Once again, I am left alone; to discover ever wider discrepancies within my Kingdom of Introspection. Beyond the typified amalgamous carnival freaks and gong-crashing circus monkeys that normally dance across the awoken torment of my imagination, my mind is presently occupied with the vital, critical task of disseminating what sort of extracurricular transcontinental paradigm shifts that have fallen atop of my weakened resolve like falling pianos over the past week.
amalgamous [adj.]: aimlessness belonging to those who are stereotyped and who work for the carnival or circus, esp. circus freaks.
My mind right now is a cluttered mass of dump files strewn across the motherboard that is my brain. For all of you out there who can’t seem to semantically differentiate the mind and the brain, I’ll give you a hint. The mind is the operating software to the the brain, which is the computer.
I log into my mind and attempt to decode certain files, but I haven’t got the right cypher. Perhaps I haven’t gotten the right scripts… or applications. The little bits of information that I have managed to gather over the past week or so sit there in black boxes on a giant shelving system. That shelving system is only as big as it needs to be, because honestly I am afraid to spend too much time in there because my files are backlogged. I’m not sure if you’ve ever seen a picture of the backlog at the Department of Veterans Affairs, loose-leaf papers overflowing from bankers boxes creating cardboard mansions for house mice and little people.
That’s kind of like what my mind shelf looks like right now.
I know that it can be hard for some people to understand this shit. You say to yourself “I don’t understand this shit,” and then you leave. But on the way out, many of you ignorant asses leave the door open. In so doing, you have created quite a bit of a draft.
Now, I have to go pick up the certain papers which have managed to find themselves lying on the floor a few hundred feet away from the boxes that they belong in. Damn it, this file right here that I have just picked up is a bit of information from the State Department – I have to make sure that I put it back in the right box. Which box was that in again?
What I really hate is when I stay up sorting the shelves till the sun comes up, and the janitorial staff comes in. Some tiny asian lady says “OK, we clean now,” in that stereotypical asian lady accent that you think should belong to a South Park character. And then a bunch of janitors turn the lights on and start cleaning the ever most remote recesses of my mind. The nerve of those fucking janitors. I have to run around my intro-archives grabbing files out of their hands, and the trash can by the door, making sure that nothing incredibly vital or critical is lost to the bureaucratic system of the janitors from hell. Before I am able to get to them, however, a few names and dates fall through the cracks in the bottom of the trash can into the fiery pits of an incinerator below. After a few minutes I shout at the janitors to get lost.
“Get out of my head, you miserable sods, I can clean up my own fucking mess!” I shout.
And then they leave, leaving me once again to stare at the vast and innumerable files that are sitting in the giant boxes off to the left labeled “unsorted.”
Those of you few who may still be reading this may be asking yourself right now: “This is your brain, and your mind, isn’t it? Why don’t you get a better filing system?”
To which my response is: “If you lived in this head for even a fraction of a second, your universe would explode around you, and the very fabric of your own existence would de-thread and rip down the seams. Eventually, all you would be is a pile of spaghetti noodles on the floor. So shut the fuck up and let me do my own introspection.”
Immediately following that would come a lengthy apology, most likely via the internet, that would include a sworn statement from me that said that I do not prescribe to any form of elitism and a note from my clinical psychologist in which he told my I wasn’t actually a narcissist.
Some of the files in my brain are completely useless. Some of them are completely and absolutely essential to my existence. Some of the files in my brain are just filler. But it is my goal over this Thanksgiving break to actually sort through at least a few of them, and put them into their respective collective boxes. It will be difficult, but I am assured that it can be done.
I just have to avoid learning anything.