You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Home » Question of the Week » Losing it » Popular | Search
This is a question Losing it

Bluehamster tells us: "This morning I found myself filling my mug not a teabag, but with Shreddies." Tell us of the times when you've convinced yourself that you're losing your marbles.

(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 12:59)
Pages: Latest, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1

This question is now closed.

I was organising some kids games and needed a blindfold for one of them.
I found a particularly wide tie, which would do the job.
But what do I look like wearing a blindfold? Hm, not sure.
So to find out I put the blindfold on and looked in the mirror.
Surprisingly enough the results weren't really satisfactory.
(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 7:18, 6 replies)
My poor baby
17 days after my son was born, I had gotten maybe 17 hours sleep since his birth. A bit here, a bit there, the first week I hadn't slept at all - he had been born with a high bilirubin count and not knowing that this is reasonably normal (and having doctors telling me it was a worry) I had basically stood with him during every minute of his life - holding his hand and being there with him during the light treatments, during him sleeping, doing a lot of bottle feeding (of expressed milk) so his mother could get some sleep, and of course - changing his diapers every 90 minutes.

Most of this happened while we were in the hospital, but finally - we were home, things were resolved and I was going to go to bed - early and thoroughly. I was truly, devotedly looking forward to real sleep.

My wife decided "oh you're going up? why don't you take him with you and you both can get to bed early!"

It doesn't really work that way, and I'm not sure if my wife was just as brain dead as I was at the time and believed what she said, or is just a cruel and heartless woman, but I took him along with me and gave the wife some time to herself.

Curling up next to him, with him snuggling up against my body is one of the best feelings in the world, but it isn't really good for getting deep sleep. Still, I prepared to get a full 90 minutes or so of exhaustion-sleep, as that was the most I could expect before he would be hungry or need changing.

Right on schedule - 90 minutes later, he started wiggling and letting me know - he had a full diaper.

And this is where I think I qualified for insanity.

I got up to change my son's diaper, an action I was well well trained to do already.

In my mind though... things were a little bit different. Somewhere in the last 24 hours I had heard someone talking about Dungeons and Dragons, about how some groups you play with are great - and some are horrible.

In my mind, with the surety of dreams and late night stupidity - I somehow KNEW that my son's poop, deviously hidden in his diaper - was the ploy of a D&D group that was just taking the piss out of me, in poo form.

They had made this little scenario up! And they thought I couldn't tell.

These were my thoughts as I began to get up and move to the changing table - and understand - I was completely and utterly serious. I had no filter going on between me, reality, fantasy and the weird half dream world of no-sleep-exhaustion I'd been living in the last week.

As I stood and felt the weight of my son and his diaper, it went further.

"I cannot believe these guys, they must think I'm idiot - they've teleported their characters into the diaper. Do they think I won't figure it out?"

I could tell there was a little forest scene in the diaper, and that their characters were hiding behind the trees, waiting to spring out and make me look foolish.

I weighed him in my hands "That's at least six fighters worth in there"

He wiggled in my hands "There's a huge battle! They're fighting amongst themselves"

As I sat up and he seemed to get heavier "And they have horses"

Getting my hand under his diaper to carry him properly "The heat, someone just cast fireball, there must be a wizard attacking from a distance!"

As I walked towards the changing station on the other side of the room, I started to get upset "This is horribly unfair and I am not amused, how childish they must be to think my son's pants are a proper medium for their jokes and selfish squabbles!"

I'm full blown piqued and annoyed with these imaginary people who are having their imaginary characters secretly fight in my son's diapers for their amusement and cheap gamesmanship. "They think I won't know they're doing this? Of course I know everything that happens in my son's diapers! The sheer cheekery!"

As I attempt to unwrap him from his swaddling I begin to see their plan for hiding the situation, there's layers upon layers of misdirection and obfuscation - every fold and turn of the baby blanket is a physical manifestation of the convoluted beliefs and actions of these selfish gamers trying to use my baby's bottom for their own ends.

My hands continue the rote and mindless actions of laying my little tyke out on the changing station (now sans blanky) and moving his long shirt out of the way so I can remove his diaper. He struggles to avoid being exposed to the cold and I interpret that as futile attempts to cover up for the imaginary players and their shennanigans.

