The Monk just landed on me and stole my bag of gold; that's not very mendicant.Talisman!
Articles from Harrangue Man
I ruminate when I ride outside and lately I've worked myself into grief fits every time. It's a mix of hurts, a litany of woe, then it's yelling and angry plinking tears; like from a really shit shampoo.I sometimes catch myself then apply brakes of CBT; or I'll keep riding til it passes and I'm left with the sullen afterglow of losing something I never had. I have all this anger and nowhere to put it.It's balls it is; balls.
... it's a great sword.
We've been letting three of the eight chickens into the garden each day because of a civil war fought over the yellow pekin and consequently there is chicken shit dusting the path between patio and shed. I grabbed a broom from a dustpan and broom set but it's designed for one handed use by normal people. I'm short and I needed to double-hand it to get the right amount of power to dislodge a turd and fling it out of the way.
I am covered in a generous down, save, of course, for the top of my head; my hair has a demarcation line it will not cross.I chucked my morning meds in my mouth and missed with one of them, it plunging down my neckline where it was caught in a thatch of chest hair like a hero off a cliff that lands in a clutch of vines.It was the main one too; the head med that turns acute injury-metastasised anxiety from "YARGH!" to merely "yargh?".It's typical that I'm dusted with all over hair yet for the
This happened a while back but my mind just recalled it. I was riding along when I heard an insistent murmuring above.I looked up and there were 10 thousand cockatoos roosted along the phone wires.Well, it seemed 10 thousand. It was probably 200 or so.It was 199 too many.
Being outside and in Australia is all that is needed to be yelled at by bogans and it's usually from a vehicle like a car or ute but I wouldn't put it past them to try it from a hot air balloon or out-rigger canoe.I got yelled at. I'm in my forties but it's a hard worn bald bearded and fat forties. So I cop a higher frequency of bogan drive-bys. Today was a dual-cab and the comment left in my visitor book was "flashie grandpa; fucking hell."I was riding my bike and the yell startled me.
In the nation's capital during COVID-19 the government has mandated 30 minutes of daily outside exercise—well, they've said if you're doing it then just do 30 minutes to reduce exposure. So on nice days I've been barrelling out on the electric pushie and drinking in the bliss that is outside Canberra.I am not the only one and the paths are replete with vehicle and animal types: prams, bikes, pedestrians, dog/s and so on. At first I rode well off the path to avoid.
The other day I did number two and for a moment my insides were in a null state, like empty with no feeling of a new one started. It felt like the bowel moving equivalent of that Community ep where Troy enters the room of perfect air conditioning. It didn't last long and I lost it but if you see me around I'll admit that I had it.
The ever boil on the inside of my right leg was popped and it gobbed itself in a Pollock-esque spray across the room, striking the arms of the white Dr Evil chair, new for working from home, the desk and things on the desk. I thought we'd got it all then saw a weird icon on the address bar that was in fact a great glob of boil blood.