fuck the water blaster

Renovation twat is at it again. Arggh. This time he’s waster blasting …

  • just so you know
  • its the noise
  • the constant noise that doesn’t fucken let up
  • it’s loud
  • it’s uncomfortable
  • why?
  • because it grates my nerves
  • because i can’t hear whats happening
  • for those with ‘spacial’, peripheral and hardwired reactory issues
  • like pts(d)
  • hearing is everything
  • and when you can’t hear shit over a fucken water blaster
  • it messes with the feng shui
  • thinking about cutting his power outlet
  • or maybe a slug gun pellet to the water blaster itself
  • unfortunately, he’d still come back … tomorrow
  • so
  • instead
  • head phones and music that’ll stifle that noise out
  • lock my doors
  • cleaning?
  • nah, bit of extra blogging i feel

Fuck water blasters and water blasting cunts …

Image

366 reasons to smile ~ +144.

+144. I was browsing through the word press stats thingy – which I don’t really do enough – and discovered this little beauty.

Turns out when I yell at the spell check for re-spelling my expletives and native languages (both cultural and natural language), it’s taken note, and has put them down as ‘Phrases to Ignore’ LOL! I have quite a few!

not twittering twitter

I’m thinking I may finish up my twittering … it’s not really my jam. I remember Johanna saying she couldn’t do twitter, mainly because she didn’t like being confined to 140 characters. And I think I’m beginning to agree with her!

I’m a bit of a long talker / explainer, when I get going … and I like the freedom to express myself in a variety of expletives, if necessary.

But when the little twitter troll pops up after I hit ‘tweet’, and it tells Me I need to be more clever-er with my words so I can fit what I’m saying into the provided, 140 … I get pissed!!

I’m not good with being told what I can and can’t do lol.

And what I have discovered, is peeps tend to be quite nasty – not all of them of course – but I think some may have misled themselves into believing that ‘nasty’ and clipped, is the same as clever and ‘direct’.

It’s not.

But all this got Me thinking about reducing my social media thing-a-me-whats-its. I like Instagram and it’s awesome for my art. I love Blogging … I get to be as short or lengthy as I like. And Facebook … well, its Facebook. No explanation needed really … It’s not great … It’s not Bad.

Kinda like my hairdo at the moment.

I’ve been toying with the idea of combining both my blogs. I separated them to begin with because I couldn’t juggle the 2 threads of art / photography with being pts(d) ridden. What I’ve come to realise, is that they are one in the same thing.

They’re both Me, and I need them both. Thats what reconciliation is about πŸ˜‰

So, there may be a few changes round here over the next few months … don’t worry though … I’ll still be gangstah πŸ˜‰

the elusive cup of coffee

Every morning I do the same routine.

Get up …

put the coffee on …

take a dump (twitter it at the same time πŸ˜‰ ) …

put the washing in …

pour the coffee …

Blog and update my social media who-hah.

And every single morning … I lose my coffee cup. How? How is that possible?

When I find it, it’s cold, but I drink it anyway cos theres no way I’m wasting that elixir of life … I pour another one … and promptly lose that one too.

Same routine.

I’ve tried travel mugs, smaller cups, brightly coloured cups (easily spotted was the hope) … and I still lose them. And when I say lose; technically they’re not lost, because they are still within my vicinity … but I’ll spend at least 5-7 minutes walking around the house looking for that cup every time I ‘lose’ it.

It’s never in the same place, which is also annoying. I put keys in the same place … so I can go back to them when I need them … I put my hair brush in the same place … my tweezers … nail clippers etc etc … all those little things that seem to get misplaced easily.

But A Cup?

What gives?

As far as 1st world problems go, this is up there … but I thought I’d just throw it out there … yah never know, the coffee cup gods may smile upon Me and help Me find my elusive cup more easily tomorrow morning πŸ™‚

Video

mauri of me #20 ~ dance

I have never been a lover of exercise. And before all the exercise dieting buffs give Me a lecture on the benefits of those 2 things, let Me tell yah why I don’t like them … as only I can πŸ˜‰

a. I have a theory that both of these things, exercise and dieting, are a ploy to make money. Back in the day, my ancestors hunted, gathered, chopped down trees, gardened etc. They didn’t have time for Pilates or Jogging. This tells Me:

  • We now do less ‘activity’.
  • Our version of ‘productive’ has changed.

