I wasn't paying attention to the YT-through-the-TV show theboy was watching about animation so didn't understand what was happening when he span around in place then yelled "BAAAAAAAAAAA" at me like a demented sheep.I got spooked and said not to do that again then he explained it wasn't a mad sheep but a happy sponge in pants of square and he was trying to do the voice.Later he warned me before trying again and now I could hear the SpongeBob in it and also it was fired towards the TV and not
Articles from Harrangue Man
When it comes to assessing motivation for behaviour you reflect on examples. I nutted these through with my psych and she said the issue is for what you see as stand out examples of typical actions the other sees them as isolated, unconnected events that do not typify them.Like the adage a lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client if you're the one being assessed then you're going to be blinkered.
OCPD is not fun, though it makes me a better person. In addition to obsessive compulsion to do what I must I also pick my feet. Today I ripped a hole into the side and the bottom of my right foot.
"Oh balls deep in a salad!"As said when my trembling finger tips could not tease apart newspaper pages.PTSD; I'll give it this, it is great material.In other scaredy news I was at the bus stop and was twice spooked by air brake hissing. But I didn't cry on the ride home so that's a win.This has been "Fun with PTSD".
The locker room; a staple of childhood and school, though in Oz they are change rooms as there are no lockers, they are a scene in everyone's head who had a growing body and had to reveal it to others. What's it like to be a frozen, muddy boy then shower as a group? Hideous.
I was at a meeting in lush Canberran Wintery surrounds; a dimly lit room enhanced with candles—actual wax with the burning and the melting—and a roaring fireplace as like-minded met to discuss the way ahead. For comfort's sake and so I didn't have to sit next to people I put my chair against the wall. I man spread 'cos of my skeleton and people either side should not have to put up with that.
From what I can remember a chicken will head to a roost point at slightly one candlepower of remaining dusk light.So the others had gone into the hutch but the Polish Scruff, the one with the greatest leap, was atop her alternate roost, the mesh roof of the big chicken pen.It means me having to turn sideways between a fence and the pen, tummy rubbing the metal through my shirt, then shift tow squeeze between a shed and the pen until I get to where I can grab her.The last two nights I had a to
Sometimes when you have PTSD you blindside it; you don't react as an animal but instead enter serene calm as a storm crashes upon you.Yesterday I was riding, bare chested, in the shed when theboy came in crying. He'd made me something at school but dropped it a puddle and was super sad.I feel acutely vulnerable on the exercise bike; it faces away from the door and I am not aesthetically pleasing and know it. I'm sweaty and grotesque and the riding hurts.
My Leprechaun was attacked by Talisman's drunken Tavern Farmer with strength of three and whose pic has him armed with a pitchfork being used as a pole-arm---why he took his pitchfork with him to the Tavern is beyond me but the dust up happens outside.Me wee green one had the Inferno Spear; a hellish fire weapon that adds two to your attack and if you take another character's life they have to burn an object.I've fought that farmer thousands of times but that one was special.
I'd sent another ping, one late at night, about an issue that vexed and the next morning I had an effusive thanks but with an ask to submit via the official website. The re-steer was generous and accepting and even though my pitch might get knocked back in that moment I felt valued for my work—and they got back to me in the time between I went to bed then woke up.It's a high bar to clear for me.