Archive for the 'devil cat' Category

Yeah, sort of about Guitar Hero again

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on May 8, 2008 @ 9:10 am
in devil cat, games, music and word nerd
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To say that the game has devoured me is only half true. Having played before I knew going into it that I’d be presented with the intense feedback I so desperately crave from things I purportedly refer to as “fun”.

Not only am I concerned with what percent of the song I complete without error, but I can also dig deep into the song itself and find out exactly which subsection of which chorus gave me the most trouble, and with a brain wired like mine is, that can be equally enthralling and terrifying.

Every song that starts with a 50 note streak is the potential for my first perfect score. Every 100 note streak brings me closer still. 200 note streaks pretty much make me wet my pants with unbridled glee coupled with a snarling shred-face with prominent lip-curl. Like Elvis on meth. Then I try to successfully execute a coupling of the power of the stars with the terrestrial burdens of the ever-moving conveyor belt of notes and either screw up profoundly or initiate star power successfully, only to be so excited that I did it successfully that I fail to pay attention and again miss notes.

So, as you can see, not only has the game devoured me, but I have devoured the game as well, like some sort of recursive double Ouroboros, both of us deadlocked in a battle of wills to see who will blink first.

All the while Sherlock sits in the corner thinking, “Jesus fucking Christ is this magnificent douchebag ever going to play with me again? I’m over here, up to my hairballs in toys and that gigantic cock doesn’t even notice. Well fuck that.”

And with that Sherlock climbed into the massive (and embarrassing) basket we have that is full of “cat toys” with “cat toys” being anything we think they might have fun with and/or have already played with and shown some level of amusement. For example, some of the “toys” that you might be surprised to see are an old hat, the cardboard structural center from an old roll of duct tape, Happy Meal toys from McDonald’s, as well as any number of assorted toys that jingle, blink, have feathers, or simply have their various crevices crammed with catnip.

Last night, in the middle of trying to duel the end boss, Sherlock went to the basket, got a jingle ball out all by himself, and started playing with it right in front of me as if to say, “You see that you douchebag? Huh? Do you see it? You’ve ignored me so much that I have to play by myself. You are a bad cat owner, and I hate you, even if you do feed me.”

Seeing him half-heartedly scramble around on the floor with a toy he had picked out by himself so he could play by himself kind of broke my heart a little bit, so I turned off the Wii and played with my cat.

As soon as I finished the song.

Because I thought “Wiit Power” was too inappropriate

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on May 1, 2008 @ 9:34 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, beer, devil cat, food, happy hour, money, movies, potty humor and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 11 Comments

Before we get to the moist, throbbing awesomeness that is my post for the day, there’s some business we have to attend to:

blah blah blah happy hour blah blah tonight blah blah 6pm blah blah

Dougherty’s Irish Pub
223 W Chase St
Baltimore, MD 2120
(410) 752-4059

blah blah blah blah whatever blah be there, or be somewhere else: I know I will.

Anyway, on to the nonsense!

The night of the bachelor party I was actually hemorrhaging man points because I wasn’t actively engaged in the act of pickling my liver with as much alcohol as possible. In fact, I unfortunately spent the entire night maintaining a fine balance on the line between sobriety and mild buzz.

“Why,” you ask rhetorically because actually speaking to the computer is more than a little crazy, “would you deprive yourself of the sweet inebriating nectar that the gods themselves saw fit to excrete from their magical alcohol-producing organs so many Tuesdays ago for the benefit of all humankind?”

Because I was waking up early the next morning to go wait in line to buy a Wii. There. I said it. Are you happy?

Mrs. ACW and I have wanted to buy a Wii for some time now, but due to their relative scarcity we’ve been unable to procure one. Actually, we would have been able to get one a long time ago for about $600 on ebay, but Mrs. ACW refuses to sell her body on the street, and I just can’t bear to do another half-dozen equine-related porn movies. (I’m half-proud and half-nauseated to say I was second-assistant director on an official Harry Potter porn spinoff- More than a Man: Fisted by Firenze) Plus, let’s all finally admit that ebay is pretty much the squalid back alley of the internet, and that we want as little to do with it as possible.