Dieting was also non-existent. We ate what we had; what we had worked hard to grow and hunt. And our rates of heart disease and diabetes were … Nil.

Now We expend our energies on making money to go to the shop to buy crap food to kill whilst cooking, thus depleting its nutritional value, so we can fill up and sit on our asses until Pilates class.

These 2 things put profits into someone elses pocket and benefit Me, How?

b. I don’t run (aka exercise). I don’t enjoy it. I don’t like it. It doesn’t make sense to me. I run to, or from something. Like, to – the toilet. And, from – the police. Thats it.

c. I don’t diet (aka reduce carbs etc). I don’t enjoy it. I don’t like it. Why take away good food (whole foods, organics) and replace them with shit food? I don’t do nuts and legumes. I do do whole milk, fresh coffee beans, greens from my garden, organic meat, fresh fruit. Oh, and M&Ms πŸ˜‰

d. Over exertion speeds up my heart rate which feels just like a good old panic attack. Why do that?

However …

I have always been a lover of dance.

Some would say thats exercise … and sure, you can categorise it as such. But its also a thing of joy and beauty.

My Nan was a dancer. I’m pretty sure I’ve written a post about her love for dance before, but I’m to lazy to find it at the moment πŸ˜‰ She saw the love for dance and music in Me, when I was little. When I was about 6 or 7, she paid for Ballet lessons for Me; right up until I was 14 or 15 I think, when I got pregnant with my first child.

The thing with dance … as most cultures will attest too … there is something extremely liberating and cathartic and freeing and expression-ful (pretty sure thats not a word, but oh well lol), about it.

After I got pregnant, my dancing stopped. I went back to it in my 20s and then found I was pregnant with my second girl and was possibly going to miscarry … so the dancing stopped again.

When I left my husband, I wanted to go back to classes and eventually either apply to the Ballet School or teach. Instead, after quite a few ‘hiccups’, I had a nervous breakdown instead ;).

So instead of dance school, I got drunk and danced my ass off every night, 7 nights a week. I didn’t realise it then, but I needed to dance. And it was probably my saviour.

When I sobered up and turned into an anxiety ridden pts(d) freak, my dancing stopped, again.

That was just over 10 years ago.

I’ve been missing it for about the last 3 years, but haven’t had the energy, physically, but mainly, mentally, to go back to it.

So, it occurs to Me the other day, that the urge I have for it is returning … hard. And instead of reasoning out the hows and whys and why can’ts and so forths … I took a leaf from the melenials hand book (because they can do anything, cos no-one has told them they can’t!) … and googled it and then YouTubed it.

I typed in what I liked in the way of dance … what I wanted etc. And I came up with ‘Drag Queens Burlesque’. LOL. Now I’m not anti that At All … but is that available here in hicksville? Nope.

But it got Me thinking.

I love what Drag Queens do. I love their exuberance; their passion; the joy they seem to exude and ooze. I guess I could start my own Drag Queen thing, but as a straight brown girl just trying to find a niche? πŸ˜‰

Ok, so back to the googling.

And then I struck upon Yanis Marshall.

Now I’m a little late to that party … obviously.

But Oh My Fuck … This filled Me with so much happiness and excitement; and I found my desire to dance again. Not just a whimsical wanting … but a definite … Must Do.

I’ve posted this dude before, but heres another sample:

His links are on his videos, so check them out if you’re interested.

But any who … As I was watching … I realised … I have this training … and I have this ability … and I have the passion for dance …

I am slightly unfit … Ok, really unfit lol … which took Me back to the ‘exercise’ question/theory. Would I exercise to get fit enough to be able to do this?

Nope.

Then I watched this:

And I remembered just how hard it is to be a dancer … but how beautiful it is … and that when you love something that much … its not hard, its not ‘exercise’, its not work … but its all of those things … its Dance πŸ™‚

So, this is Me πŸ™‚

I’m taking on the Dance part of Me again.

And guess what … strangely enough … I am super fucking excited πŸ˜‰

Yes, I may break a few things … and yes, I probably will have more than a few panic attacks as I figure out whats over exertion and whats pts fucking d; and Yes, I will be sore as fuck, for a very long while …

But I don’t give a fuck.

