Full speed ahead

I have to be ruthless with my time and it's tough because I like being the Swiss Army Knife and fixing anything someone wants fixed. And I've still a bunch of projects being juggled because that's just how I roll. 

But to be needed and to work with value is an incredible thing; it's technocratic joy. Deep down I like to think I always knew that I was this awesome but scared to admit it due to self-loathing. 

I've shed that. There is no more of that shit; never again. Never again will I feel wretched of self or that I do not contribute. I've won my life and I'm still winning.

So, yes, I shall be ruthless with my time; but I'll be laser in focus, conscious that I'm a valuable resource who needs to determine when, where and how he will be the most valuable.

I have fucking tickets on myself—and deservedly so. Beats the fucking shit out of thinking you are a failed human being because for most of your life that's how the world looked at you. They still look at me like that but I reject their scorn with smug self belief.

I shaved my beard back—it had gone a bit ragged—which is good because we're getting near Christmas. One Christmas a bunch of fit, taller-than-me young men walked passed and one of them sneered to his mates that I was Santa; because I am portly and had a shaggy grey beard.

They walked off in their perfect posse of most-health, laughing at their japery at the expense of my apparently pathetic person. 

What a pack of fuckholes. I bet my trusty groat not a single one of them will have achieved but a tenth of what I've done before they snake it into the grave.

I'm Mikey; I'm still fucking here and I'm still steaming full speed ahead.

WFTW.

Bond got trumped

I went from obsessively reading about the US election to, when Trump won, stopping abruptly. I couldn't handle it.

So on reflex I decided to read a Bond novel. I started about four novels in, read three or four, then went back to the start and read forward.

It was then I realised that James Bond and Donald Trump had the same persona; aggressively, pathetically white, heterosexual and male and aggressively dismissive of anyone not white, heterosexual and male. Reading the books through the prism of now Bond comes across as an entitled, misogynistic bigot. Actually, so does the author—because the bigotry is often in narrative as opposed to just Bond’s own thoughts. It’s the author we’re seeing, not Bond, when it comes to how Bond thinks and presents himself.

As I read the books I realised Bond is on his last legs in this world; that he was the ultimate avatar of white ladies-only maledom, but that avatar is being crowded by everyone else who climbed the social ladder since Bond books came out. Climbed it by sheer dint of some white males recognising they needed to share and that being white, heterosexual and male wasn’t and shouldn’t ever be something to aspire to—or defer to—because you can only get that status at birth.

Trump is like Bond without the killing, athleticism or looks—or redeeming values because despite Bond’s acute bigotry he serves a bigger cause—that of the state—and puts the state ahead of his life.

The only thing Trump has ever put ahead of himself is nothing—and we see that in the chaos as his transition team drowns in a shallow pool of their own making and as he tries to give his children the reins of fucking government.

Trump could have made a great Bond villain; similar men with one single difference. Except I suspect an editor would have given a note at the pitch to say that Trump was far too unrealistic a character and Fleming should tone him down. 

Life; stranger than fiction. 

UPDATE: It should be noted that Fleming is clearly a boob man. Every attractive woman has her breasts described, often at length. They are "proud", they "glow with health" and are sometimes "jutting out". It seems a habit of journalists turned authors, such as Ian Fleming and Frederick Forsyth, that they give the sex interest properties of women they want to have. In The Odessa File the protagonist is a journalist, like then-Forsyth, but in this case his fictional girlfriend is a short blonde stripper with big tits.

Broke bread; bread rejected

Breaking bread, for those civilisations blessed with grain, is a time-honoured means of greeting and welcome.

theboy and I broke bread and fed it to the duck and the chickens.

Well, not the duck. I attempted to feed it bread, a long skinny bit I tried to make look like a worm. It instead went past the bread to the side of my finger then turned its beak and bit me.

Sociopathic little fucker. It literally spurned the bread I broke with it.

theboy was annoyed but I explained it wasn't the duck's fault. Maybe it will learn I'm not a threat and we'll reach a steady peace. I can't see it happening—each time it gets out it comes for me.