The guy at Target told me to get there about an hour early because they expected there to be a line, and at 7am I was the only person waiting in line. And at 7:20am, I was the only person waiting in line. Thanks, Target guy, you unmitigated doucheface.

So I went home, fed the cats, jettisoned the previous evening’s mountain of snack food, had something to eat, and then went back to Target at about 7:45am to find myself the second person in line. Not too bad. A cold and boring quarter of an hour later and I was on my way home, not at all hungover but so exhausted that I may as well have been.

It wasn’t until many hours later that I was awake enough to actually set it up, and once I did I was immediately happy with our decision. It’s simply a fun gaming system. One of the things that surprised me is that you can even give your Wii a nickname, so I’ve dubbed ours, “The Wiiner”, which leads to hilarious conversations like this, “Have you played with the wiiner yet tonight?”
“No, not yet. I plan on working up quite a sweat later with the wiiner.”
“Excellent. The wiiner will definitely get you sweaty.”

And so on. For that reason alone I think everyone should get one.

Now I’m able to go out and enjoy some serious cock, guilt free.

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on April 11, 2008 @ 10:08 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, devil cat, jokes, people are idiots, potty humor, sex and suhmuhmuh bitch
. 15 Comments

1) I was just recently contacted by somebody at bthesite.com (which doesn’t seem to be working as of this being written) about how they had grabbed my RSS and were posting my content onto their site. That’s totally fine with me. Blogtimore has been doing it for years. But nobody at Blogtimore cares if I put the word “cock” in the title of my blog posts for all the world to see. I’m pretty sure they also don’t mind “fisting” or “felching” or “transexual cornholing santorum lickers”, but we’ll see if bthesite minds. And just to be clear, I grabbed the title from this episode of Extras:

Skip to the one minute mark if you’re in a hurry.

2) Since we’ve switched Sherlock to a new cat food that’s supposed to keep his wee-wee wiener-friendly, rather than full of sharp and jagged crystals stabbing him with their jags, his shit has become even more offensive. And I don’t mean “offensive” like people thought Andrew Dice Clay was offensive but was really only just kind-of funny unless you were a fat guy with a porno mustache, gold chain, stupid haircut, and a bad sweater, and 2 years of a high-school education who lived in New Jersey in the late 80’s and never got any action but still lied to his friends that he did, because those guys thought he was hilarious. No, I mean offensive like Yankee Candle Company’s new scent is “Hangover Shits” crafted specifically after extensively researching the nostril singing aromas of two pitchers of Miller Lite and 50 nuclear chicken wings digested and excreted through the human body, and it’s your birthday and everybody gives you one of those candles.

3) Speaking of offensive aromas, the other day Mrs. ACW and I were at the Annapolis Mall and I suddenly got a whiff of hypersexualized teenage desperation and the triumph of money over taste. “Wow, did we just walk past a perfume store? They must have spilled something.”
“I guess so.”

But then as we kept walking the stink became more palpable, until I could actually reach out an palp it. It was then that I noticed we were beginning to approach the area of the mall that housed the Abercrombie and Fitch store. We weren’t even at the store yet and I was already gagging. Seriously, look at this map. The arrow is A&F and we were at the red dot to the left of JCPenney when we started smelling the horrible smell.

We went on to Nordstrom so Mrs. ACW could look at purses or tampons or nipple-clamps or whatever it is that women look at when they go shopping (I don’t know, I usually turn my brain off), and after finding what she was looking for (or not, I don’t really know) we left to go back into the mall and it was as if I was just punched in the face with the smell of Dawson’s Creek were tv shows to have their own scents.

This time we had to pass the stink-factory on the near side, and it was so overpowering that I covered my face with my hoodie and did the best I could to control the gag reflex while my eyes watered. I wondered how people could even work in there. Do the clothes in there come pre-scented or something? Uggh. It was horrible.

But walking past the store wasn’t even the worst of it! Three hours later I still smelled like I was a non-consensual participant in a boy-band gang-bang, and nothing I did would make the stink come off me. It was like I looked normal, but my shadow was a collar-popping douchebag who bathed in shitty cologne.

