I have wretched feet—utterly flat, as if drawn by a lazy cartoonist. If there is any imperfection upon the surface that I tread in bare feet I will notice.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I was speeding along a sloped straight bit on my trike when I was overtaken on the left by my mudguard as it snapped off and shot over my shoulder. It nearly hit me. I don't know why my trike decided my mudguard would snap off then try to kill me but it did and it failed. I don't use it in the mud so the lack of a mudguard isn't too irksome.
I cannot bend without afearing my legs will snap off. But I can lift my foot up whilst free balancing on the other.So I use my toes as fingers to grab an object then lift it to finger height. I don't have terrific feet either but my toes don't tremble like the fingers so if I drop something the toes get it and hand it back to the fingers.I dropped seven pieces of clothing, mostly socks, whilst putting away dried laundry.
I'd accidentally gotten hooked on The Crown then got to the episode about schooling—the sentencing of a child to an institution that is in no way applicable to that child. In this case Prince Charles being sent to a horror show in the highlands where cold showers and dawn runs were the norm. He hated it; every year. So I got triggered. I got triggered seeing his shitty school experience in mine; of being a square peg in an institution for round people and suffering as a result.
The startle reflex is the most shit outcome of PTSD—where if you're triggered you go into "Cartoon hole in the wall" phase where, if you could, you would punch through a wall to escape leaving a silhouette void where brick once was. I had an hearing test to see if my startle reflex as more acute because I have greater hearing sensitivity and it turned I both did and did not—a Schrodinger's cat reaction.
YouTube selected "Take On Me" by a-ha and I laughed at the ending where the cartoon hot dude with the nice hair rents space-time to become real to be with the reality lady hero where they've only had a dance, a fight and universe hopping in a short space of temporal time and that's nothing you can build a long-term relationship on.
I've dropped the habit of hardcore daily exercise and am struggling to get back into it. Since it was nice out I forced myself out to ride outside.And it was nice but I got swooped near a church school and stuck one hand up as antlers to scare them off 'til I caught sight of the shadow of that and stopped: I looked like a pregnant human cross moose (1).As I approached an overpass I looked across trees and grass to see a man stealing government soil.
It's fucked to decay in mid-life. I've one hip done and knees and the other hip need doing and I don't want to do them. The first was brutal—three more is yuck.I read a birth defect is like getting a joker if jokers are bad—a chaotic impost at the start of life.Chaos brings light so burn bright as the dark chokes you.That should be in a fortune cookie. Along with "Face the fierce tiger with your chair but know that the chair is you ... as is the tiger."That would make a nice change.
It's on the inside of my bedroom door and it's not real—nor fake, I haven't stuck a falsie on it. It's a coat hanger where the hanger part is black plastic and against the white of the door it makes it seem it has a moustache. I smile when I get a towel that the moustache keeps hooked on the peg.I think more portals should experiment with facial hair. An archway with a Van Dyke? A sliding door with sideburns?
The trouble with my scars that I pick is they are a delight to pick; deeply satisfying.In order to stop it I put on cream but unless you have something to suplant the urge to pick you don't put the cream on.So I have a Slinky. Instead of ripping at face flesh I bounce that, bungee jumping the end to the floor again and again. And when I'm not doing that I can finger the inside as it sits next to me.It's nuts to enjoy picking your bod and then summoning the will to stop.