I love dance … and I’m tired of waiting to ‘be alright’.

I remember my Nan saying she missed dancing … and even when she was in her 80s she would still waltz around the lounge room when she was ‘in the mood’. I wanna do that … but in heels lol … No seriously … I want to still be dancing right up until I croak … I’ve taken a long enough break I think πŸ˜‰

Video

lets dance ~ david bowie

Let’s Dance – David Bowie, 1983

Image

I did it … I did it …

Feeling bit like Dora the bloody Explorer … except for the ‘We’ did it part, is ‘I’ did it!

Here goes … bullet points again, cos I’m tired, but ecstatic, but tired – and bullet points just work beautifully for Me πŸ˜‰

  • I decided I’d go to my appointment with the psychologist today.
  • I decided I’d do the blood test.
  • I was ready, with all my bits and pieces.
  • I got up early.
  • Got my shit together early.
  • Actually enjoyed that process.
  • I sat in the front seat πŸ˜‰
  • We got to town early.
  • We went through who knows how many sets of lights.
  • I didn’t freak out!
  • I gathered all necessary bits to deal with blood taking.
  • I made sure I pee’d before blood being drawn!
  • Live and learn.
  • I asked for the small needle.
  • I told the nurse I was nervous.
  • I requested the partner come in with Me.
  • I told him to be quiet.
  • He wasn’t being helpful.
  • He looked hurt.
  • But he survived.
  • And I survived!

post jab!

  • That sorted.
  • I filled up the anxiety and oozy feeling with these:

sweet crunchy nectar of the gods!

  • We made our way to my daughters job.
  • I was excited πŸ™‚
  • The traffic lights freaked Me once …
  • And I breathed!
  • And I survived.
  • At the cafe, it was way more packed than expected.
  • I had a momentary wave of …. F U C K, and then I spotted my girl πŸ™‚

my beautiful girl ❀

  • And all was alright with the world πŸ™‚
  • I was so proud of her.
  • And proud of Me for being there.
  • Some parents want their kids to be lawyers or doctors or politicians … but I want my kids to follow their dreams and be happy in their worlds.
  • See that smile?
  • I had a Mummy moment and almost cried πŸ˜‰
  • She made Me the best coffee Ever!

best caffe mocha Ever πŸ˜‰

  • We stayed for over an hour … Yuss!!
  • I so miss going to cafes!
  • I even talked to a stranger!
  • There was a surprise ‘encounter’ with the MIL!
  • A wave of anxiety.
  • Then back to myself.
  • She was her usual.
  • She took offence to most of what I said.
  • I didn’t care πŸ™‚
  • I continued to enjoy my coffee!! Yuss!
  • Then it was on to the psychologist.
  • I had my list.
  • We went through my list.
  • I can go see her again regularly.
  • We’ll do more EMDR.
  • And try a few other nifty things she has at her disposal re driving and lessening anxiety.
  • I decided to wait till after the next assessment to start this.
  • She’s good with that.
  • The partner arrived late to pick Me up.
  • This would usually freak my shit out.
  • I played my music and sang instead πŸ™‚
  • He came.
  • And I was alright!
  • I survived.
  • He survived!

we survived πŸ˜‰

  • On to picking up the airport twat.
  • I had ear muffs packed.
  • I didn’t need them!
  • She was offended that I didn’t want to sit in the front seat with her in the car.
  • She was offended that I wouldn’t tell her why.
  • I didn’t care πŸ™‚
  • And I was alright!
  • And so was She!
  • And so was the partner πŸ˜‰
  • And we left … we went through multiple traffic lights, with multiple stops and multiple noises.
  • And guess what?
  • Yes … I survived!!
  • And I actually enjoyed most of it!
  • And I am so fucking proud of Myself right now!!

reality check of sorts

After this mornings panic fuck, it took most of the day to recover … thanks to the cunts next door who are still renovating, the vibrating of the house meant that the ‘calming’ process was made harder … but I shouldn’t blame them I suppose … but who cares right? They’ll never know … so I’ll blame them πŸ˜‰

So its 1230 and I’m fucked. And now I’ve got some more decisions to make .. and because I can’t quite get a coherent thought together, I’m gonna bullet point this bitch – so I can get it all out and hopefully make some sense of it all …

And We can call it a poem – just so it seems a little flasher than what it really is …

Righteo.