Update on Sherlock

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on April 1, 2008 @ 12:20 pm
in Mrs. ACW, devil cat, money and suhmuhmuh bitch
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So this morning Mrs. ACW was staying home because she wasn’t feeling well and I realized that giving Sherlock his medicine was completely up to me. Considering that we normally have to wrap him in a blanket until he’s completely immobile, I wasn’t relishing the task.

I prepared his medicine in the plastic syringe (sans needle) we were given. It’s just like a tukery baster with graduated milliliters on the side. And let me tell you, this thing makes it easy to give him his medicine… when he stays still long enough.

I picked him up and he was fine with everything until he saw me reaching for the syringe. He squirmed and wriggled out of my arms and bolted. I was able to eventually wrap him up in the throw rug we keep by the back door (you have to get creative when you need to immobilize a stubborn cat) and give him his medicine. And like usual, once he had swallowed his medicine I went to go get him a treat. I put the treat on the floor, he ate it, and then he vomited a pink, foamy mess all over the floor. Considering the medicine is pink, I was pretty sure what the problem was.

“You little bastard”, I thought to myself, “you finally figured out a way to get around taking your medicine.” While I was contemplating whether I should give him another dose since he spewed almost all of the first dose, he vomited again. Again it was a horrible pink foam, and it was way more medicine than I had given him that morning. Worried, and running late for work, I rushed Sherlock to our vet, who is luckily, right down the street from our house.

While I was explaining to the vet what had happened, Sherlock started making this horrible growling and gagging sound. Like he was hacking up a hairball or something. And then right in front of the vet he does the foamy pink vomit thing again. The vet grabbed him, took him to the back, and left me sitting there with the cat carrier and a counter-top full of pink cat vomit. A few minutes later an assistant came in and cleaned up the vomit, so I asked her how Sherlock was doing.

“Well, he never stopped vomiting after Dr. [Veterinarian] took him back there, so they want to start prepping him for surgery.”

I just about collapsed. I had no idea what was going on and they were asking me to allow Sherlock to be prepped for surgery. So I called Mrs. ACW and woke her up to let her know what was going on, and while I was going though the whole story with her, the vet came back in to give me an update.

“We’ve got Sherlock sedated, but we need your permission to prep him for surgery and to operate.”

“Operate on what!? I don’t even know what’s going on here!” Meanwhile Mrs. ACW is now crying on the other end of the phone.

“We checked Sherlock’s chart after we took him in the back to control his vomiting and found an error in the dosage of antibiotic he was given. It’s got way more antibiotic powder than it’s supposed to have. Somehow he was given the dosage for large canine rather than a feline. We need to perform an endoscopy soon to see if the antibiotic has eroded his stomach lining. If it has, we’ll need to operate to try and minimize any internal ruptures.”

“Yes! Go! Whatever!”

I was in such shock that it took me a few minutes to get pissed about how negligent it was of them to give Sherlock the wrong dosage of medicine. I wanted to punch the doctor in his fucking face. I don’t even know how much this is even going to cost. Does anybody know a good lawyer that practices animal law?

UPDATE: We just picked up Sherlock from the vet, and he seems a little woozy, but okay. He apparently had his stomach “scraped” and was put on an IV to dilute the effect of whatever antibiotics were still in his system. Apparently he can’t eat anything over the next few days, and we’re only supposed to let him drink water, but they said he might just sleep for the next few days. They did say that he’d probably never be able to eat regular cat food again. We’re going to have to buy this prescription cat food and then grind it up into a paste so his stomach can handle it.

I’m just kidding. He’s totally fine, and as big a douchebag as ever. There was no vomiting. April Fool’s suckers.

Of popped-collars and douchebags

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on March 31, 2008 @ 9:46 am
in Glen Burnie, Mrs. ACW, beer, bitches, devil cat, house, money, people are idiots and suhmuhmuh bitch
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Saturday morning I woke at the crack of 11am to wrestle my cat to the ground before Mrs. ACW gave him his medicine. And by “medicine” I mean a savage beating. And by “a savage beating” I mean the anti-biotics that are supposed to be degunking his pee-maker.

Because I’m a cheapskate I opened the curtains rather than turning on the lights, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a car full of early-twenties popped-collar douchebags parking across the street from my house. The three of them got out of their late model E-class Mercedes featuring 18-inch z-rated tires and chrome rims. As would any rational person, I immediately hated them.