Maybe this is just my own personal The Birds with my own personal "the bird"? In that we as a being each have a nasty bird experience and this one is mine. 

My nasty bird experience. So far ... it's nasty.

Ninth ping

I shamelessly pitched my talents to a prospective place, noting my excellence in all things related. 

It felt good to do it; to know I can do it and to say "I can do it; let me do it".

If I get it then I win life for a second time.

Take that into your back-face. 

WFTW.

Project pushed; satisfaction gained

Technocrats are jugglers; not of things but of projects. You have a dozen on the go at various stages but now and then you go hard to push one through.

I went hard and pushed one through and justified actions taken after the fact.

A boss asked how I was going. I said "I've seized control of X, Y and Z and I'll let people know what I've done after I've done it."

He said "good man" because taking charge means achieving results. 

The worst part of being a technocrat is relying on bureaucrats. So if you can just take over you're always better off.

Technocrats; we get the shit done.

WFTW. 

UPDATE: I just realised what five words make me sing: "get Mikey to do it". Because if they give it to me to do then it will get the fuck done.

I have a bigger beak

I found something that wards off the duck—my orange grabber stick. Its claw with rubber discs is beak-like and fearsome and the length of the tool gives me reach. 

I've not even gone into the pen or used it; I've just presented it and the duck has run off into the yard.

Last evening each time it attempted beak-rasping-on-gate intimidation I opened the shed door, got the grabber, and showed it. 

Then it would run away. 

It happened a dozen times before dusk. 

This morning it avoided me. It is not standing at the gate in a frenetic desire to tunnel it then through the tops of my feet. 

So it turns out I just needed a bigger beak; and I don't even have to use it—nor would I. I just have to show it.

Area man wins this round. 

Of course there will come a point when the gate is left open and the shed door is locked. Then we will see if it stays fearful then, when I have no ability to grab a grabber.

My predication is it will come for me with the fury of a newborn sun.

UPDATE: Literally as I left the shed it came to the gate for some good ole beak-rasp. I produced the grabber and it ran away. When I came back out it avoided me.

Perhaps it's got a brain issue? Maybe its memory resets at night so any efforts to get along are wasted because it forgets and defaults to attack mode.

I'd say it had the memory span of a goldfish but they have a span of at least three months. So I could train a goldfish (1) but I can't train a challenged psychotic duck. 

Fan-flappin-tastic.

(1) Public speaking; "No, it's bilililioooop, not bloopiiillli, let's try again. Now, after me ... bilililioooop". 

Flipped off the duck

Our duck is psychotic. If you stand at the sheathed wire gate it will frantically rasp its beak back and forth along the mesh in a vain attempt to deal you duck death.

The gate's grill is fine enough that even if you press a finger against the mesh the beak cannot hurt you.

I traced my middle finger back and forth, its beak manically following, smug it could not hurt me. Then flipped the digit and left it pressed against the gate and in its face.

"Errrrrrghhhh," I sneered with aggression.

I cannot stress this enough; the duck started it.

UPDATE: The gate got left open and the fucker came for me.

I had bare feet. It circled me in a frenzy and got my foot tops twice on each foot. That's blowback, baby; beak-based blowback. 

Two mini-wobbles

I had triggers pull but the wobbles were minor.

It was from listening to stories of trauma. 

But they gave me hope and even though I got the wigs they were stories worth knowing.

Sometimes a trigger is a vaccination; an ouch now to stave off a bigger hurt.

WFTW.

UPDATE: I'd gone for a walk and on return my boss said to read an email and that I'd like it. I was suspicious—you learn that from twenty years of people suggesting you'll like a piece of corro but they're wrong—though I accepted the offer. It was from him; it was a record of a call from someone who rang just to say how much they appreciated our efforts.

So he was right; I did like it and it sent me soaring.

Extra baked in WFTW. 

