I work night shifts, which is at best a semi-profitable means of saving up for one’s funeral. It does in fact decrease your lifespan and up your chances of getting some form of cancer. I love how they rate the risk of dying with the same terminology we use in gambling.
Like it’s a fucking lottery.
Actually, you stand a much better chance of winning the Melanoma 5000 than anything worthwhile on a scratch ticket. Now I can see why old ladies like to play bingo. They’ve managed to beat the odds all these years so one or way or another, their number’s coming up.
Working nights has fucked up my circadian rhythms so I still can’t get much sleep even when I come home exhausted…… with the sun rising, all cheerfully radioactive and shit, right in my eyes. My sleep patterns are terrible.
It fucks with your memory, too, and since your brain doesn’t get to properly cleanse itself of metabolic by-products and neurotoxic metals, it also puts you in the running for a chance to win a brand new case of Alzheimer’s.
It fucks with your memory, too. By the time I get home, I’m a bloody zombie. I’m only able to function because I’m hopped up on caffeine and methamphetamines.
(I’m kidding. I hate coffee.)
I do stupid things when I’m tired. It’s like my brain knows I’m headed home and won’t be piloting a 20 ton missile again until tomorrow. So it’s just like, “Fuck it. Imma have a nap.” And it just more or less shuts off; goes into autopilot.
Only my autopilot seems to have been designed by fuckin chipmunks.
It’s like I come home and start preparing to live out the winter underground. I hide shit. Everywhere. Without rhyme or reason. And then it pisses me off when I go to find something where I last remember it residing. And it’s gone. And I never have any recollection of doing this.
And my wife is never awake for any of this, it seems. So when I ask her where something is, she always gives me the straight answer and I snap my fingers and loudly proclaim, “YES!” and then when I look, it’s not there either. Why? Because I came home like the Walking Dead, found something vital – I never lose useless crap, just the important stuff – and promptly put it somewhere which I must have thought would make it easier to find.
Then I have no fuckin clue where that is. And my wife asks, “Well, why did you move it?!” and I’m forced to sound like a mental health patient saying, “It’s not me. It’s that other guy. That other guy’s a dick.”
Seriously, it’s like Dr Jekyl and Mr. Hide-All-Your-Fucking-Shit.
Last week I picked up a ten pack of cutting disks for my angle grinder – you know that thing that goes OOOWOOWOOWOOO and throws a shitstorm of sparks on shows like American Chopper? Yeah, that. So I bought a big pack of disks for mine last week because I was planning a little project and I put them on the dresser in our bedroom, because if you leave out anything remotely of value in our house, a dog will eat it and then shit it out with a terrified look on their face.
The very next afternoon, I went to get the damn things and I couldn’t find them. I searched all over the house and marched around looking for the next two days with a bloody scowl on my face, cursing my shit memory instead of just going to the store for another ten pack – which would have been the sensible course of action, considering they cost all of $10.
But because I’m Scottish, I’m both stubborn and cheap, which are two of the worst traits you can have, short of flamboyant and incontinent. It took me a week to finally break down and buy new disks. And then I promptly found the old ones, which I had, for some ungodly reason known only to house elves and gremlins, hidden under my pillow.
I can’t possibly gauge why I wanted to cuddle with the goddamn things but I’ve wised up to that other fucker. The one who hides all my shit. I’ve been taking note of where he sticks things so when something goes missing I at least know where to start.
An awful lot of stuff winds up in bed with me. Or filed away with books. And just about every fucking thing I own has, at least once, spent the morning in the fridge or freezer – which is fine for most stuff, the cold won’t bother it, but my wife’s Jack Russell was right pissed off.
She really didn’t appreciate the dishwasher, either, but at least she smells lemony fresh now.