A few minutes later they returned to the car, opened the trunk, and got out a thirty-pack of Keystone Light and a white trash bag full of assorted swill. I wanted to burst out of my house, run into the street, and beat them to death with their canoe beer* and then take a dump on the hood of their car.

Given their beer choices, I was clearly witnessing the triumph of money over taste. I decided that life was too short to waste any more time on thinking about them, mentally wished them a happy afternoon pickling their livers, and went about my day.

Later that day Mrs. ACW and I left to go over my brother’s house to finish our taxes, and from there we went to see a play our friend is in.** After the play we went out for drinks with some of the cast, so we didn’t get home until about 2am.

As we were pulling into our driveway I noticed that someone had left the visor down in the Mercedes, and the lights on the visor were burning brightly, and looked like they would be doing so all night. And then next morning my theory proved to be correct. There was a tow-truck parked in front of the Mercedes, but alas, no popped-collar douchebag.

Eventually the tow truck left and the popped-collar douchebag emerged, and I have to admit that my level of schaudenfreude was so high that it was almost able to manifest itself physically. I was wandering around the house sneering at the thought of this douchebag having to pay out the nose to have his car towed just to be told that he had a dead battery and one of his idiot popped-collar douchebag friends could have given him a jump. The darkest part of my soul was giving birth to bitterness incarnate.

Then the better part of me thought, “It’s not his fault he’s a complete and utter douchebag with all the fashion sense of Meghan McCain. I’ll go give him a jump.”

Before I could go get him another tow truck came back, hauled his car up onto back of the truck, and drove away.

Oh well. At least I tried to do the right thing, even if it took a few hours. Also, I’m pretty sure he’s still a collar-popping douchebag that drinks shitty beer and has more money than taste, so maybe I’m still glad I didn’t help him.

*Drinking beer like Miller Lite, Bud Light, Keystone, Milwaukee’s Best Light, etc. is like making love in a canoe. Fucking close to water.

**Shameless plug. This play was hilarious, and our friend is in it, so if you’re looking for something to do, this is a cheap and highly-amusing way to fill your time.

In addition to my car, I’m also selling two cats

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on March 27, 2008 @ 10:17 am
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My stupid douchebag cats are still out to ruin my life, both of them in their own particular way.

Sherlock’s babymaker is all corked up with some kind of UTI, so he’s been crabby because he can’t pee like normal. And that sucks for him. But you know what sucks worse? Having to sneak up on him with a blanket like some sort of not-at-all elite commando from the bedding department at JCPenney, tackle him, wrap him up so that his head is exposed but his horrible claws are not, and then force his mouth open to give him an antibiotic that will hopefully pop the aforementioned cork. Twice a day. Actually, the worst part about it is the smell of the antibiotic. It smells like bubble gum. It’s horrible. I want to know what the train of thought was when the doctors schemed out that terrible idea.

“Hey, we need to flavor this antibiotic with something so that little kids will take it. Right now it’s flavorless, so what do you think of a Liver and Onion flavor?”

“No! That’s all wrong! You need it to taste like something that kids like. How about farts and a cactus?”

“Great idea! But maybe it should be something more like candy.”

“I’ve got it! Bubble gum! And not just any gum, but that shitty kind of gum that loses all its flavor between unwrapping it and your first chew.”

“Excellent! And because cats are just like little children but with more fur and sharper teeth, we’ll just make it taste like gum for them too. Because I’m pretty sure I once read that a cat was gum’s only natural predator.”

“I think I read that too. I think that’s a job well done on our part. Want to go back to making meth now?”

“Yes. Let’s.”

Anyway, back to the two horrible crap-factories that I call my cats. And really, when you think about it, that’s all pets are. They’re just a long, complicated, smelly process of turning your money into shit. Shit that you have to clean up. Think about that for a minute. We’re turning our money into shit AND we have to clean the shit up. What a fucking scam.

Wookie, apparently cognizant of the fact that Sherlock has been providing us with no end of wallet-hemorrhaging due to repeated trips to the vet, is working very hard at destroying our sanity. Every morning she’s been pawing at the sliding glass doors to the shower so that they bang and clatter together. It was infuriating when she’d do it 10 minutes before I needed to be out of bed, but it was especially infuriating this morning when she did it at 4:30. And the worst part is that she’s too smart to be reprimanded.

