My Issues Run Deep or How My Cats Are Smarter Than Me

I actually thought the words to myself, “don’t start playing the game. You know you won’t be able to stop.” I, of course, didn’t listen to this sage advice and fired up the Xbox 360 and started playing BioShock 2 Sunday night. Many hours later Monday morning (I don’t want to say the time. Okay, you twisted my arm 3 am) I thought to myself, “gosh I have to work in a few hours.” I actually didn’t say gosh I believe I used a word which started with an f and ended with a g. I might have also called myself a name which implied a lack of intelligence. I reluctantly shut off the infernal machine cursing my addiction and the fact I didn’t finish the game yet and trudged off to bed.

I, of course, hit the pillow and was out instantly… Ha! Not really. No, instead I tossed and turned for a few hours thinking about the next chapter in my book (I am sure I fell asleep in there somewhere but really at that point who gives a shit). I got up. Chugged enough coffee to keep a few farms in Brazil humming along at maximum profit (a friend sent me an article today which said coffee cures depression in women. I am a little pissed this apparently doesn’t work on men, mutant freaks, me). I should have been tired Monday but I wasn’t. I should have gone to bed early but I didn’t. I made it past my biological sleep time clock and stayed up late again.

I am a serious mutant when it comes to sleep. If I am up past 8 pm I am up all night. If I go to sleep before 8, I will get a couple of hours sleep and then be up all night. My body seems to like to break up its sleep. I have always been this way. It makes having a day job a royal pain in the ass. Speaking of day job. How did I pick a day job which actually requires me to be working by 8:20 am. I don’t think I am nearly as smart as I like to pretend I am.

Sometimes I wish you could pick which religions were real for you and then get all the stuff they promise because I swear to you I would come back in my next life as a cat. Those little fuckers are way smarter than me. Here’s my cat’s schedule. Wake up and have human feed me. Play with human so they feel important and keep feeding me. Go back to sleep. Wake up eat food out of bowl human left for me. Play with other cat. Go back to sleep. Wake up when human gets home. Rub against their leg to make them feel like I give a shit. Eat some more. Attack human’s foot. Go to sleep on human’s lap while they pet me. Seriously, who’s the smart one here. Of course, my cat Troubadour paid for all this lovely treatment by getting his balls cut off. I wonder if he misses them? Maybe I don’t want to be a cat.

This of course all adds up to one very clear picture. I have issues which there is no cure for. My weirdness knows no bounds. I may have had a psychotic break while playing Donkey Kong as a kid. I am hilarious and ridiculous all at the same time. A legend in my own mind and currently a writeaholic. All of these things may be true but it does beg for one very important question to be answered. What the hell is wrong with my wife? I mean she did marry me. I am going to have to keep a closer eye on her.

About csdaley

C.S. Daley was born in California but has spent most of his life in his imagination. His first short story written in third grade, the now classic "Close Encounters of the Turd Kind," was sold to his next door neighbor for a quarter. The neighbor promptly demanded a refund. An unhealthy obsession with the writings of Neil Gaiman, Christopher Moore, and Terry Pratchett have left his mind warped and broken. He spends most of his evening swilling down coffee while tapping at a keyboard under the watchful eyes of his kittens. They are there to make sure he doesn't snap. He likes to write fantasy for adults and teens.

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