I reassure him - out loud - not just in my confused mind - but in the real world - that it's ok, and that I know what's going on, and what I'll find in his diaper.

Part of me is pretty confident that I will not be finding a section of forest with little people darting about the trees in full armor and flashes of light going off when I pull the diaper down, but instead will be finding the much more familiar and normal deposits you would expect.

But a larger, still sleeping part of me, tries to figure this out and realizes - this is only true because the gaming group must have retreated from the underpants of my son to ... the kitchen.

The utter bastards.

I am going to get these asses and show them my wrath.

My baby is changed, nicely too - there's no mess, my daddy patterns are strong and can handle a whole adventuring party's delivery of baby poo without flinching or hesitation.

But Now I need to talk to the fuckers in the kitchen and have this out.

...

I'm not sure what I would have said when I got to the kitchen, I know I was pretty steamed... but somewhere in the process of navigating the carpeted stairs in my socks, my body woke me up enough in self preservation that I was able to view reality a little clearer, and I did *not* yell at anyone for selfishly having their epic medieval battles in my son's diapers, nor did I find the arcane high level wizard who obviously placed the whole explosive situation there with his magic...

No, I just handed my wife the baby and then went to write this down.

Cause I thought you'd enjoy it.

And you should be warned.

No gaming in my son's diapers.

I. Will. Not. Have. IT.

That is all.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 19:47, 10 replies)
tight shoes...
One day, many moons ago my trousers and shoes felt odd.

Later, undressing at home I found I had omitted the underpants and put my socks on twice.
(, Mon 25 Jul 2011, 15:23, 9 replies)
I actually scared myself once...
When visiting my girlfriend while she was away at university, I discovered just how horrendous the people who lived above her were (and definitely still are).

We'd had a nice evening in, she'd cooked, I'd done the washing up, we'd watched some film or other and camped down on the double-bed made of sofa cushions we methodically laid out every weekend. As pillow-talk gave way to longer and longer sleepy pauses, it became apparent that the people upstairs had music on. Very loud and very shit music. After banging on their door and the ceiling a few times it became increasingly obvious that they'd gone out and left this musical horseshit to boom on out of their radio in their absence. After a failed attempt to blot out the signal with silence with an FM transmitted I had in the car, we resolved to ignore it as best we could and lock the house door so they at least they wouldn't get any sleep that night either.

At about 3 am, still totally awake, we heard someone trying the front door. Then banging on the front door. Then kicking the front door. Then screaming at the front door. The commotion eventually died down and we grinned a vengeful grin together.

Then we heard a fucking loud scrabbly thud in the next room; the bathroom. Not daring to open our safely locked door, we hear thumping footsteps cross the hallway, out into the porch and the house door being opened from the inside. In our sleep-deprived minds we hadn't suspected that a malnourished hipster student who can squeeze into drain-pipe trousers can climb up a drain-pipe and maneuver their way through the tiny window over the toilet. A thought which still scares me to this day. Nevertheless, they were in.

My girlfriend, bumbling mess of hair and pyjama material that she was, scurried to the front door to politely ask the neighbours to turn the music that they left on all night down. It is now 4 am.

These cacophonous troglodytes clatterfuck their way up the stairs, each footfall a thunderous blast into our room below. I think we all know what happens next and I'm hope this helps you understand my reaction. They turned the music up.

In one poetic motion I arced from the bed to the door, into the hall, planted my feet squarely below me and yelled up from my very centre: "Shut the fuck up, you miserable cunts". Seven words it took a full 10 seconds to bellow, emphasis on the final word, and all of them in a voice I'd never heard before. I grabbed the suddenly weightless hoover and began pounding lumps of plaster out of the ceiling. I moved on to their door and painlessly hammered it with my every limb and appendage. My head was giddy, everything was starry. I felt like I was having a euphoric, angry migraine. I'd never understood the phrase "the red mist descends" but suddenly, my head was swimming in it. I turned around and stomped back into the hallway, turned my head up to yell again, when I caught sight of my girlfriend, stood in the bedroom doorway. The look on her face froze me where I stood. She was petrified. Of me.

