I’ll admit it. Lately I’ve been struggling with a bad case of CRS. Can’t remember shit.
This is without a doubt attributed to the massive amount of text, video, audio, emotion, motor skills and innate revulsion to Tofurky Pockets that is clogging up my brain. Like when you can’t see the forest through the trees of tee shirts in your dresser drawer.
I feel sorry for the workers in my brain responsible for thought delivery. Those file cabinets are so overloaded that material is no longer being sorted according to any logical system. Wherever there’s space, data is jammed in.
Lately the workers, (who are always depicted in black & white), have been charged with handling the brain matter needed for me to play Pharrell’s “Happy” on the ukulele. They find it difficult to remain stoic about this task. This seemingly needless clutter impacts their ability to supply me with simple facts that once came tripping off my tongue.
Friend: “How many years have you lived in your house?”
Me: “Ummm, let me think.” (I usually count the American flags I get from the realtor each July 4th, but I’m not home.)
I start thinking of other milestones that might suggest a time frame. The workers upstairs run around frantically searching for the pets I had when I moved in, which car I was driving and how long my hair was. And how blonde.
Why does she want to know anyway?
A diligent worker proudly provides me with a memory of myself, dressed in an over-sized men’s white dinner jacket, striped French sailor’s top and black pencil skirt.
Me: “That’s the 80’s, stupid.”
Me (Deflecting): “Do you want to get a gluten-free cronut?”
Friend: “I’m doing karaoke yoga in an hour.”
Worker in my Brain: “How Kafkaesque.”