posted on Sep, 24 2007 @ 10:44 AM
I once had a brain.
It was a nice brain. Soft. Squishy. Lots of wrinkles. At times I would take it out, abuse it, and then put it back in time for work. I'd have a good
laugh about how it had been cooked, fried, toasted, plastered, battered, beaten, or otherwise tread upon in hopes of leaving it too bruised to protest
the return of the dull wackaday drudgery of spending eons each day talking on the phone to persons not fit to drive a car, much less operate a
computer. By the time it healed, the weekend would arrive once more, and I would resume the subjugation of my most rebellious and resilient of
Then we had a child, or, to be more precise, a zombie overlord.
Of course, it's living, has a pulse, and doesn't shuffle around much, but otherwise resembles a zombie in every other aspects: he drools, wails,
moans, tries to bite me (despite not having any teeth), eats incessantly, contributes no saleable product or service, and, most importantly, has eaten
Many might argue the point that it's not like I was using it anyway, but in point of fact, I was. Maybe not for anything particularly important, but
it was nice to be able to remember, for instance, the name of our son, my phone number, where we lived, and how to put on socks--all of which have
become monumental tasks of epic proportions thanks to the fact that the boy ate my brain.
Those with children probably already know why, unless you had perfect non-screaming children who slept peacefully throughout the night and day with no
interruptions. If so, you die. You die and go to hell (/mr garrison voice).
For those not yet accustomed to the joys of parenthood, I can only describe it as such: Our boy has been possessed by the ghost of a demented off-key
opera singer from ages past, and longs for the stage. Any chance he gets to perform, he will, his most favorite of musical selections being that old
favorite "LWAAAAAAAAGGHHHH!!!! in G". However, he's also been known to spontaneously belt out a rousing rendition of "AHHHH! AHHHH!! AHHH!!!!!!"
with the sort of gusto seen only in drunken barroom brawls.
The pitch and timber are of eyeglasses-shattering frequency that have already cost me a pair of lenses, and I fear the hearing-loss will almost
certainly be permanent. It is as if I had gone to a concern the night before, and leaned against the Marshall-stack for the entire evening. Everything
is muted away from the child. When people talk to me, I see lips move. I hear a vague mumbling sound emerge from their lips. What few chunks the boy
has seen fit to leave me of my brain process this as speech, but it is no more intelligible to me than a Pict on redcaps.
I think there might have been a time when I could think, when I could hear, when I could know the feeling of having slept more than the average Navy
SEAL during Hell Week. Those days are no more. My brain has finally died. It's flown the coup. It's off its rocker. It's shuffled off its mortal
coil, and gone to join the bleedin' choir invisible! This is an ex-brain.