The red mist, the madness, fell away instantly and I was suddenly aware of the ache in my back, the gravel in my throat, the sharp pangs of pain in my joints and extremities where they'd hit the door, the sweat that was pouring over my body. "Go back inside" I whispered, and then stood with my head against the corner of the hall for 20 minutes, trying to control my breathing. After 20 minutes, I realised the music had stopped and I'd been stood in silence for quite a while. I'd never completely lost the plot like that before, but it scared the hell out of my that I had. I thought then, as I still think now, that if their door had given way I would have probably seriously hurt someone. I had simply no idea what I was doing.

I didn't sleep that night.
(, Tue 26 Jul 2011, 17:10, 20 replies)
Have a pea...
So there I was lying in bed being rudely awoken by my alarm clock, I get up have a shower and get dressed and go downstairs for breakfast.

When I get downstairs I say morning to my parents and eat the delicious breakfast my mother has made for me, say thanks and bid them goodbye.

I go out to the shed and get my bike out, saddle up and start on the 4 mile ride to school.

I used to enjoy the ride as I live in the countryside so you got to see all manner of wildlife (I'm into that sort of stuff).

Anyway I digress, so there I am cycling along whistling away to myself when I get to the village that the school is situated in (Weaverham if you care) Cycle up Lime Avenue to the school gates....
and they're shut??? Strange, it's 8:40am, so someone should be here.

And then it dawned on me, there was nobody about because it was fucking Saturday!

By bloody parents had watched me go to school on a fucking Saturday!

8 fucking mile round trip!

I was pissed! (off)

I cycled back home faster than I've ever gone before, I got to the driveway and cycled down it (We lived in a farmhouse) turned the corner and saw my Mother, Father and Sister stood on the doorstep laughing their heads off, Bastards!

I stormed in and refused to come out for the rest of the weekend.


They'd even gone to the trouble of ringing a neighbour (half a mile down the road) to get them to keep an eye out for me returning so they could be on the doorstep on my return and take the piss.

Cnuts!
(, Tue 26 Jul 2011, 16:44, 3 replies)
Jump ... jump ... jump ...
For fun I fly gliders - it isn't as calm and quiet as you may imagine mostly because you are zipping through the air at 70 miles an hour listening to the chat on the radio with various gadgets beeping and whining to tell you if you are going up or down or near controlled airspace ...

... one afternoon in 2005 while whistling through the air over Suffolk I had a sudden and very deep sense of dread come over me ...

[for those of you who don't know - Glider wings are designed to be taken off and the whole kit and caboodle stored in a long thin trailer. The wings are pushed together through the fuselage and typically joined with two thick metal pins - it is obvious if you have done it wrong as they flop to the ground - mine was a design such that the ends of the wings engaged with each other and a thin pin about the size of a man's index finger stopped them wiggling out]

... I couldn't remember putting the pin in! I slowed down gently, and tried to think ... OK so I arrived at the gliding club, I eat breakfast, I got someone to help me carry the wings, they slotted together, I used the lever to ram them together, I went for a cup of tea and chat and look at the weather forecast ...

... yup something missing! OK let's run through that again - nope still a gap 8-0

OK take this gently - THINK FOR GOD'S SAKE MAN!!! OK - can't see the if the pin is in as it is behind my head. What next? Is it in the cockpit? A few seconds rummaging around and all I can find is a twix, a half chewed biro and couple of plastic "relief" bags. Great! Must be in ...

... not so fast chirped up a little voice - "it lives in a pouch behind the seat! Can't reach that can you ! Can't see through the back of you head can you? Just imagine you're going to be trying to land - you'll open the spoilers and pop - the wings will fall off and you'll plummet hundreds of feet to a slow lingering death!"


GOING TO HAVE TO JUMP!!!!!!!!! Good thing you are wearing a parachute ... now make sure the straps are tight. Let's get them above the lump in your pocket.

LUMP? - POCKET? - PIN? - OHthankfuckinggoditsmynewphoneandithasacamera - now if I hold it by my ear facing backwards and clicketty-click!

