Articles from Harrangue Man
In the '80s ads for shampoo would sometimes pimp their tear free qualities; the suds didn't sting your eyes in other words.I didn't cry today. I went for a ride with a cluster of horrors to dwell on but I didn't shout, yell or cry. I just reflected.Then, on the home stretch, I passed by a sea of green leafy trees that curved overhead. It was magical, like I was in Middle Earth ... on an electic assist man-trike.Last year threw some nasty shit me, and this year will as well.
It's a common enough ask in the aftermath of divine uterine expulsion day but I confess I was not expecting it to be asked that of me. It came from behind me and I thought it said to another until he came around to where I could see him.
We had eight crackers for four on Xmas day and one of my cracker items was a moustache comb.So I slotted it in the inside of my iPhone cover for those facial lip grooming emergencies. It's yet to happen but I have the satisfaction of being prepared.And to think I got kicked out of Scouts; dib, dib, dib, sob, sob sob.
Sunday is a popular day to be out and about walking by a lake so my lawfully mandated bell got the workout when I zipped past clusters of normal bodies doing normal walking.I had the ball kick burning on my mind and I knew a ride would help me mull over what to do. By the time I got back I hunted for relevant documentation, found it on the desktop where past Mikey had thoughtfully collected it, then sent it off to those affected.
After a massive kick to the mind nuts your wounded brain thinks about it; day and night. So I had nightmares. At one point there was an exam—so a school memory joined forces—and for some reason I had to leave the exam to do some important work thing knowing it would cause me to fail.How I go in a day is oft determined by bad dreams before waking.
The sound of children screaming is a fight flight trigger for me. Today, thanks to a paddle pool play date, there was a lot of it.I sat with the door open in my spot in the lounge room, left corner of the couch next to the lamp and table, and took it all in as I absorbed myself in whatever it was I was using on the tablet.
I'm tired of the bullshit; everyone is. I am draining all around me because it's "what bulshit is it this time?" If it's not a leg boil then it's PTSD. If it's not that then it's my failing once again to fix things that got broken—which triggers anxiety and PTSD. I'm a leech sucking joy with my bullshit. And just when you think one turd is done and dusted there's yet more bullshit.I would hate to be in my life; to deal with my bullshit.
British men or men raised by British men have a tendency to walk with their hands clasped behind their back, typically displayed when surveying a part of the world that wasn't theirs but they took anyway. If you watch old movies with British officers you'll see they all do it.Then men in my family—save for me—are tall. They're so tall they don't clasp their hands behind their back; they grip one wrist with the other hand.
Next door is having a jam session. They're all men, middle-aged and up, and congregate normally on a Sunday; but with the Canberra Xmas-NY shutdown it means they're free to rock it on a Friday.And rock it they are.