In addition to horror dreams a repeat offender is the "we've moved into the old house".I don't know why. But I'm there, showing theboy where we're putting things or we've been there as a family for a while. When we left they renovated it and removed carpet for polished floorboards. In the dream it's the shit carpet we had as renters. Sometimes there's a spooky extra shed that was never there when we were there and is not there now.Before this house it was the place we'd lived in the most.
Articles from Harrangue Man
I know this sounds sexy but it's super not. I had to wash chicken poo from the patio as we'd let them out for the afternoon. Since it was near dusk I needed to do it now by light of dying day. So with the nozzle on flat setting I draped the hose over my shoulder and down to foot level and swung it back and forth like a censor. That got the poo off. The chicks were still out though and they'd sully my efforts if they stayed out.
I wanted to read my paper and eat hot cross buns and it was too hot outside. So I put on a pair of my ear protection safety gear items and sat at the dining room table and got to survive the playing of the YouTubers. She screamed again, the British girl, but it was muted; like hearing a Hitchcock film playing in the next room.It's silly the screams of a British woman can put me on cusp of fight flight but then it would be the same no matter the gender or nationality.
I was feeding the adult brown hen some seeds from a cupped hand when she tried to eat my thumb. I said "hey" and then she did it twice more. She literally was biting the hand that fed her.Fucking hell, today is a day for clichés.
With PTSD comes the hand trembles, the severity increasing if you're anxious. I had a poor grip before I got whacked with the P stick so that combined with the injury and the meds means my fingers will spring open of their own accord. They have a meeting without me, there is a binding vote, and whatever I am holding has been dropped by the hand finger workers soviet.Sometimes the trembles and finger spring arcs up for no reason.
We all get sucked into it, events that chew time for no purpose but you keep pursuing it to justify all the costs; "we can't give up now, not when we're potentially still as far away from that thing you think can get done done!"I was in the pen attempting to herd the Polish Scruffs into the hutch so they could be locked in for the night. As I moved about to nudge them my body hurt and I realised it was pointless.So I said "this is a sunk cost fallacy" and left the pen.
I take it for granted I am male and that I can just roll out and off I go without care to what my appearance is.I'm judged on the instant as well; being short and fat nixes me from any sexy equations. But if I was tall, or normal height, and weight I could still slob around in whatevs. I don't have pressure to pay deft attention to my appearance; I am not rated on it. But every woman is; by themselves, by men and by other women.
Thanks to walking into the stump of a tree branch I have a bright healing scratch with lump beneath on my forehead.So it draws focus from the scar ridge on my cheek.Of course the first thing you'd notice is the weird baldness but it's nice to experience a change of scenery.
The last week of research and writing felt familiar and warm. In spite of warnings not to go longer than sixty minutes a day I went further and further past that line because I was back in. back in the zone for writing. Even though what I was doing was traumatic the zone took me, consumed me and I was in it.Today, I was pacing, nervous, waiting for something. And I realised I'd come in seeking the zone.