A lovely photo of the pin holding the wings together - phewww!
(, Tue 26 Jul 2011, 9:22, 14 replies)
Jim
During my time working as a builders labourer, I did many jobs at Care Centres, Nursing Homes and Mental Institutes. The rules were always the same; never leave any tools unattended, keep the van locked (very annoying), lock yourself in the room you were working in (a pain in the arse in the Summer when ventilation was required) and do not speak to the patients/residents. Obviously, we didn’t adhere to these at all times, be it through laziness or forgetfulness, but nothing bad ever came of it. I did see some interesting sights at these places. At a home in Slough, I witnessed an elderly man escaping into the grounds of the centre, with his trousers and pants around his ankles. As 3 nurses chased him, he bent over, pulled his bum cheeks apart, laughed, and then carried on with his attempted escape.
Another time, I was plastering a new en suite bathroom.. Feeling like I was being watched, I turned around to find an 80-something year old woman with the bulgiest eyes I’ve ever seen, just starting at me, holding a big bit of skirting board in her hand. When I turned to face her, she just handed me the skirting board, turned and walked away shaking her head. I was clipped round the ear by one old man for ‘listening to tripe on the radio’ and a nurse also told me off for playing cards with another elderly fellow during my lunch break. Big deal! (excuse the pun).

I hated working at these places. The atmosphere was always horrible, and they all smelled the same. I did however gain a lot of respect for the staff that work there; getting paid a pittance to care for these elderly people, who were either incapable of looking after themselves, were mentally ill, or had just started to lose the plot – and I don’t mean to sound offensive saying that, it was really sad to see people with no recollection of who they were, what day it was, where they were etc. I lost count of the amount of times I saw an elderly person soil themselves. I hated the shouts and screams I'd hear from some of the bedrooms during the day, or seeing people wandering about in a daze. When people truly start ‘lose it’, it is a horrible thing to witness.

However much I hated doing building work at these places, it was something I had to do, and more often than not I could try and find some humour in certain situations, which made the days more bearable. My one true highlight though, was Jim.

Jim must have been in his late seventies, or early eighties. I first had the pleasure of meeting him on a rainy midweek morning, as I arrived to do a job in Buckinghamshire at a place called Cherry Tree Nursing Home. It was a big job; we were changing every window at the home, as well as knocking a few walls down and laying a huge patio. As I walked down the corridor towards one of the bedrooms that I was going to start in first, I heard a deep, almost Sergeant-like voice say, “What are you up to, boy?”. I glanced to my left, and in the doorway of the bedroom adjacent, stood a elderly fellow dressed immaculately in a grey pinstripe suit. He had white wispy hair, what was left of it combed over into a side parting, and a big crimson nose. I also noticed that he had massive hands – they were like dinner plates.

“Just here to start some work”, I replied. I admit I was quite nervous.

“And your name?”

I told him my name, to which he responded, “Pathetic! I’m going to call you Simon instead”. When I asked him why, he just smiled and said “Because it’s your name”. The conversation was interrupted when a one of the nurses/carers came down the corridor. “Come on Jim, back in your room please”.

“Bastards!” Jim muttered, and then turned his back on both of us and walked into his bedroom. The nurse told me to just ‘excuse Jim, he can be a bit of a pain’.

Over the coming weeks, I had many conversations with Jim. When I was working near his room, he would come out and speak to me. He always wore a suit. Every time he saw me he would say, “Good day, Simon”, then pat me on the head. It was scary the first couple of times, but I soon realised that Jim was harmless and just wanted a bit of interaction, a bit of banter even. He was one of the grumpiest men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting; it was done in such an infectious, naive way. He would tell me how most of the staff were ‘boring old farts’, the food was worse than ‘foreign foods like curry’ and that he ‘should be at home still, not stuck in here‘ on a daily (sometimes even hourly) basis. We never went into proper conversation about his life etc, one of the reasons being I didn’t know how much he could remember himself, I just liked listening to him lambasting the care home. I found it funny. I think Jim also liked my company, not that he would ever admit to it. He would often interrupt me mid speech and say, “Simon, it’s been ok. I’ll catch up with you later, boy” and then just walk off.

