I had two strong ciders then blew up with gas an hour later. As in feeling inflated on the inside and ripping forth cider spawned nose horrors.Cider. It was just cider. And Chinese food.Stupid body; except it's not, that would imply malice or negligence on its sentient part. It's not its fault.But it could always be worse; always.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I went twice today with no sign of arse blood. Yesterday must have been a mild now healed tear.We had a chat about rage fits in the car and it was pointed out rightly that a high emotional state can lead to distraction such as impaired vision from crying or being so lost in the anger you're not concentrating on the road.I had an across Canberra drive to do that night and on the way a roo darted to the side of the road but did not cross before me.
It's bright blood so it's likely a minor tear on the inside but there is nothing quite like seeing blood after a motion, real or attempted. I thought it could be from wee but nothing appears when standing and just doing that. It's happened before, the arse bleed, and it went away. If it keeps happening then back to the doc with a new problem.If my body was a car it'd be a Trabant ... that bleeds out its exhaust pipe.
The go to moment in movies for depiction of PTSD is to show someones startle reflex fire off from a trigger event; the infamous helicopter flashback caused by ceiling fan trope.In reality, while that happens, the everyday result for some is reduced manual dexterity and ability to pick up and stay holding of objects.Or tease apart a bin liner so it can be rolled out into the bin.
I talk to myself when driving alone; it's a habit from practicing for talking that blew into emotional release if my steam needed venting. So I boiled off on a four minute drive back from the shops to the point of spittle-flecked shouting as the anger consumed me. It was the same record; being saddled with a fucked body and navigating a world who saw fit to monster me for it. Whether it was active or passive, either way it was fucked.
That's a good name.
I have reduced mobility with a slow, shuffling gait. But I was working in a place where fast walking is the norm and needed for normal business. So I upped my pace to keep pace with others and then went on assorted missions that involved lots of walking. I got a stitch and nearly threw up multiple times as my wobbly body was put through the ringer. I'm balding and that means bald sweat.
I was circumcised as a baby for no medical reason but for desert warfare. Seriously, my mum looked at me and thought "desert warfare" and "this will keep it clean."I suppose I should be impressed at her geopolitical foresight to snip the foreskin but due to not turning in the womb my stunted skeleton was in no way fit for warfare.
Due to a poor grip, PTSD and meds for PTSD I drop things. I dropped a fork into the dishwasher and had to reach through to get it. I flipped it over to get a better grip, tines facing down, then used the arch of the fork as the lock on site, pinching it then wending the fork through the rack.So it turns out I could turn back tines; I found a way.Your move, Cher.
When you live the life of a broken person you get sad at yourself for the absence of acceptance. For example. theboy has a friend who now has to wear glasses and he got hassled for it. I said "It's not like he went 'ERRRGH; and summoned the powers of the supernatural to weaken his vision". In that being teased for an acquired disability is most fucked and dumb to hassle someone about it. The heuristic shorthand became "I'm X; I'm going to weaken my vision!" (ERRRRGH).