  • I didn’t take a sedative today.
  • I lived through the panic.
  • I survived the phone call.
  • I didn’t suffocate whilst dripping snot and tears.
  • Bonus.
  • I’m on 1/4 antihistamine now.
  • I’m itchy as a mofo.
  • I know it’ll pass.
  • I’ve got an appointment with the psychologist on Wednesday.
  • Turns out the partner is supposed to take some twat to the airport.
  • It’ll work out he reckons.
  • I don’t do ‘it’ll work out’ as an outcome.
  • Wednesday is payday.
  • Paydays are fucked days.
  • The day before payday is a fucked day.
  • Oh, its not My payday.
  • I feel vulnerable.
  • I feel like a child.
  • I feel like I’m at the whim of someone elses emotions.
  • And I don’t like it.
  • Do I cancel the appointment.
  • Post pone the appointment maybe.
  • Is that weak.
  • Or smart.
  • Cos I know how that day is gonna pan out.
  • And it won’t be pretty.
  • For Me.
  • Unless of course I take a sedative.
  • And then I aint gonna remember much of the day anyway.
  • If I go, I need to get blood taken as well.
  • I wanted it to be a calm day.
  • Had made time to have coffee with my daughter.
  • She’s a newly trained barista.
  • Yum.
  • Then my appointment.
  • Then home.
  • Whilst ignoring the partners mood.
  • I can do that.
  • But new shit thrown in there.
  • Ahhhh.
  • The airport twat would come home with us first.
  • Which means I’d hear her talking for 40 minutes.
  • Not sure that I can do that.
  • Well I can.
  • But it wouldn’t be pretty.
  • For her. Or the partner.
  • I don’t care about that really.
  • So maybe thats the option.
  • Roll with the cluster fuck.
  • Drop a sedative or 2 if need be.
  • Make sure I have a humungous coffee.
  • Oh, and ear muffs.
Video

this is how we do it ~ montell jordan

This Is How We Do It ~ Montell Jordan, 1995

it goes like this …

The day started off pretty good … ‘normal’, for Me.

I got my shizz ready to go to the shop … yes, it’s still a struggle, but I’m trying …

I get outside and half way down the road and my phone rings. The phone call I’ve been waiting for from the ACC cunts is coming through. Now? Of course Now … Why? Because I’m Me, that’s Why.

Decision time: To take the call whilst trying to walk to the shop; trying to maintain my shizz – the lights, the noises … trying to calm my freaking farm … Choosing to take the call that I’ve been waiting waiting waiting for … OR

Wait … till god knows when, for them to ring back.

Decision made to take the phone call.

Arrgh. And she spirals down from there.

Nearly at the shop and trying to listen to this woman belt on about the next ‘assessment’ process, whilst she keeps calling me ‘sweetie’ and ‘love’ … both condescending ‘you poor mentally injured soul’ terms of reference that peeps love to pull out so they seem all sympathetic and understanding and shit … and the inevitable happens …

Panic Attack.

Do I sit down on the curb side and breathe deep or fluster fuck myself all the way home and deep breath. Option 2 taken and I barely made it in the door.

ACC twat rounded off her conversation and all I gleaned from it was:

‘The next available appointment is around the end of August’ and ‘No amount of money is ever going to compensate what you have been through’ … which is code for; ‘We are going to pay you sweet fuck all because to Us, you really are nothing but a number who we are not really wanting to pay out anything for – so brace yo’self … for sweet fuck all’.

Oh My Fuck.

So, inside my door, the inevitable melt down happened. Tears and snot and trying to catch my breath and getting my hands over my ears …

And the partner goes:

‘You alright’

Not a question Β so much as a statement; intended to get the tears to stop, because they make him most uncomfortable … oh and he has a cold sore which is way way more intense than anything I’m experiencing Pfft …

So as the meltdown continues and I’m trying to wrap my funky little head round myself … it occurs to Me …

I am the strongest person I know.

And like everything else, I’ll deal with this bitch just as heartily as I do everything else. It may not be an elegant process or outcome … but it’ll be a Me outcome.

Oossh and double Oossh,Β Me.