I had to walk 45 minutes to get to a bus then spent an hour walking home after I got off. It was agonising. I started crying half way on the last stretch and reflected on normalcy being stolen by my mother who didn't look after me in utero and damaged my body, which they both enjoyed bullying mme for.
I don't have a penchant for women's clothes but my PTSD does.
Ingredients: Donald Trump, government.1. Take Donald Trump and add government.Serves seven billion.
I was closing the toilet door when for a brief moment my brain registered the text burst on a comic cover of The Fantastic Four as “Hey, we all make mistakes.” The comic cover is one of about sixty on a poster on the back of the door to look at when straining one out.Of course that’s not what it said. It actually said “Among us hide ... the Inhumans!” which is not sage advice but rather bigoted.I prefer the non-racist misfire to that sordid business.But we all do make mistakes.
I got grief swamped and trapped crying with the car door open. It took a good couple of minutes to break from the paralysis. I started walking then heard my name. It was a former colleague. We kvetched about the insane bullshit we faced and then I found out what she did now and that I could help.If re-focussed me; that the best way to defeat the past is to win the present. I can't think of a better fuck you than that.WFTW.
Tools and I don't get on, especially after onset of PTSD because in addition the hand shake is that you drop stuff when your fingers spring open.At school I was banned from tool use because I had to wear sneakers. I got sent to clean industrial sinks of industrial muck.So we don't get on and I get my partner to do that shit at home 'cos she can and has a knack for it.Today I had to bust my no tool use cherry and armed with a drill unscrewed multiple goods.
I have IBS and one of its weird tricks is to pump you to bursting with poo gas. Last night the noisome reek was so bad I sequestered from others to spare them the stink, my already life-distended tum even more so by a seeming cathedral of rectal gas fury.I took pain killers but they took an hour to kick in 'cause my belly was also full of cake and ice-cream.Yep, I ate that whilst afflicted with gas pain.
I felt my beard growing so it was time to pare back. The wound on my face got snagged a mo' and I winced at it snapped free off the skin shard.The beard was gray to mostly white; like a grizzled whale, the wound a barnacle on my face hull. It's an odd sensation; the real-time perception of facial hair growth then an urgent need to get it off 'cause you didn't want to Dr. Who it and transform into a fungus monster or something. Earlier I had a brain dump with new psych; we tackled grief.
It's not in the toilet itself but on the shelf above the cistern. It is black and rubber.I feel like Woody from Toy Story save my serpent menace is not colocated with footwear but excrement extraction.Stupid snake with its toilet overwatch; it gives me the shits.
All those words make sense apart but not together unless you're an Ozzer.But fanged it I did and it was then for the fourth time that day my phone fell out of my pocket save this occassion at the speed of an epic fang.My new phone case is robust and the phone was fine.