He scared the shit out of me once, by creeping up on me in one of the bedrooms, flinging a pair of black pants (thankfully clean – I think) in my face and shouting “SPIDER!” at me, before chuckling a big hearty laugh and walking out.
I’d get a lot of ‘they are definitely up to something in here, Simon’ – what it was though, Jim would never say. I was caught on quite a few occasions talking to him, I couldn’t see the harm in it myself, and each time Jim would just roll his eyes, mutter an obscenity and walk off.
If Jim was losing it, or had indeed already lost it, he would never let on to me. Perhaps he was the sane one? I do miss Jim.
(, Mon 25 Jul 2011, 14:37, 3 replies)





.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 20:27, 2 replies)
Don't get stoned in your lunch break.
I used to work in a tiny freight forwarding office on Hull docks - just me, another clerk, the secretary and our boss in one room. For some reason we were given an hour and a half for lunch, something I always damn well made sure I enjoyed to the fullest. On one such occasion I went home and found my doley mate rolling (as usual) a massive spliff. I knew I shouldn't have but the job was so frigging boring that day I decided it wouldn't hurt to partake, and consequently got far more stoned than I'd imagined I would - very stoned indeed in fact. I spent the journey back to the office attempting to mentally prepare myself for the afternoon ahead and on arrival had reached the conclusion that acting as normally as possible would be the best approach, and so, with a deep breath, confidently strode through the office door...

...and kicked the waste paper basket (with not inconsiderable force) horizontally across the room where it bounced off the opposite wall, scattering its contents in the process. In some kind of attempt to make light of what had just happened I turned to my boss and said, with all the dignity I could muster...

"Oops, big food!"
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 17:48, 4 replies)
As we have already moved into simple forgetfulness.
I've told this one before too, sorry:


It was a Friday, I surface bleary eyed out of my room at 11am to already find one of my flatmates stoned out of his tree. ‘That’s the day for me’ I thought, and lectures for the day are instantly forgotten, as I settle in to join him in watching a show about rich American High School students starring Luke Perry and Tori Spelling (you know the one, don’t make me admit to it in full). A few hours later we’re in a beer garden and my pockets are empty so I stagger off to the nearest cash point to fund the remainder of the day.

I enter my PIN. Incorrect.

I enter it again. Incorrect.

I enter it again. Incorrect. Card retained.

Fuck this, thinks I. I know there is money in there, so what is going on? And I march into the branch determined to get some money, furious that their incompetence has me in serious danger of sobering up. I queue, still furious and I eventually get to the counter to have it politely explained to me that it is very obvious that I incorrectly entered my PIN. Now, I am having none of this, I'd had the account five years, I knew the PIN, I knew there was money in the account, so I knew I was right and the snotty little shit was wrong. And I told him so. But he was adamant. Now, monumentally peeved, and not 100% compos mentis, I took it upon myself to prove to the arrogant bastard that I knew my PIN and I damn well wanted my money. So I grabbed a pen and paper and scrawled it down before shoving it across the counter.

I will give the man his credit, he didn't bat an eyelid as he slid the paper back across to me and said very calmly, 'Sir, this can't be your PIN, you see a PIN only has four digits. May I also take it upon myself to suggest that maybe you watch too much bad telly'?And I looked at the piece of paper, where I had very clearly written:

'90210'

I don't think I even had the decency to apologise before I ran out of the door, I was so embarrassed.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 15:35, 1 reply)
Losing it, bank cards and the OAPS.
This happened a while ago: I needed to go to the ATM at lunchtime. As I am walking towards the town centre, looking for the one with the shortest queue, I see one that is totally available. I walk towards it, not really thinking and then I see an old man in a wheelchair and his equally old female companion with a walking stick heading directly at it. I’m aware that I start walking slightly faster, wanting to not get caught behind them in the queue. And in that second a dozen different scenarios pop into my head as I realise I am trying to race two octogenarian invalids in a way that is too pathetic for words. What if she falls over? What if she has a heart attack. What if he knocks her over with his wheel chair? What if I see my boss, as I am speedwalking next to a pair of white haired, liver spotted dead people walking? I forced myself to slow down, took a deep breath and tried accept that waiting two minutes while they sort themselves out and get their paltry state pension into their shaky arthritic hands is not going to destroy my day. I am not that impatient that it will put me in a bad mood, surely?

Well, yes, and no. But mainly yes.

7 minutes I waited as a long queue formed behind them. She couldn’t find open her handbag, then she couldn’t open her purse, then she couldn’t find her bankcard, then she couldn’t bend down to pick it up when she dropped it. At this point I kicked her walking stick away and stepped over her crying body and withdrew my money.

