“The Inner Machinations of My Mind Are an Enigma”

Writing Challenge Day 2: Text message search “solve” and write about it

Considering a full lobotomy? Maybe that will solve all my problems

I am nothing but dramatic, I know. This was probably my response when asked how my week was going, and I was grappling with some minor inconvenience.

I don’t actually want an invasive, historically troublesome, and mind-destroying procedure. But it would be nice if my brain came with some customizable settings. An unsubscribe button to anxiety. A volume knob for intrusive thoughts. Task manager for my executive dysfunction, maybe? Or sometimes I really wish I could return an unpleasant memory for store credit. But, alas, the “have you tried unplugging it and plugging it back in” method isn’t compatible with the human brain. Instead, we’re forced to troubleshoot our own defective wiring through coping mechanisms. Like therapy, romance novels, or red wine.

Will those solve all my problems? I don’t know; ask me tomorrow morning.

Sometimes my mind feels like that episode where SpongeBob destroys every file that isn’t applicable to the moment at hand and frantically searches for his own name. And his employees run around like headless chickens while the whole office is on fire. My file folders are color-coded, but some days I’m colorblind. Or just have no eyes at all. And all my employees are currently out on PTO. I’d fire the whole staff, but tragically I am both the CEO and worst employee of the month.

Ring, ring. Dial 0 to speak to customer service.

I’d love to file a complaint with the quality control department. There seems to have been a malfunction somewhere between my frontal lobe and my ability to make rational decisions. Unfortunately, the warranty expired somewhere around 15, and we’ve been on our own since. And the operator keeps asking “have you drank any water today???”.

The very organ responsible for all my problems is also somehow the thing that’s supposed to fix them. Surely, there has to be some hierarchy of management? And unfortunately, I don’t think a chopstick through the eye socket is going to quick-fix centuries of ancestral trauma (although a shaman once told me screaming into a hole in the ground would, so you never know). Maybe I’ll try that before enduring 5 hours of “Opus No. 1” while on hold with customer service.