My brain.

It’s both the Disneyland and the compost heap of my life. I can have a lot of fun with that fat brain of mine! We can go on trips, party with movie stars, spend countless fortunes, or really, do all three at once. My brain is a fascinating place of wires and nodes, spaghetti, mashed yams and blinking lights. It does really smart things sometimes (pants first then shoes), and it can be my very good friend.

It can also be a bastard son of a bitch. That mass of rotting, pulsating tar in my skull can bring its withering, seething hatred into my life and make me question everything I know about who I am. It can take me places I never want to go, keep me places that I need desperately to escape from, and steal me away from places I love to be. Essentially, living with Bitchy Tar Ball is akin to leaving playschool to go get vaccinated by the nurse.

A good friend of mine was having a tough go of things this morning, and he said that ‘the demons are feasting’ in his head, and that’s why he was in such a negative place. I thought that was a very apt way to describe when a brain puts a heart through a blender. Stupid demons. Wrecking everything good.

One can get stuck at the Demon Feast, and not know when they’ll be free to leave. The demons can grind and grind and grind a mashy brain into powder, and create the most heinous, thick headache imaginable. Those demons are cement shoes. They’re vice grip quicksand. And they’re damn hungry sometimes. They can really get in the way of a good writing session with all their loud chewing and belching. Rude little buggers.

I like the times when I starve them. That’s always a fun way to spend a life. I can write and be confident, feel fulfilled and content… Filling my brain with the good stuff keeps the demons hungry. I prefer my demons to have rumbly, distended bellies. That way I know that the goo wad in my skull is burbling a happy dance in an adorable-slug type way.

Dance, brain, dance!

 

 

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