Recombobulating

I'm still "recombobulating" from a couple of weeks ago, when, in my country, a majority of voters decided Argentina's skyrocketing poverty had good vibes, and we should get some of that sweet sweet accelerationism for ourselves.

US Phooligans, and allies abroad, many of you probably are too.

I'm going to go ahead and declare it okay for us to be discombobulated.

After all, I am the official municipal jester of the only city in the world that has an airport that contains a Recombobulation Area in it, so I suppose that confers some authority.

My own morale has fallen down all kinds of flights of stairs over the past few months - this last defeat was something of a trap door into an oubliette full of poisoned spikes, venomous-anthropophagic-spider spiderwebs, and bottomless existential horror.

I'm not sure what kinds of details I ought to share online these days!

It feels like the enemy is overconfident and incompetent.

But it also feels early in terms of being able to determine who can be trusted among people who until now have predominantly seemed like allies.

I blurt out a lot of life details during live broadcasts of Phoole & the Gang.

But I comfort (?) myself that hardly anyone watches or listens to Phoole & the Gang, so my so-called secrets are relatively safe with the 200 or so people who end up hearing and seeing them.

This is probably hubris. I guess I will learn when the Find-Out phase commences.

For this blague post, it will suffice to say this: I could have more inspiring dayjob leadership, and bashing my head against a wall of privilege in an effort to get justice for the most vulnerable of my staff has been exhausting.

Throughout that September battle, I consoled myself that at least we'd have a lesser-evil president and administration putting all the brownshirt-wannabes to dismay and disarray come November, so I'd have that morale-momentum to fuel my fight into 2025 for work, art, home, and beyond.

Well.

Anyhow.

Don't misconstrue the next thing I'm about to say.

To be very clear, childhood trauma and its life-long effects fucking suck forever, and they're not superpowers, no matter what books I've published that say they are. I was wrong. That was peak toxic positivity. I'm sorry.

That being said, people who grew up in chaotic, violent households with addicts and/or emotionally-abusive parents tend to develop coping strategies that, honestly, I can't imagine living through 2024 without, because, holy shit, dissociation and freeze are really, really helpful states sometimes, in an immediate, protect-the-heart-so-I-don't-just-die kind of way.

It's maximally wrong to feel this and say this, but I kind of feel sorry for people who don't have these coping strategies worn into their neural pathways as Survival-Mode Expressways, because The World Right Now is a LOT, and I appreciate the survival circuits that have kicked in in my nervous system, to keep me from taking drastic actions, and to slow me down until I can make less-terrible decisions.

In my last blague post, I talked about my VR headset taking a poo, and having to get it replaced, and getting back in the virtual boxing ring.

WELL. My body figured out that if I exercised really vigorously, I could make myself feel so good that I could get through every day without crying.

And that was good enough for my brain! In my morning hour-long cardio workouts, I went koo-koo for Cocoa Puffs, as the saying goes. I did high-target-intensity workouts, I struck first, I struck hard, no mercy. I pushed myself harder than I have ever pushed myself. I punched the crap out of 5,000 virtual targets a day. I punched until I cried, and then kept punching until I felt sick to my stomach, and then kept punching until I didn't feel anything at all.

I woke up this past Monday morning, tried to stand up, and fell down. My knee had had quite enough of all of this boxing nonsense, and lanced me with enough pain to make me pay attention.

I pinged my doctor's office for an appointment or referral. But with 2025 and beyond looking like the most expensive time to visit doctors in the history of the US, my entire medical system is booked well into next year. They suggested letting their AI Tele-Nurse have a go.

So since then I've been wrapping my knee in ice packs for 20-minute icing sessions every three hours, taking naproxen and acetaminophen in safe and recommended dosages, and on Monday and Tuesday, I forwent my morning exercise, as I worked from my living-room sofa, knee up on a stack of pillows, topped with a dollop of Angelo the Cat, who tried his tiny, white best to help me feel better with his snores and purrs.

My knee loved the time off of working out.

My brain did not.

Going cold-turkey from endorphins and dopamine in the middle of November in 2024 was quite a thing to do. I was Eeyore yesterday, but not cute. I was Marvin the Paranoid Android, but not funny. I was a very sad mess.

I pinged my MegaHealthCorp again yesterday: "This is unsustainable. I must exercise or I will actually perish."

A nurse actually read my chart and responded to me with a truly helpful thought: "Have you considered using Supernatural VR while seated? The game has robust accessibility settings, and you might get great results for upper-body exercise while resting your knee."

This was advice I had given to many Phooligan friends in the past. I just never remembered to also give good advice to myself.

I thanked the online nurse effusively for being the mirror I desperately needed, and now I am back on the virtual mat - on a stool, seated, punching and smashing targets without making my knee worse.

Except! After a confidence-restoring low-target-intensity round each of flow and boxing, I switched up to medium-target-intensity rounds this morning, and, rapt in joy at flailing again, I SMASHED a controller into my OTHER knee, right in the kneecap! The little metal fitting that holds the wrist-strap onto the controller (I use the Pro controllers, because of course I do) gouged into my knee, drawing blood, which I didn't notice, because I was in VIRTUAL REALITY at the time. And it made quite the little welt, too, the size of a pound coin around! Nice big bruise. Take that, Other Knee!

I'm fine, though. The first bad knee is doing much better. I'm conscientiously minding it. I'm able to walk, and climb up and down stairs, like a walking person. And the Other Knee will be fine. It's just a flesh wound. PUNCHING! It recombobulates me a little.