It sounds like a sausage fest.
Articles from Harrangue Man
The nastier aspect of having OCPD is picking at the body. I pick at my face, neck and thigh.I saw the psych and discussed steps to stop it. Then I went home and kept doing it. I had the cream next to me and I would not put it on to stop myself on the first two until early afternoon. Then I had a go at the thigh. It's nuts to discuss self-harming then go home and self-harm. At least I stopped; that is the win here.
It's a hell of a thing to be lying down and experiencing your body spasming in different places: back of a knee, a little finger, a calf muscle. They remind me I've been wounded and those wounds are unfair.But I copped most of them in the service of the state and I wouldn't have been me if I hadn't.So I fall back on that when the spasms ripple; they're the price I pay to be me.WFTW.
"Democrats, or Demon Rats, have taken over transmission stations and invited aliens in person to probe each and every one of you."These aliens have your picture and address along with a personal item for their robot bloodhounds to sniff you out, to track you to where you are hiding, pull you out and stick that probe in you."Cryin' Schumer will be standing next to the gantry, they all have them, folks, he'll be there with a whip whipping you into the holds of their slave ships where more probi
Certain noises are bound to startle; have PTSD and a lot of such sounds in quick succession you'll end up balanced on flight-fight for future noises. The first nasty was a five foot drop of a nail varnish bottle onto a varnished wooden floor. The rest were dice that missed the table and hit the same surface. In the end we rolled the dice (five at a time) into a box so they wouldn't shoot away except of course a couple did.
The ever boil had ballooned and it was popped; lanced with a needle and squeeeeeezed. I felt every e.We had to pause for a breather then we went again, the tissue wad blossomed with boil gunk.Agonising. So it's hot water bottle time and pain meds. The site is quivering in aftershock.The inner thigh boil; it just keeps on giving.
It was my birthday recently and I thought of it in the context of childhood and school and how utterly sad I was to be trapped in the body of a fat child; for life. I am stunted in growth, have shorter fingers than I should and my joints are mildly fucked up. None of this was my choice; nor was it my choice to become fat—genetics and a womb-deformed body soaked in pain did that for me.
One of the chickens tried to eat me. She jumped up and bit my right middle knuckle, I presume because she thinks I am part food. There are animals who can be partially food such as lizards tuat can drop their tail but I am not like that. Unless they're into hair and nails then there's nothing else I consider they could have from my person.If I pass out in the pen then I shudder to think what will be gotten to while I lie defenceless.
I don't tap online ads save by accident and thanks to PTSD and meds for PTSD my fingers flick open of their own accord. Or stab downwards when surfing with a tablet.Because I've tapped on that ad twice I now see it populated across other sites in addition to the site I was reading.They objectively look like nice clothes though as a potato man they'd be no good on me. They're for long slender gals.My PTSD also likes short shorts; it has eclectic taste.