I endured a hideous bought of IBS, woken at 6 am in grueling pain. It wasn't until 8:30 I returned to bed but could not sleep, even with a hottie pressed deep against my aching gut.I didn't eat any trigger foods so I put it down to ill-luck. These things happen when you dance with the IBS fairy. But the hot water bottle helps.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I've been back to work for a few days now and I'm humming along. I slipped straight back into the seat and immediately produced high quality product for my org. As I left and said good night I got a cheery goodnight from my boss+ and boss+++++.It's good to be both loved and appreciated.WFTW.
I am a Harry Highpants. I am. It's just how I roll, ironically enough as my tum looks a bit like a roll. I am an HH because I have a sore gut much of the time and it's uncomfortable to wear pants at waist level. I also tend to wear drawstring pants, again because of comfort as a belt cinches unpleasantly on my roll-esque form. I wear my shirts hanging out instead of tucked in to hide the nature of my HH.
Blessed with depression and anxiety I give a fuck about my workplace. If I see an issue that needs reportin' I report it. That's just how I roll. I forgot to do a couple of things before I was forced to legally depart the building on gardening leave, one of which was to get a dead light fixed. Because dead lights look fucked and they make your work environment sad.
A year or two back my left ugg boot sprung a hole at the front. Great puffs of wool starfished out of the wound. I patched the hole with duct tape and it's been fine since. Last night, it was righty-boot's turn. Same place as where lefty got holed.I've had these boots since I forget how long. Since before I stopped picking my feet—infirmity prevents my reaching them to pick—with blood stains of picking sessions past coating deep within the hollows of the boots.
Sliders was an awesome sci-fi show from the '90s about a group of people skipping through alternate versions of Earth such as a version with no penicillin or one where it's always Christmas. Some parallel Earths were just a touch off the reality home earth of the original protagonists—ever so slightly different—and delightfully the series story arc had cro-mags as the over-all main antagonists (1). The other morning I stepped into the bathro
I was 17. We had a flock of 30 sheep and—intent on earning pocket money to buy AD&D's Battlesystem—I was helping my Dad in the pens.I was on my own and under some stress. I'm not sure why I was in the pen with the sheep but one of the sheep, an older model, aggressively bashed its head into my thigh.It was most painful. I don't recall if I was knocked to the ground but I remember I saw red.
One of the indignities of aging for a man is gradual scrotal drop. In that as you get older the skin of your scrotum lengthens and your balls gradually descend to the knees. It's started happening for me. I realised this not because of a mirror examination but because my balls got in the way. I was down to the last of the PJs, the pairs I rarely wear because they're not as comfortable and as supportive as my gold standard ones.
I am afflicted with vile IBS at the moment. It's literally a pain in the guts. But if I ride the bike and use other techniques I can manage that additional pain to the always ouch of my battered bod. But then there are the farts. Especially the farts. My room smells like an all-male share house. Poor tummy ... and poor nose.At least this happened during gardening leave.