My ongoing exciting adventures with holes!
I’m manic-depressive (Or in modern hip-kid lingo, “I’ve got Bipolar Disorder”). Once, a couple years after I got married, my wife was out of town on work for a couple months. This meant that I had no one to say, “Go to bed, you idiot,” or “Wake up, you idiot!” which meant my sleep patterns got wildly disregulated and sometimes I’d just go a day or two without it entirely. Sleep. Feh. Who needs it? Quitters, that’s who! As anyone Bipolar can tell you, that’s the fastest way to having a manic episode.
So it’s after work, and I’m sitting in the house we were living in at the time, and suddenly I think, “I’m going to build a working one-person submarine!” Granted, I think stuff like that all the time because I am still basically a 9 year old, but this time was different somehow. Somehow I got it in my head that I had enough stuff in the house to do it, or at least get pretty far in to it, then after work I’d pick up some fiberglass…uhm…stuff…not sure what…and make the hull. Might need someone to help me with the windows, but at any rate, I should have a working submarine and tooling around in the river by the end of the week. How hard could it be?
The awesome thing about Manic Depression is that this seems perfectly rational.
Anyway, so I spent a few hours in the back yard dragging metal and stuff around, making piles of stuff, re-arranged piles of stuff, and finally concluded that I had neither any metal nor any means of welding metal, so, screw it, I was just gonna dig a well.
Not sure why, exactly, it’s not a self-evident as building a submarine, but I *think* it had something to do with figuring out how deep the water table was. Couldn’t be TOO deep as I lived near a river, right? It was pretty hot out, so I took off my shirt, and I dug and I dug and I dug, and I realized I was getting my pants filthy, so I took ’em off, too. I was in a hole, after all, and my back yard was fenced. Who was gonna notice?
I got down to about five feet, and still hadn’t hit water. Wasn’t even damp. I decided to take a break. My shoes were angering me for some reason. I have even less memory of why than I do of why I suddenly decided I needed a well. (Conversely, the submarine still makes sense to me) Weighing the pros and cons, as one does in such situations, I decided I should set fire to my shoes and throw them in the hole.
This I then did.
I threw some more crap down the hole to keep ’em burning. (Shoes are surprisingly hard to burn, and the ventilation at the bottom of a failed well is pretty poor).
Well, this is boring. What should I do now? I’m naked. It’s like 4 AM, my shoes are on fire, I can’t finish my sub until Home Depot opens, the water table is way deeper than I thought. I know! I’ll run and jump through the flames repeatedly!
This I then did, until I got tired or the shoes burned out, can’t remember which came first, though I think it was the shoes. By now the sun was coming up. so I got a shower and maybe an hour of sleep, but maybe not, went to Dennys, then the office, and another exciting work day of staring crazy-eyed at people had begun!
Yeah! Holes! They’re awesome, whether burying you alive when you’re seven, or failing to become wells when you’re 27!
So obviously I’m medicated and in control now, haven’t had an episode in years. The thing is, I still remember that as being a pretty fun night.