By the time I get out of bed to stuff my foot up her ass she’s out of the bathroom, down the hall, and around the corner. By the time I get to the bathroom door to close it and keep her out for the remainder of my sleep time she’s sauntering around the corner like she’s the pudgy, four-legged Queen of fucking Sheba, looking up at me as if to say, “Oh, you’re awake. How fortunate. You can feed me while you’re up.”

This is usually where I look at her and sleepily mumble, “You can go fuck yourself you little fucking communist piece of fucking shit.” Look, I don’t know why she’s a communist. It’s just something I say. This is the second time she’s fucked around with the shower doors. There will not be a third time.

Well, I guess there will be a third time, but then immediately after that there will be a flying cat and pit of hungry alligators. And then after THAT there will be an period of very restful, uninterrupted sleep.

Movie reviews, cat vomit, and fish

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on March 10, 2008 @ 10:36 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, bitches, devil cat, family and nerd stuff
. 16 Comments

1) This weekend I went over to my brother’s house so we, along with my younger brother, could work on a birthday present for my mom’s 60th. My niece had just finished watching episodes 4, 5, and half of 6 of Star Wars. I took a break from working on the present to play with her, and I was asking her to find different characters among the toys scattered on the floor, and she was able to easily find Princess Leia, Chewbacca, Han Solo, Darth Vader, and Yoda without any trouble. She was babbling incessantly about Darth Vader and Chewbacca, holding them by their legs and flying them through the air, eventually tucking Darth Vader under her arm and picking up a TIE Fighter while making flying sounds. I obliged by picking up the Millennium Falcon and chasing her with it. She seemed to really be getting a kick out of the whole Star Wars thing, so I asked her, “Did you really like the Star Wars movies?” and she kind of shrugged and said, “They were okay.”

2) The good cat, Wookie, woke us up early on Daylight Savings morning by yarfing her breakfast all over my jacket. It actually cleaned up so quickly and easily that I was tempted to not throw it in the washer, until I picked it up and noticed the distinct bouquet of half-digested kibbles and cat-innards. Into the wash it went.

3) Mrs. ACW recently bought a fish for her pre-school class. After much in-fighting, wheedling, consternation, back-stabbing, and compromise, they came up with this list of names:

-Chomp
-Dolphin
-Humpback Whale
-TV
-Spongebob
-Daddy (kind of really weird)
-Rocky
-Rainbow
-Orange (The fish is blue and red)
-Troy (from high school musical, I am told)
-Mr. Fish

and her favorites,

-Mr. Nachos (a close second, and if that one dies or they get a second
fish, that’s going to be his name)

-Spider-man (The name they picked)

I hereby decree that all pets shall be henceforth and forthwith named by preschoolers.

BGE Peak Time Rebate Program

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on March 7, 2008 @ 9:33 am
in Mrs. ACW, awesome, devil cat, horror, money and nerd stuff
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So Mrs. ACW and I have been selected to participate in an energy-saving experiment with Baltimore Gas and Electric this summer. BGE selected about 1000 homes at random to participate in what they call the “Peak Time Rebate program”, and we were lucky enough to be one of them.

Basically, it works like this: BGE will run the program for 12 days between June 1 and Sept 30. Essentially, they’ll let us know by phone, email, or even text a few days in advance when a “peak day” is coming. (Can you believe that? Text? I’m shocked at their acceptance of modern technology.) Then, when the peak day rolls around all we have to do is reduce our energy usage between 2pm and 7pm.

“Ha ha, sucker,” I can hear you saying now, “They’re just duping you and some other suckers into reducing your energy so that they don’t have to brown-out the state for a few days this summer.”

Yeah, I was skeptical too, but they’re providing incentives out the ass. First of all, just by calling to see if I qualified to participate in the program they gave me $15. Not bad for 5 minutes worth of work.

