How many times in a day do you ask yourself, “What’s wrong with you?” If the answer is, “Never,” congratulations—I really wish I’d known that before I married you.
Fun me fact: I know there’s a better way to do all the things, but I refuse the better ways, because 1.) I didn’t come up with them, 2.) that’s cheating, and 3.) it’s essentially saying my ways are wrong. Let’s be clear, I’m in this shit to win. What’s the prize? Heck if I know, but my brain treats everything like a competition.
A moment in my head
Hey, Brain!
Meh, what do you want?
What’s wrong with doing things the easy way?
Easy’s a trap. Give us a cigarette, crap bag.
Delightful—my brain in a nutshell. I imagine she’s a shady beat cop from some place where people have fun accents, like Chicago, Queens, or Boston. Her voice is low and croupy from years of smoking, and she doesn’t trust anyone. She recently purchased a large quantity of shock collars which she made into bracelets and watchbands. She’ll give them away as gifts and—with much joy and enthusiasm—randomly and repeatedly zap her unsuspecting victims.
She gives me the shock collar treatment whenever I contemplate buying a pre-made pie crust, calling tech support when my computer goes mad, starting at the beginners’ level of something I’ve never done before (imagine that)…asking my husband for help with anything. She won’t give me a break unless I’m dangling from a ledge by my pinky, and, even then, it’s like the worst defeat ever—like my brain thinks I deserved to die and is genuinely pissed off that I didn’t.
I wasn’t always like this
Child Me didn’t care about shortcuts. I was shameless. I once faked an injury in ski school so the ski patrol would take me down the mountain. My mom gave me money and told me I had to clean my room, so I returned the money and suggested maybe she could clean my room instead. How did that person turn into this person?
Morally-bankrupt Me would really come in handy as I’m killing myself trying to write a Pulitzer-worthy essay. All I need to ace the class is a flaming-bag-of-dog-shit-worthy essay. It’s ridiculous to do more than I need to do, but here I am. So, I ask myself for the X,000th time today, “What is wrong with you?”
Don’t be shy, folks!
Don't bother me I'm writing 