No, obviously not.

At that point I bent down and picked it up for her and very politely smiled as I put it in her hand and stepped back to give her space to get her money. While imagining kicking her walking stick away and stepping over her crying body to withdraw my money. And then the muttering began, whether to herself or to her wheelchair bound husband who she was unaware was out of earshot, having positioned himself so he could watch the waitresses at the Italian Café on the corner, I am not sure:

‘Insert card where?’
‘oh, it’s the wrong way up’
‘how do I get it back?’
‘ha…I pressed cancel’
‘How do I use this’
‘I can’t remember my number’
‘ooh’
‘What’s enter?’
‘Please? Number’
‘oh dear’

‘Four...two...’

And at that point I realised that if I didn’t stop her she was about to announce her PIN to the entire queue, including a couple of people that I wouldn’t trust with a safety pin, let alone a bank PIN.

I perhaps should have been gentler than just shouting ‘STOP!’ though. I thought she was going to drop dead from the fright.

I was only trying to help, I promise. I hope she’s recovered now. I was scared to watch the local news that night, just in case there is a ‘Pensioner Frightened To Death. Impatient Man Sought By Police’ story on it.
(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 16:24, 2 replies)
Inadvertent carjack
On a cold, dark rainy evening I nipped into the local Tescos for a bottle of wine to numb the pain of another evening of Eastenders and Corrie. I was knackered after a long day at work, and wandered back to the car (parked on the road outside) in my usual slight daze - hurrying a little thanks to the increasingly heavy drizzle but otherwise in a world of my own.

Approaching the car, I hit the key fob for the central locking, and wandered round to the driver's side door, opened it (while checking my receipt to make sur I had indeed gotten my two bottles of wine for a tenner) and slipped into the driving seat.

At which point I realised that MY car seat doesn't have a cover on it. And my car does not have a pine tree air freshener. And my car is not a VW. And my car does not have three shit-scared children under the age of 10 in it.

I'd somehow managed to leave the shop at the same time as their mum, who had nipped in for some bits and bobs while leaving the kids in the car. I'd hit my central locking at around the same time as their mum, hence me thinking it was my car that was blinking at me out of the corner of my eye, when in fact I was parked about three cars further down the road.

Tricky one to explain, that. Dunno who looked more scared, the kids, the mum or me.
(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 16:39, Reply)
My ex's Dad
was helping with the cooking one afternoon and decided to make some gravy, so out came the Bisto granules, into a mug with some boiling water. He then finished it off with milk and 2 sugars.
(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 0:10, 5 replies)
Not me but two friends from Oz.
arrived in Heathrow on 5 February 1988. They were suprised to see an aiport employee wearing a large plastic red clowns nose pushing a line of luggage trolleys around the arrivals hall. Must be a care in the community type they thought. They got on the tube and headed down the Picadilly line into London on their way to their hotel.

A few stops down and a woman and a man got on both wearing red noses -must be on their way to a clown convention they thought.

At each stop more and more people got on all wearing the same false red noses. They both became convinced that they were being set up in some kind of candid camera type TV show, and were expecting Jeremy Fucking Beadle to get on next wearing a hat, false beard and red nose before pointing out the hidden cameras, but no, more and more people wearing red noses got on at each stop until the tube was practically full of them and strangely no one seemed to bat an eyelid, just the odd nod and wink that was all.

When they got off at Piccadiliy circus and walked out into the street they were surrounded by hundreds of people with red noses on. That's when they became convinced that they had completely losts their minds.

They put it down to jet lag and slept for the next 18 hours.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 13:33, 1 reply)
Totally losing it
Drove off to work this morning. Couldn't remember if I'd locked the Land Rover (my weekend car). Shit. Some little scrote will be in there trying to prise the crappy Land Rover own-brand stereo out of the plastic dash.
Thing was, I could definitely remember opening the Land Rover door that morning but not locking it after me.
I turned round, drove home, pulled up in front of my house, saw my other car (Honda Accord type thing) neatly parked there, realised I was IN the Land Rover.
The million decibel engine and clouds of noxious exhaust should have been a clue.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 13:25, 3 replies)
At least once a month
Cereal in the cat's bowl.

Cat food in mine.

