Anxiety hampers the willingness and ability to gain a new skill, especially if there is biggly irritation to it. But the re-spawn has its devil payment due; you're forced to go down these paths because it's just part of the gig. I spent three hours grappling with a Lovecraftian Steampunk machine, a hybrid of computer and mechanical—arms, levers, arches, trapdoors and hidden compartments that could burn or rip skin off were you not careful.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I have extremely broad and flat feet thanks to a wonky nine month ride pre-birth.
I have a propensity to crash new vehicles into things—-I crashed a houseboat when I was watching TV. Today I got my third bike—an actual purpose electric bike with the two wheels not three.I was wobbly at first but got the hang of it. I got too adventurous though; I zipped from the road to the pavement up a footpath dip then by error went on the very edge of the curb and nearly fell sideways onto the road at speed.
I was wearing a blue TARDIS shirt whilst brushing my teeth and saw in the mirror the TARDIS shower curtain behind me.
Because I have PTSD and take meds for PTSD my hands and fingers have a light tremble and my fingers open of their own accord. I've watched it close up, like Attenborough five inches from an ant hill, and seen them spring open or twitch a little in the open direction.
With thanks to Yes Minister.I have PTSD with large motes of depression, anxiety and OCPD, and one of the many wonderful ticks is revving on past hurt. Needing to fill the silence with sound to stop that I went to to stream content to discover that the trial had ended and it was time to nut up and confirm the package. That required a password.I have PTSD.
I have OCPD. One of its quirks is picking at the body. Only I chose my face and thus have a puckered scar patch on my cheek I keep tearing open.I raged at it today, convinced I could tear it free, with hours devoted to tugging at raw skin ridges trying to rip my face off. It is and was deeply fucked up. That I can't stop is also fucked up.Later I cried at past hurt and big tears rolled down my cheek ... and through the wound site.Holy shit that stung like fuck. Like dance around stinging.
For as long as I can remember, until they went away, there were a set of hard cover cartoon books---redolent with stale piss and dust---on the window sill of the toilet cubicle. A couple of them were Peanuts books with one specifically Happiness is a Warm Puppy. It featured the phrase "Happiness is..." on the left page with a Peanut cartoon with accompanying text explaining what the happy was on the right.
Thanks to my dad when I soap myself in the shower I sometimes feel I am a pregnant man. Because I had once driven 10 hours for a visit and he asked when I was expecting.Because I am fat.Oddly that's not what caused the flashback, or flashbacks since it's oft a medley of fraught moments stitched together like the human centipede (have not seen; will never see).I cried as the medley still ran as I got out and dried off.
I have flat feet. For the most part they work like normal feet but they tire after not much and I have to take care when bare on a slippery surface because I will slip.Last night the left one cramped. I'd had fatigue pain before---wearing flat shoes inspires much pain---but this was something else. I couldn't bear weight on it and was forced to hop about on the other not great one. It took an hour of rest 'fore I could stand again. The day after afterglow is not great either.