Next, they’re going to refund me for every kilowatt hour I reduce off my average usage. So if they measure that I normally use 1000 kWh per month and on a peak day I use 5 or 10 kWh less, they’ll pay me about $1.16 for every kWh reduced. That means $5.80 or $11.60 (or more) for doing nothing! Even better, there’s no penalty if I don’t reduce my usage during peak days. At this point my plan is to flip all the breakers on everything except the refrigerator on “peak” days. I don’t care if the cats suffer for my cash.

Once the experiment ends in September, and if I don’t bail out, which I won’t, they’ll pay me another $100 just for participating. This is on top of whatever I earn through reduced usage and the $15 they paid me initially.

Finally, the coolest part of the experiment are the tools they’re giving me to help reduce energy usage. They’re installing a device on my air conditioner/heat pump that will cycle on and off while the air conditioning is on. The air conditioning will stop, but the fan will keep running for a few minutes to blow around the already cold air, then the AC will kick on again, then off again while the fan stays on, etc. So they’ll be saving money FOR me. How can I lose?

The other cool thing that we get is an Orb! When I read about these in Wired a few months ago I thought, “Man, I’ve GOT to get one of those.” It keeps track of any number of things, but in this case, it’ll be our energy usage. So we can see if we’re using more energy than we need to be using and I can yell to Mrs. ACW, “Hey, the orb is red. Stop doing whatever you’re doing! Jerkass.”

I know I’m totally nerding out here, but I’m totally psyched about this, and can’t wait to see how it goes. And there’s really nothing nicer than getting paid a fat wad of cash for having a lower energy bill.

The cats don’t sit still long enough to keep my toes warm

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on February 20, 2008 @ 9:40 am
in Mrs. ACW, bitches, devil cat, house, money, nerd stuff and sex
. 22 Comments

For the last few weeks the temperature inside our house has been nut-shrinkingly cold. In an attempt to save a little money, and because we desire to open the electric bill and not see, “You owe us assrape dollars and non-consensual-fisting cents.” Our electric bill has never been too crazy, really, because I’m that guy who walks through the house and turns off all lights and unplugs items that aren’t being used, but still the bills were more than we wanted to pay. So we’ve set the thermostat for a steady 62 and dealt with it.

Before I go on and eventually reach the uninteresting point of this story, I’m going to preemptively defend myself from those of you who live in the arctic tundra north of the temperate zone better known as the mid-Atlantic seaboard of the United States. Yes, 62 is cold for us. Yes, the temperature in the winter usually only hovers around 20-40 degrees Fahrenheit. Yes, we know you are buried in snow for all but two weeks in the middle of the summer. Yes, we realize that Kelvin is just a guy on your street who stands on his porch in his underwear when it’s -273.15 degrees Celsius outside.* Yes, we realize that you set your thermostats at 2 degrees and you just throw on another sweater. That’s awesome. You’re awesome. We’re all glad that you’re so awesome that you can live in such unforgiving climates. Really, no one at all is tired of hearing you scoff, “27 degrees? Heh, that’s warm for us!” That never, ever gets tired, especially when we grew up in the reasonable climate we grew up in, and you grew up in a snowman’s armpit. So, yes, to conclude this diatribe, our house is kept at 62 degrees and that’s cold for us. Shut it.

Anyway, we’ve been getting by with hoodies, sweaters, and blankets on the couches. That generally keeps us from being so cold that we’re uncomfortable. But I’m 6′2″ and though I’ve got some padding around the middle, my fingers, and especially my toes, get cold fast. It’s not uncommon for my toes to go completely numb, even if I’m wearing socks and slippers. I’m tall and blood doesn’t circulate well to far-away places like my toes. No big deal. I can make do. For example, instead of wearing regular socks, I might throw on some wool socks or thick Xmas socks. Or I’ll sit cross legged and try to keep my toes warm with my hands. Or I might tuck the bottoms of my pants into the top of my socks, and my sweater into the top of my pants. This makes me look like an utter goon, but I don’t care, because it keeps me warm.

Every time Mrs. ACW sees me with my sweater tucked in, or with my pant legs tucked in to my socks she just shakes her head and says, “I can’t believe I’m married to you.” And I guess I could be offended, but the fact is that I really don’t care. She’s stuck with me, and my feet are cold, so until the weather gets a little warmer I’m going to look like the gooniest goon that ever gooned an automatic gooning machine. Also, I retort by saying, “Not only are you married to me, but we also have sex,” which usually just leaves her shaking her head and wondering where she went wrong.

