Hunter Thompson’s Ghost is Riding My Consciousness Wagon…


Okie dokie, folks.  We’ve just crossed the border from reason and logic to the swarthy land of full-on crazy sauce.  My left eye and both ears are currently hallucinating.  Everything looks like it’s on a slant, I’m seeing things that I know were here earlier – happily obeying the iron rule of gravity – floating inches above and to the side of where they belong.  Everything in front of me looks like that weird reality you accept when you take the 3D glasses from the man at the window and shuffle into a dark corner of the theater.  Yes.  There are shadow people.  All up in my business.  And even if I close my eyes the baby monitor, glowing that half-breed shade of pondwater green/almost-dead-goldenrod, streams a constant report of static-crumpled giggles, singing, chirps, conversations from three tables over in a crowded tea house (sliverware tinkling), whimpers, hisses, clicks, hiccups and – perhaps most disturbingly – dragging noises.

Although I’ve ingested nothing fun aside from some fajita chicken and the effigy of a chubby, jolly wee elf, whose chocolate innards pleased me intensely, I have only just understood what Hunter S. Thompson meant by “bad vibes, fear and loathing.”  Ugh.  I really want to go get my husband because, although sensation reports that reality has jumped ship, I know that he’s only a set of stairs away and that he would give me that pitying, irritated, bleary-eyed one-in-the-morning look and tell me to go to bed.  I could close my eyes and wait for whatever rift in the space-time continuum has been created to sew itself back up.  But I can’t bring myself to do that because I’m afraid of what I’ll see if I stand up and go around the corner into the dining room, which offers access to the aforementioned stairs.

Why?  Why, for the love of all that’s good and holy won’t Harper wake up screaming?  She always wakes up screaming about this time of night.  If she would wake up screaming, then my husband would wake up and I could slink upstairs secure in the knowledge that if I have melted into some some horrible and completely unintended bad trip, my husband will be able to pull me safely from the purple alligator-filled quicksand.  Won’t he?

I’ve always found Schizophrenia to be the most fascinating of psychological disorders.  Fascinating because it is terrifying.  To me, the thought of having no way to distinguish between reality and hallucination would be the absolute measure of terror.  And I’m being one hundred percent serious when I say that I can hearwhat I believe to be an unknown song by The Eagles very clearly through the white noise in this baby monitor.  This thing is evil.  Also, I would put my right hand on the bible and swear to you that I hear the floor above me creaking as if my husband is at the bassinet.  But not an earthly creature stirring.

I know that it’s a weird combination of lack of proper sleep, a day spent far more in the sun than others, matrixing sounds out of white noise, the chorioretinopathy in my left eye coupled with the almost complete shadow of my living room.  But I just heard someone burp into the monitor and my brain is working double time to try and convince me that the armchair across the room has turned itself to face me and is gently rocking itself, waiting patiently for me to get up.  And for what I care not to know.

Wow.  I really don’t understand how anyone could voluntarily do this to themselves.  Timothy Leary, you were one ballsy character because if this were to be a common occurence I think I would certainly just jump off a bridge.  Not sure how tonight is going to end up.  I think it’s time to turn on the television and wait (pray) for one of my children to wake up and, in so doing, wake my husband up, so that I can reconnect with reality.

Strange, strange things here tonight.

Third Shift


I knew it was coming.  Mike works first shift.  With saws.  Big, scary saws that hunger for fingers and human blood.  He needs to sleep before he clocks in.  Which means I’m on third shift with the kiddos.  Which means I don’t sleep for more than two hours at a time.  That’s on a good day.  And it’s usually during the day after my (wonderful, fabulous, life-saving) mother shows up.

Recently (read: within the past two days) Harper has decided that falling asleep is for suckers, and she fights it, Gladiator vs. Lion style.  June, as well, has taken to a recent bout of fussiness and all I can say is bless the poor fucker who has a baby with actual colic.  Because this is nowhere near that bad and there are times that I need to go into another room and curl up into a corner and weep silently to myself for a few moments.  And we’re only three weeks in.  Yee Haw.

Anyway, I’ve discovered Harper’s kryptonite.  It’s this video:

Bad news is that that video is so…fucking…disturbing.  For real.  I try to play it for her with her back to the computer screen so that crazy shit doesn’t scramble her little brain.  I, on the other hand, can’t seem to tear my eyes away, although watching that time and again for the past two nights has given me the intense compulsion to tear my eyes out.

Jesus wept.  Who came up with that unholy mess?  And why does Harper like it so much.  Could she be the evil twin?  Could she be secretly trying to break me down already?  I thought the mind games didn’t start until they developed an understanding of the concept of manipulation.

I’m so screwed.

I get them back, though. Every morning, when they’re trying to sleep, I wake them up to this:

Gotcha, kids! Har har.