What it's like in my brain. HINT: Not "72 and Sunny...every day!"
While
walking, I wonder if an MRI will reveal that I have an unnatural brain. Three
lobes, or two and a half, or just one massive lobe. Perhaps there’s an unborn,
dead, foetal twin in there, nudging up against important bits, like the part
that gives me Tourette’s and OCD and depression and all the other things. The part that makes me forget things like
whether I’ve eaten, or where I am. Perhaps there is a chicken bone, or a
fragment of eggshell, in there, mis-swallowed by my mother when she was fat
with baby.
I think about the Minnesota Multiphase Personality Inventory that the psychologist had me take a few weeks ago. How many people really fill in the circle for questions like “Do you feel that people are hypnotizing you?” Should I be worried that I filled in all the little T or F bubbles honestly? Is the doctor going to ring up my wife and ask her to tie me to the bed, under the pretense of kink, just so I’ll be restrained when the come to take me away?
I buy my comics, and wonder if I’ll ever see my name on one of them. I used to see my brother Matthew’s name on comics, but only because I would take them to school, and he’d use a giant sharpie to scribble “MATT STONE” on the cover, so nobody could steal them, or perhaps so that if they did, they’d feel guilty.
A story floated through my brain, about a man sitting in the corner of a college dorm room, shooting up. Injecting his own spinal fluid, semen, that slop in your skull that cushions your brain, and hot sauce, all straight into his bloodstream. It fades quickly after that concept, as I start wondering metaphysical things, like what if the injection allowed him to witness all of his thought processes as an outsider, albeit an outsider possessing the exact same thought process. When he turns the mirror of his self upon himself, does that diminishing light thing happen, so he can’t see anything at all, or does he achieve nirvana?
If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha. If you just see him passing by, quickly, in a car, does that count? Should you get on a bike, steal a motorcycle, plug him at the next stoplight he reaches? Or do you actually have to say, “Hell, I’m benjamin, it’s nice to meet you Mister Buddha,” for it to count?
I have a strange fascination with drugs. I've never done any that weren't prescribed, save for a brief period of taking pseudoephedrine to keep me from sleeping back in college. Addictive shit, but I got off of them. Quit smoking two years ago. Can't drink too close to taking my pills or I fall asleep. I'm not a prude, but I'm running out of vices. Will I ever try a natural psychedelic, like DMT or mushrooms? Why have I never smoked pot? Cocaine is a repulsive concept, I must admit, as is heroin. Don't get me started on meth. You might as well just empty all your cleaning supplies in a bucket, dunk your head, and breath the fluids deep into your lungs. So no drugs for me. Should I be proud or sad?
I worry that I’m sleeping too much, then I worry that I’m not sleeping enough. They’re adjusting my Tourette’s meds, so I’m twitching like crazy these days. Even the simple act of sitting means I bounce and jerk and so on.
I spend too much time worrying about my writing and not enough time writing it. I need to submit more things. I need to get off the “do they like my writing?” kick and off the “why am I writing” stump and just fucking do it. Write something worth selling, something readable, something that isn’t just swearing and guns. I swear a lot, so it bleeds into my work. I like to think I’m an artful swearererer, however, and not just an abject curser.
My stomach hurts from twitching. I’m going to barcode some books.
“Ray? You and me, man…”
b
I think about the Minnesota Multiphase Personality Inventory that the psychologist had me take a few weeks ago. How many people really fill in the circle for questions like “Do you feel that people are hypnotizing you?” Should I be worried that I filled in all the little T or F bubbles honestly? Is the doctor going to ring up my wife and ask her to tie me to the bed, under the pretense of kink, just so I’ll be restrained when the come to take me away?
I buy my comics, and wonder if I’ll ever see my name on one of them. I used to see my brother Matthew’s name on comics, but only because I would take them to school, and he’d use a giant sharpie to scribble “MATT STONE” on the cover, so nobody could steal them, or perhaps so that if they did, they’d feel guilty.
A story floated through my brain, about a man sitting in the corner of a college dorm room, shooting up. Injecting his own spinal fluid, semen, that slop in your skull that cushions your brain, and hot sauce, all straight into his bloodstream. It fades quickly after that concept, as I start wondering metaphysical things, like what if the injection allowed him to witness all of his thought processes as an outsider, albeit an outsider possessing the exact same thought process. When he turns the mirror of his self upon himself, does that diminishing light thing happen, so he can’t see anything at all, or does he achieve nirvana?
If you meet the Buddha, kill the Buddha. If you just see him passing by, quickly, in a car, does that count? Should you get on a bike, steal a motorcycle, plug him at the next stoplight he reaches? Or do you actually have to say, “Hell, I’m benjamin, it’s nice to meet you Mister Buddha,” for it to count?
I have a strange fascination with drugs. I've never done any that weren't prescribed, save for a brief period of taking pseudoephedrine to keep me from sleeping back in college. Addictive shit, but I got off of them. Quit smoking two years ago. Can't drink too close to taking my pills or I fall asleep. I'm not a prude, but I'm running out of vices. Will I ever try a natural psychedelic, like DMT or mushrooms? Why have I never smoked pot? Cocaine is a repulsive concept, I must admit, as is heroin. Don't get me started on meth. You might as well just empty all your cleaning supplies in a bucket, dunk your head, and breath the fluids deep into your lungs. So no drugs for me. Should I be proud or sad?
I worry that I’m sleeping too much, then I worry that I’m not sleeping enough. They’re adjusting my Tourette’s meds, so I’m twitching like crazy these days. Even the simple act of sitting means I bounce and jerk and so on.
I spend too much time worrying about my writing and not enough time writing it. I need to submit more things. I need to get off the “do they like my writing?” kick and off the “why am I writing” stump and just fucking do it. Write something worth selling, something readable, something that isn’t just swearing and guns. I swear a lot, so it bleeds into my work. I like to think I’m an artful swearererer, however, and not just an abject curser.
My stomach hurts from twitching. I’m going to barcode some books.
“Ray? You and me, man…”
b