*I so love nerd jokes.

I’m also a somniloquist

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on February 15, 2008 @ 9:10 am
in Mrs. ACW, devil cat, house and ocd
. 12 Comments

Yesterday morning I was reminded of a strange habit that relates to my sleeping. Well, maybe habit isn’t the best word. Nuance? Foible? Peccadillo? Idiosyncrasy? I think any of those might fit. Anyway, basically what happens is that in the first few minutes or so after waking, my mind will occasionally be furiously paranoid.

An example: The other morning I woke up to the sound of metal hitting wood or plastic, and there was a high-pitched tone that resulted from the metal, sort of like the vibrations from a tuning fork. I very rationally thought, “Oh, there goes my ring off the dresser.” Then I went insane. My next thought was that one of the cats was going to ingest the ring (probably because of this), so I was scrambling around on my hands and knees looking for it on the carpet. After not finding it I checked the dresser and found it exactly where it was supposed to be, so my next though was EVEN CRAZIER. Mrs. ACW sometimes leaves her rings all over the damn house all the time. On the coffee table, on top of the toaster, on the window by the kitchen sink, on her dresser, on her nightstand, on my dresser, on the computer desk, on her scrap-booking table, on the bathroom sink, et cetera ad nauseum. So upon finding my ring where it was supposed to be, I crawled back into bed and had angry paranoid thoughts until I fell back asleep.

“God damn it, the cats are going to eat her ring. Then we’ll have to pay out the ass to get the ring back. Then the ring will be ugly and Mrs. ACW will be like, ‘I need a new ring,’ but I’ve got news for her: there won’t be any more new rings after this. She just leaves them all over the place. She doesn’t care if they fall in the trash or the toilet or anything. She always does this with everything. She just leaves things laying around because she’s so materialistic. She thinks we can just buy anything we ever need.” And so on.

For those of you who know Mrs. ACW, you know she’s not really materialistic at all, so I have know idea where this craziness comes from, but it tends to go away after a few minutes, or once I fall back asleep. I’ll wake up later and think, “What was I thinking? What a ridiculous train of thought.”

Another time I didn’t fall back asleep, but actually came out of my paranoid delusions as I was going about my morning routine. As usual the cats were being little bitches and whining for food, so I got up to feed them and found their food container empty. No big deal, I just have to refill it with a fresh bag. But that’s not what my brain was thinking. “I can’t believe this, Mrs. ACW left emptied the cat food container and didn’t refill it. She knew I was going to wake up first and find this. She is intentionally sabotaging my morning. I can’t believe that someone would do something like this. How hard is it to put a new bag of food in the container? In fact, why isn’t she doing this right now? I should be sleeping, I can’t believe this.” And on and on as I gave the cats their food and water. But then as I was walking down the hall to brush my teeth and get in the shower I began to think, “What the hell was that all about? Why would Mrs. ACW intentionally do something like that? That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever thought. I can’t believe I thought she was trying to sabotage my morning. Sabotage?! What the hell?”

And before all you people with Psych degrees put on your Dr. Freud hats and start chomping on your phallic cigars, know that Mrs. ACW has only been the target of my delusional mind those two times. The other times that it has happened it’s been focused on any number of people, animals, and inanimate objects. And this doesn’t happen every time I wake up, just once every few weeks or so. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m crazy, and I was really pissed off at a lamp one time. Whatever. Shut up. Eat a dick.

I don’t know why it happens, but I think I have some idea. I know when some people wake up they take a while to get going, and it takes them a bit for their brain to warm up. Like starting a car I guess. For me, on the other hand, it’s like instead of my “car” being turned off overnight, it is instead driven onto a treadmill, where it slowly builds speed throughout the night, then at the point of waking the treadmill is shut off and my “car” rockets forward. Most of the time I keep going, like Bo and Luke evading Boss Hog, but occasionally the car bottoms out, hubcaps go flying, an axle snaps, and all the passengers are killed. On those mornings, I have the paranoia.

Has anyone else ever experienced anything like this?

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