She's now a big fan of cornflakes and rice krispies. Cat food on the other hand is horrific and I can see why she gets more pleasure out of cleaning her own arse.
(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 10:47, Reply)
Fuck you Sarsons!
No matter how many times I buy a bottle of this vinegar i NEVER remember to check if it has a "slow pour" cap, the amount of times my chips have looked like little boats in a brown lake of vinegar escapes me. But the last time really takes the biscuit, after one of the aforementioned mishaps (poured half the bottle of vinegar over my dinner) i decided, as it didnt have a slow cap, i would puncture a hole in the lid to create the same effect. Worked too, until two days later when i unscrewed the lid and poured the rest of the bottle over my fish and chips! :(
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 17:05, 3 replies)
I hate winter mornings...
In my last job I had an 8am start and a 45 minute commute - so was well accustomed to getting up before dawn in the winter.

One night I had a few drinks (well I was working in the brewing industry) but nothing catastrophic - perhaps 4 pints, then in bed by 11:30. My bladder woke me up before my alarm clock and I trudged downstairs, had a shower and some brekkie, then got dressed and trudged out feeling far rougher than I thought was really justified or fair. At the bus stop I checked my watch to see how long I would have to wait and found that it was in fact 12:45am - I had slept for less than hour then got up to go to work in the middle of the fucking night.

Of *course* I was late in the following morning after sleeping in.
(, Mon 25 Jul 2011, 16:30, 4 replies)
Turns out they were the droids I'd been looking for.

(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 9:24, 4 replies)
Foaming at the mouth
The other night I was having some pieces of chocolate before going to bed, and loading the dishwasher at the same time. I unwrapped the dishwasher tablet and placed it in the machine then popped another chunk of chocolate in my mouth. Except I had it the other way round. I had to eat a whole bar to get rid of the taste of Sunlight.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 16:11, 2 replies)
Cat food is rubbish
So, I get home from work last night and open the door to the usual scene...dead fish/bird/mouse on the mat and two cats running towards me so that I can tell them how clever they are and so they can scream at me until I feed them.
Into the kitchen I go and open the sachets of cat food and proceed to empty them not into the cats bowls, no, but straight into the bin.
My mistake was only clear to me when both cats suddenly stopped screaming at me and just stared silently up at me, with a look in their eyes that made me feel pathetic, humiliated and stupid.
(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 13:08, 2 replies)
Girlfriends drive you crazy
I was 16, it was 2am, and my abusive, evil, selfish, crazy (not an exageration - her grip on reality was very weak) girlfriend had had me on the phone telling me what a horrible person I was, that I didn't deserve to live or exist, that everything I believed was wrong, that I was worthless, etc, etc ... for a good 6? 8? 10 hours? And this was the third or fourth night in a row of it, I'd be up till very late listening to this, go to school and hear more of it from her, (except when she was telling me how much she loved me and needed me) then come home and repeat the pattern... the only reason why I can give you is, of course, I thought I loved her.

I was losing my sense of self, I had tried in the beginning to comfort her, in the middle to discuss things with her, and by the end just to agree with her so I could get free, but she wouldn't stop, she just kept pushing and pushing trying to break me completely...

And it was working, I was truly losing my grip on what was real, on who I really was versus what she was telling me I was.

But apparently when I lose myself completely - I have a back-up self. As I started to fade into nothingness, a strong voice that was definitely *not me* came out of my mouth and said "Hasn't he had enough?" into the phone, and then hung up the phone.

Guardian Angel? My dead grandfather watching over me? Passing spirit that couldn't believe this girl and possessed me for a minute?

Or small psychotic break?

[shrug] Whatever.

Somehow, the fact that someone cared enough about me to do it (... even if it was maybe a fractured bit of my own self...) was a great comfort to me, and I got through it. The sleep I got the rest of the night helped too.

Since then I've always found the voices in my head a source of great strength and comfort, I'm very grateful for them - it's something special to always have those you can count on, right there with you.
I'm very loved =)
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 20:07, 5 replies)
I really did lose it
...a full-on mental breakdown, about 15 years ago. But don't worry, this isn't going to be a wallow in self-pity, nor an inspirational tale of overcoming trauma. Just a description of one of the more entertaining symptoms...

