“Hello Doctor, my brain is Templeton the Rat from Charlotte’s Web at the fairgrounds after dark, can you please fix?”
“Hello Doctor, my brain is Goose from Templeton the Rat’s fairground song saying, ‘Yes, yes!’ when Templeton asks ‘Will I find melon rinds and bits of hot dogs, cookie crumbs and rotten cotton candy, melted ice cream, mustard drippings, moldy goodies everywhere?’”
“Hello Doctor, my brain is elaborate Rube Goldberg mailbox machine from Honey I Shrunk the Kids, please help.”
“Hello Doctor, my brain is only first song, many times, never second song? Only first song, many, never second song, new. Music is only one song over and over.”
“Please Doctor, very serious — my brain is Hollywood Square, Zingers. Os and Xs and celebrity zingers, trapped in boxes. Please, my brain.”
“Please, Doctor, my brain is old Teenie Beanies, McDonald’s from, in minivan.”
“Please Doctor, my brain is bad guests on Dick Cavett show, drunk Ben Gazzara, slothly Peter Falk, disrespectful John Cassavettes, falling over no-couch gang.”
“Please Doctor — my brain is new horse, no corral. Please, bridle.”
“Hello Doctor, brain is all spaghetti, no sauce, two dogs fighting, no meatball, no kiss, no Italian chef to monitor.”
“Hello Doctor, brain is 80s television set just turned off, still warm, making sparks but no picture, ghost of old sounds, please give priest.”
“Hello Doctor, brain is submarine sailors singing Soviet anthem, dead Sam Neill, confused Tim Curry holding Order of Lenin medal on iceberg, please send Sean Connery.”
“Hello Doctor, brain is too much full of funnel cake, please send rats.”
I’ve always strongly IDed with Templeton. Well, most rats, really.
This post reminds me of a note I made in my phone the other day about the layers of noise in my mind at all times —
simultaneous imaginary conversations:
- what makes a pock-marked face unloveable?
- why isn’t that ear-cleaner specialist called Earrigation?
- making amends with [ex partner]
- preemptive dog eulogy in the style of moira rose
- composing emails to a psychologist, a piercer, Paige, Emma
- telling [my psychologist] about [elderly patient with below-knee amputation] from [private psych clinic] crawling out of the shower because the hospital doesn’t have any accessibility measures in place
- telling Pa the same
- asking Pa if he identifies with the term ‘disabled’ because of his amputation
- *jeff buckley’s the sky is a landfill plays beneath all of this*
- me screaming, somewhere, at someone, that i need COORDINATED HELP because i’m 35 and only getting lower-functioning & more ill
- practising toning down my snappiness when i speak to [clinic reception] about useless psychiatrists
- how i resent people loving me & me loving them because then i have to keep living (same with cats)
- *picking my face all the while*
- fragmented thoughts of talking with [ex bf], [ex bf], why can’t i type his name [deceased ex bf] now i’m crying
- why can’t/won’t anyone help me in the ways i need to be helped? what have i done wrong and how do i fix it?
- aaaaaand *blank*
- now it’s just jeff buckley and my heart hurting and my heavy breathing
tag yourself I'm “Hello Doctor, brain is all spaghetti, no sauce, two dogs fighting, no meatball, no kiss, no Italian chef to monitor.” which is to say, brain is sad plate o spaghet sitting alone in a dark alley with the sounds of snarling dogs in the distance.
Please send rats.