middle finger, or tine, of the back scratcher protruded and risked scarring my flesh so I used pliers to snap the plastic back until it was just a nub; in effect ruining the shank effect th
With thanks to The Simpsons.In the great shed clan up of '17 the skeleton hand back scratcher was presumed tossed so I relocated the better of the two inside BS's for sweaty, hairy back shed-based action.It's glorious, with five finger tines that are sharp enough to give a decent scratch but not enough to hurt yourself if you go nuts. Well, was glorious and is no longer five-gingered; the middle one has bee
I got lost on the BYB when retracing my route, only discovering so when the bike path ended in the middle of a long stretch of dual lane. As I crossed the road a car had to slow and tooted. It was fair enough; if he'd not slowed he'd have clipped me and sent a fat hairy whirlwind of flesh, rubber and steel into oncoming traffic. I retraced my pedals and found the under pass I had passed and went back through.Each day I try to ride somewhere new and getting lost is just part of the fun.
A shart is always a surprise; I doubt anyone has consciously birthed one out with deliberation unless impaired in some fashion.I caught most of it but it was still ghastly and I showered as soon as I was clean enough to risk movement. That's my IBS for me; it can be bearable and then suddenly ARRGH, I JUST SHAT MYSELF!Damn you, abdominal business. I do feel oddly better. It's sleeping with undies time just in case round two comes at me. It might; the IBS, it does not play fair.
Atop the BYB I gain about two inches and thanks to it being a trike—three wheels for greater stability and strength—I can simply sit when I come to a stop to do things like find out on my phone where the fuck I am. I'm like a bikder—a bicycle drider with the latter the half-Drow, half-spiders from D&D; three wheels for eight legs.
Anxiety is self-fulfilling. I was dropping things—more than usual—and it was frustrating. Then it was anxiety-inducing because it reminded me of the injury and that made me anxious. The more anxious I got the more my hands trembled and more my hands trembled the more anxious I got. I wanted to try and put the replacement bell on the bike but I dropped the screwdriver three times. In the end I walked away because it was too frustrating.
I was aboard the BYB and had stopped dead at the base of an arched overpass when I attempted to ride forward.
It's a rainy Anzac day in the nation's capital and not fit for outside riding. So it's exercise bike time which, as it turns out, is not that fun.
I had an Epic Cook Off—in title case so I can intialise to ECO. It was sparked by a casual mention of a topic and it cut straight through my ego defence and I lost it; I had fight AND flight. I ended up crying in the street and it took about an hour to come down from it. Fully ghastly. I had to have a couple of drinks and a shower to take the edge off; my top was soaked from rage and scare sweat. I loathe that I had an ECO—it's been a while since I had one.