Best analogy to describe how you feel if you don't like Trump winning

From Real Time with Bill Maher, 11 November 2016; the post-Trumpocalypse show:

"I feel like we're in that place in the movie Sully where the birds flew into the engine ... but the plane's still flying but soon ... brace for impact, ladies and gentlemen."

That's exactly what it feels like; only we're all the passengers and the pilot ain't Sully.

Non-lord. have mercy!

(fans self; has vapours).

Abandon machine!

I had a litre of A2 in the fridge and caramel coffee pods. The pod machine beckoned. 

I set it all up; pod in the slot, cup underneath, milk at the ready.

The machine had not been used in some time. Its intake was been bone dry before starting sucking up water from the reservoir. 

First it hummed.

Then it sucked. And by "sucked" I mean it made the most non-god awful sound of rasping inhumanity heard yet by me and its sonic blast wave was focused intently on my person. 

I yelled "Ah!" with deep fright then frantically fumbled with anxiety-afflicted hands at the off switch all whilst yelling "abandon machine!" as if my yelling could deflect its monstrous, hateful power.

I got it off then stepped back and waited to see if the trigger would pull. It didn't but, fuck me, if it was going to pull it should have pulled on that.

It was because I was already medicated when it happened—which is lucky because I sure as fuck would have had to if I hadn't and then fuck off home with severe jitters.

Well played, pod machine, well played. 

I got a long black half way up a tall cup and milked that up instead—with no danger of machine-induced fight (slash) flight from the purchasing process. 

I'm glad it was flight not fight that was the first instinct; if had been latter I could have fear-smashed it from the mini-fridge and into the wall. 

Fucking hell, what an absolute shocker—and yet another item to add to Mikey's enemies list of things that make him go "Ah!"

Crowds, crying and coffee pod machines; what a list.

♫♪ I'm checking in! ♫♪

With thanks to The Simpsons and Robert D.

I woke in abdominal fury, a full abdomen cramping that riddled my body with pain.

It was expected; a normative outcome the day after a severe anxiety attack—and that's only just one delicious way anxiety manifests physically in addition to placing you teetering on fight (slash) flight or sucking you into space outs.  

But I'm swollen with work even as I am swollen inside. I'm not at risk of public blowout or a leg shart; it's not that kind of IBS. So, fuck it, I'm checking in. If worst comes to worst I'll just go.

Besides, I'll get to lose myself in deep positive work that transports me from the mundane into art and that keeps pain at bay. Fucking art; and I get paid to do it.

WFTW.

UPDATE: I got a hug hello from a former tiger team comrade upon entry and nailed some tasty work, getting effusive thanks for speedy delivery. I also worked out how to get metrics to back a business case that promises a gain in capability.

I'm a fucking machine. 

Double secret WFTW.   

I've the body of a Belgian

Given my house-wear and ride garb predilection for topless in ladies PJ pants I sometimes feel like Obelix from Asterix.














 

Now I realise... I'm Belgian.

That's cool; I'm pepper-pot of courage. 

UPDATE: I should stress if I was part of the actual above I'd be at the back and the only way I could mobility-wise participate would be from the back of my dead mother's anachronistic mobility scooter (1). And with my hand trembles they'd basically have to strap a spear to me and across the basket where my mother lost a lifetime of stuff. 

(1) Not a trolley. Non-god forbid should you have called it a trolley. 

Wobbled but did not fall

Part of my job is reading media reports and articles.

This morning I read articles littered with triggers. I realised the impact when I went for a walk and I had dread settle in me. As I cut through the ground floor of a building tears built and leaked by the time I made it out the far door.

I passed a friend who saw me and asked how I was then she saw the distress evident.

We sat for 20 as we talked it out as I cried and as she gently turned the focus to how well I am doing and what I focus on to stay well.

I gathered myself and marched back into work. I kept my meeting, had no anxiety during it, and stayed the full day despite the raging grief out.

That's how fucking resilient I am. That I can have a wobble, an anguished cry and kvetch, but still return to my my post and excel. 

The hottest fires make the hardest steel—and I'm hard as fuck.

WFTW.