You see, I started to receive messages, on TV, radio, newspapers, advertising billboards, the sides of buses, anywhere. Personal messages, specifically aimed at me, explicitly connected to what was going on in my head.

Thankfully, I remained aware enough to understand that this wasn't real. But the thing is, that's an intellectual knowledge, not an emotional one; however much I knew it, I couldn't stop them happening, or shake the feeling - the searing, white-hot mania-fueled belief - that they were real.

I have to say it's the oddest sensation, feeling that the universe is talking directly to you. Kind of scary, but also kind of comforting - after all, you must be pretty important if these powerful forces are focused on you!

It was also strange enough to tip me off that something was seriously wrong, and would need to be addressed. This wasn't just Post-Modern angst, or self-indulgent whining; this was time to call for help.

In the long run, the breakdown was the best thing that ever happened to me; I recommend them to anyone.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 14:45, 16 replies)
A very large killing machine, a very small brain.
The M5 south of Bristol is a lonely place at 2 am in winter, and it's made worse by being pitch black with no landmarks. High in the cab, it's warm, the cruise control was on, and the road stretched out featurelessly.

The office rang me, and asked how I was getting on.

"Er, dunno"

"Why not?"

"I've forgotten where I am. Is it Wednesday yet?"
(, Sun 24 Jul 2011, 10:21, 3 replies)
I think Amy Winehouse has lost her phone.
At least, she's not answering.
(, Sat 23 Jul 2011, 17:24, 18 replies)
My Mum went pretty mad ...
A few years after she divorced Dad. It would seem that Divorce was not the panacea to her woes. I suppose she found herself raising three teenagers on a single income and the strain began to show.

I was the eldest and a girl. It was my job to push the boundaries of suffocating over-protectiveness that most parents have, but don't actually realise. Can't say I was ever a bad kid; never came home drunk or stoned, did well at school, and never had a boyfriend at that point. But teenagers are more stupid than their parents give them credit for. It all started with odd lectures along the lines of 'you live under my house, you live by my rules', but never were the rules set out or any penalty mentioned.

So it came as rather a surprise when, after a blazing row, the subject of which I honestly don't remember, she kicked me out ... into the street ... hurling an empty suitcase at my head (what use was an empty suitcase?) ... shouting 'Never darken my doorstep again' for added theatrical effect.

I was 17 and 5 months old. Not legally an adult, but big enough to make my own way, I suppose. A school friend's mum took me in, bless her sweet heart, until I managed to finish school, find a burger flipping job and find a sharehouse to live in.

A few years later, Mum was diagnosed with an overactive thyroid. Symptoms include violent mood swings.

This is not a 'pity me' story. Things turned out well.

So please, if anyone around you suddenly changes, don't just write them off as 'mad' or 'lost it'. Entertain the possibility of an underlying medical cause. It can save a lot of heartache.
(, Fri 22 Jul 2011, 8:09, 3 replies)
Absentminded cross dressing

I was sat in my parents' kitchen one day, when my dad strode in purposefully and stopped to pop the kettle on - whereby his trousers promptly fell down around his ankles.

He tutted and rolled his eyes as it suddenly hit him:

"I've put your mother's jeans on again."

...And in one swift movement pulled them up and strode back out. I'm not sure whether it was the use of the rather telling word "again", or the fact that my mum is about a foot shorter than my dad, which makes it more baffling.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 16:09, 5 replies)
For the first time in many years
I now live on my own, having shared houses with various friends, girlfriends and a wife over the last decade.

This has its ups and downs, but you when you find yourself shouting at a woodlouse to 'fuck off' it may be the point at which to admit you've spent a bit too much time on your own recently...
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 15:49, 2 replies)

I forgot how to close my mouth once as a child. Just couldn't get my teeth to line up the way they normally did, no matter how much I tried.

After a while I stopped thinking about it and it closed naturally by itself.
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 15:16, 3 replies)
Sleep deprivation
I remember when our first child was born sitting on the edge of the bed, cradling my arms and gently rocking.

"What are you doing?" asked Mrs M.

"Shh! I'm rocking him to sleep."

"But, I've just put him back in his cot!"

"Then what am I...Oh."
(, Thu 21 Jul 2011, 13:28, 5 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Latest, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, ... 1