Brain Damage

Sometimes I think that a lobotomy is the way to go. Cracking open my skull and scooping out all of the bad parts of myself and organizing them in tidy piles and methodically stashing them in the pantry behind cans of condensed milk or stuffing them between the couch cushions with the loose change and the fifty lighters I’m always looking for.

I don’t have a rug to sweep them under and my closet is full of thrift store sweaters that smell like mothballs and smoke; pockets full of other peoples’ prescription drugs and love letters and fortune cookie wisdom: Tomorrow is the day after today. I’ve never learned Chinese but they probably have a really nice way of saying, “Fuck everything.”

I could donate my memories to science or inconspicuously dump them off in a lost and found bin for someone to find and analyze, breathe them in and roll them on their tongue like tasting wine. I could sell the worst pieces of my personality on the black market, carefully preserved and packed in ice like body parts.

I would wake up days later with no recollection and I could finally breathe easier until I’m rummaging for a lighter and prick my finger on the past, because despite all of my shortcomings I’ve always had a knack for having lapses in judgment.

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