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
Articles from Harrangue Man
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.
I've committed to the painful but needed act of getting once a day into the big chickens pen to check their hutch for eggs. We'd let it go and there were eggs but they'd spoiled. There's no point in me enjoying chickens without the eggs so in I went. Their pen is a metre tall and I have to squat and hunch along with my odd bod to check the sides and middle for eggs. I am also balding, Homer style, from the top.My body could be described as an egg with a light dust of hair plus limbs.
My neck joints hissed out gas as something gargled in my throat. It was just my body. I sounded like a steampunk cyborg---and I look like a jolly rotund 19th century clerk.I know bodies make weird noises. But to feel bubbles of gas cook off from where ever it happens is weird and unsettling---much like my last trimester.
I had manked up my twin pairs of slippers to the point of yuck and found they'd been replaced by handsome tartan innard coloured affairs. Hopefully I will not bleed through these ones. I'm still going through a rough patch of picking at the rough patches on my feet. I plan to stop doing this. I don't like this habit but it's deeply ingrained. How to ungrain it?The wounded brain is a wondrous thing; like an outback road sign peppered with shot.
I immediately fucked up a basic task of not doing something utterly stupid. It sunk in within 20 minutes after I continued to watch what I'd critiqued and what was said changed my perspective. I realised what that meant and had to report the fail and that I would not do it again.Fucking hell, what a rookie fucking mistake to make. I dobbed myself in; it's always best to admit a fail that have someone tell it to you.
The BYB is cactus. It turned out the bike was experimental in that additional gears and electric assist were fitted to a one gear bike. It was a first time build of that frame as well.
The former was playing in the shed inside as I rode and the latter was being used across the road.They Might Be Giants won. I stayed riding and was not scared away.Which is good; no one wants a chainsaw massacred legend band.