Out, Out, Brief Candle!

I have been stuck with the same boring routine for the last two weeks. I am already losing my mind. I sympathise for farmers, how they go to sleep contented I will never know. I wake up, go downstairs and face leg scratching. I send the puppies outside. Whether I clean up the hideous amounts of shit or feed the puppies immediately proves to be the most interesting dilemma I will probably face all day. In one hand I have ridding myself of an annoying shriek coming from behind the window door with four paws erratically scratching at it calling to there apparent surrogate mother to satisfy the starvation they have been experiencing for little over four hours, and in the other hand I have a worsening smell coming from a small shit filled room that has ben naturally fermenting the odours of these tiny little animals for just about ten hours now. I chose the smell. My nose is apparently more sensitive than my ears. I can handle a shriek, I go to school with British girls who crave attention over their problems remember. But a bad smell no one can get used to - unless you count the farmers who I am yet to understand.

I clear the shit, then I feed - apparently the scratching and screeching gets on my nerves in the morning after a while - following this I get to mopping. When I have done this I go an have a cigarette. This demanding morning situation on my senses, in my opinion, is a perfect advert for how a chemically crammed death stick does seem necessary - after all it's not like I have time to rustle up an emotion balancing smoothie that the health police are so desperately promoting nowadays.

I light up this thin white carcinogen and am immediately being attacked by what some would see as wolverine on speed, but no it is just two puppies who love me unconditionally. Funny way of showing affection don't you think. The only people who would agree with this display of love are those men who smack their wives around each morning where some husbands would just give a delicate kiss. But to each their own.

I go back into the house with my legs and hands suitably shredded, which begs the question, why do I try so very hard to hold aloft this smouldering amber tipped finger to prevent these innocents from harm when all they do is show me the shiny side of their claws? So I'm in the house, cleaning up the mess I made the day before that I was too idol to clean up the previous night due to the suggestion to myself that doing it in the morning will get me in the mood to work. I don't want to work after this, in fact I'm closer to gauging out my organs so I will be taken into intensive care so some sorry prick will look after me for a change. All this cleaning just makes me crave my breakfast even more. A breakfast that I feel I owe myself to spend an hour eating, even though it's a simple bowl of cereal.

Do I shower, or does the thought of standing up for a prolonged period of time while something similar to a jet engine thunders away at my right ear make me want to stay sitting and watch another episode of Top Gear? I think I'll chose the less hygienic route. Just when I thought I procrastinated enough I either get on with some work or an opportunity will present itself to me where I can put off doing work just a bit longer. The nomination could be classed as enough time wasting.

Let's say I chose to work. I sit myself down, get organised. I start working. My mind is swilling around theodicies or models of abnormality depending on which subject I choose to dive into, but my concentration is broken by a worrying snarl. This is the snarl of two, very awake, puppies leaping at each other with their jaws wide open. This is supposedly supposed to be seen as "playing", I'm getting a second opinion. It's hard to concentrate with this noise. So I sit back down and channel hop for a while, jumping up and down to check whether they have fallen to exhaustion yet. When they do I resume my work, completely unfocused because as luck would have it the minute they drop off a programme i want to watch comes on. Great. But I power through and find myself immersed in Freud, Anselm, Joda, Aristotle or anyone else depending on my choice of subject.

However, it's not long until they're awake again and bingo it's nearly two. Time for meal number two. I feed them and if I've gone down the unhygienic route it means I'm probably still in a dressing gown so my second layer of skin is about to be removed from my legs. Ladies forget waxing because I have found a treatment that will solve all your prickly problems, tackle your leg hair at the root by removing your skin, I have just the instruments you need to make this dream come true and they will work on each leg simultaneously. Just fantastic don't you think?

They run around for a bit, take a shit which is either full of the twigs they consume because the four meals a day they receive isn't large enough or half a foam rugby ball they devoured when I wasn't looking. I sit down and my other dog, the one who is supposed to be easy, starts to whine. He has seen something at the end of the garden. Therefore, this calls for the pigeon he is not going to kill to be chased after immediately. So I have to get up, let him out, console the puppies after they scream with terror when he looks at them, let him back inside when he gives up on his murder attempt, and then resume my work. I do quite a lot in the time my whole animal household is asleep. Then when the time comes I feed them again and decide as it is nearing half six I'll feed myself. I eat and am immediately on my feet to feed the other dog at seven.

I have now decided I do not want to work so I sit and watch television, or in cases like tonight have a girl round who I can have a long insignificant chat about things that I really don't give a shit about but I just spend the time wondering whether or not I'd like to fuck her by the end of the night. I decide I'm too tired and send her on her way, but not before irritating this conversational addict with the puppy choir singing "feeding time" conducted by yours truly.

So she's gone. The puppies are in their basket following a little discipline given out in order that they learn to be more well behaved whilst they watch their disposable newspaper toilet being laid out in the corner of the room, they are yet to regard it as necessary and decide to shit all over the floor. I then give my dog a biscuit, which we have now conveniently run out of, and retire to my room to watch a film I won't remember in the morning.

Hopefully, you can now understand why I stop myself from sleeping by writing this post because the idea of having to go through that day again when I wake up is about as daunting as Macbeth's candlelit journey through his castle before he kills the king.