I’m the King of the (Mood) Swingers

“How’s life, Viper?” I hear you ask.

Very nice of you to ask, dear reader. Some of it’s good, some of it’s bad. What’s good? Being asleep. What’s bad? Being awake.

I jest.

Being asleep isn’t all that great.

Ah, humour, how you help me to enjoy hating myself.

I have good moments and bad moments. I aim to write blog posts in both so that you, my curious reader, can get the whole Viperish Discordant Hero experience.

Sunday was a good day. I nearly said “technically” a good day, but that’s because I’m low right now. Sunday was a good day.

I woke at six and walked a dog with the able assistance of Mrs Viper. The countryside was exquisite. Britain in autumn is something to be treasured. We saw the dawn turning the sky pink and gold. Mist was rising from the fields. I saw a hare. A good walk, yes?

Then a two mile run. I’m training Mrs Viper for a half marathon she hopes to do. Go girl!

Then I took the kids out to a country house, farm and adventure playground that we love. Mrs Viper remained at Viper Towers to recuperate from the stresses of her high-powered job and living with me. I took smallest child on the slides, we all looked at the animals and we explored one of Britain’s most beautiful great houses.

The evening was time for family swimming followed by the British tradition that is ‘chippy tea’.


Monday found me in a less fine mood. Back to the grind. Breakfast to make, lunches to make, kids to dress, school run, housework to do, ‘job’ to attend to, more school run, food to prepare, dishes to wash, kids to bathe, bed time routine. Smallest child is potty training and is currently resistant to the concept of using the potty for pooping. Tinkling is fun, but pooping is saved for the night-time ‘pull up nappy’ (diaper, for the colonials). This tiny child can do adult sized poops. Scratch that, she poops like a woolly mammoth after it’s eaten a bush full of senna pods. Smallest child actually enjoys the experience of the nappy change. It’s a time for chatting and the playful wriggling that ensures poop covers all available surfaces, furnishings and people.

Return smallest to shared bedroom of my offspring. Room still smells a bit off. Oldest child drops book from top of bunk bed onto smallest child. Pater breaks his own rules and does a bit of shouting. Both offspring sobbing. Soothe sobbing with spirited reading of “The Jungle Book”. Concerned throughout that room still smells. I prepare the night-time movie (fuck you, my kids like a movie before bed, don’t judge me). I put my hand in cold, slimy cat poop. Did I mention that there are cats in my house? I would call them pets, but it’s more of a demonic possession.

There is poo on my hand. There is poo on the carpet. There is poo on the cuddly toys that the culprit used to hide the crime. There is wailing from offspring due to poo situation. There is wailing due to lack of movie situation. THERE IS POO ON MY HAND! MY PRECIOUS, DELICATE HAND WITH ITS SURGEONS FINGERS AND ELEGANT NAILS!

Well done, script writer of the universe. This is comedy gold.

Hand washing. Obsessive hand washing. Oh, merciful spirits of darkness, my hand will never stop smelling like cat poo. The cat was ill. Poor cat. Poor cat that has made the room of my children, their toys and my hand smell like horror. Yes, feel sorry for the cat, you buffoons.

Toy washing. Carpet scrubbing. Movie playing.

Eventually, I got downstairs and used bleach on my hand. That’s healthy, right? Anyway, the kids were finally calm and watching their movie. The room still smelt somewhat faecal, but they were dealing with it.

I pretended to be Batman with the help of a computer game console. Beating up henchmen is deeply satisfying.

What’s that children? You need drinks. Why of course. Up two flights of stairs, down again, up again, down again.

More Batman. Punch. PUNCH. PUNCH!

Mrs Viper returned from her endeavours at around ten. I entertained her with spirited moaning and wailing until bed. Lucky lady.

Naturally, I wake up this morning to find that misery has moved in for a while. Hi there, misery, nice to see you. What’s that? Today I will only be able to think horrifically dark thoughts? Oh my, misery, you spoil me! I will experience no pleasure and only be able to think in spirals that lead me downwards? Marvellous. Yes, misery, I do agree that everyday brings me closer to my inevitable death and I remain, as you astutely point out, an abject failure according to any sane measure of success. Fair points, misery,

I feel like a vampire. Not a modern, useless sexy sparkly one. Those aren’t vampires. Those are the creepy sexual fantasies of a troubled person. I’m talking a proper vampire. I feel like I have no soul. There is nothing that pleases me. Sunlight hurts me, happiness is meaningless. I crave something that I do not have. I crave life. I wish I could bite someone and suck life from them. That’s probably how my family feel, like they’re having their joy sucked out. I hope not. They probably just think I’m a bit snappy at the moment. They don’t know that I’m one of the undead. It’s for the best that they don’t know. Smallest child is looking for an excuse to stake me, I can see it in her eyes.

I’m not writing a blog post, I’m procrastinating. I should be changing bed sheets, trying to make the kids’ room smell better, doing laundry. Instead, I’m writing self-indulgent drivel, trying to make light of the pain. It’s like having a head-ache of the soul. My face does smiles and my arms do hugs. My kids deserve those. My heart does bugger all.

Fuck you, misery. I’m going to pretend so hard that you’re not here, that you go away of your own accord. I’m going to grill some figs and eat them with honey. I’m going to have a tasty sandwich on the ‘posh’ bread we bought at ALDI. I’m going to smile at my smallest child as she watches Youtube videos about play-doh with all the concentration of Bertrand Russell considering set theory.

I may be one of the undead, but at least I’m a vampire, not a zombie.

Ah, a nice sit down, a bit of a blog and a cup of decaff. It’s not quite slaking my thirst for blood on an innocent victim, but it’ll do, reader, it’ll do.

Stay frosty,

Viperish Discordant Hero (undead and tolerating it).


Post Scriptum: I decided it was time to stop procrastinating and to get to work. I popped upstairs to place a reed diffuser in the room of my children. The scent of the diffuser is very pleasant. How nice, I thought, that the children will have a room that smells of ‘Romance’ instead of cat poop. The room still smells foul. This can’t be right. It has aired all night and morning. Oh, I missed a tiny speck of poo. I’m a terrible parent. Just let me move this toy and… oh SWEET HADES… my eyes… my nose…

I rarely gag. I am almost immune to poo. My life has involved far more poo than I had expected during my childhood.

Nevertheless, this was something to inspire holy dread. A blasphemous mixture of once-liquid cat-lava and cuddly toys. The smiles of the toys looked fixed, their eyes glassy. They had experienced something that no toy should suffer. That never happened to Woody or Buzz.

The washing machine is running. The bin contains many wipes. It looks like I’ve been dealing with a prisoner on dirty protest.

I will never eat again.

How can animals that are still alive have produced such an arse-pocalypse?

My children slept in a room where one wrong move could have led them to encounter… madness… I feel like the protagonist of an HP Lovecraft tale… I’ve seen too much, learnt too much… the horror… the crawling chaos… the slimy, nightmarish, formless elder poop and its rugose, many-faced disciples… Ia! Ia! The Poop of Cathulu!

I leave you now, dear reader. I have cats to murder.



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