My Lobotomy

The truth of the matter was that I was born into a family of modest intelligence, while I continued to score magnificently on IQ tests practically from birth.  As it was explained to me, my bursting beauty and smarts must have a pathological origin, not unlike a pituitary tumour but instead probably growing between my brain's sex and adjacent areas of logic and comprehension.  Quite against my will, I voluntarily offered to knowingly undergo a lobotomy so that my disorder of precociousness might be thwarted.  Alas, by the time surgical technology and precision had caught up to my development, my entire brain had been taken hostage by this nasty cancerous nebula.  It was shown to me, crablike, through a stereoscopic electron microscope, and it was impressive indeed.  It looked like Tokyo and Hiroshima and the Bikini Islands combined, complete with detailed formulas and recipes for nuclear destruction as well as templates for fashionable one and two piece bathing suits fit for the runway.  I was six years old and had never done a drug in my life - or any of my past lives.  My parents were shocked and awed; my doctors couldn't get enough of me.  I was the sexiest six year old they had ever seen, and they assured me they had seen many.  I was neither a toddler nor wore a tiara, but I was going through post-graduate puberty like nobody's business, approving and rejecting dissertations this way and that, teaching courses in metaphysical mumbo jumbo and holding court at the finest Speakeasies of the day.  Galleries were constantly calling me asking me to curate this show or that, until I finally agreed to confront all of it with a head-on, no-holds-barred, Q & A at a secret location to be interviewed one-on-one by my personal hero and confidante, Charo.   No questions from the audience, no film, no tape, no video, no transcript, no coverage, no transliteration, no broadcast, no radio, no television.  For this was but practice for the big events:  Dr. Oz, Dr. Drew, Dr. Phil, and anyone else with an honorary doctorate.

The public restroom

I love public restrooms, especially the smelly ones where I can take a deep breath and rest assured that I'm still alive.  I don't mind the lack of a toilet seat and a moist ceramic rim either.  I don't even mind when there is no more toilet paper, or the commode has seemingly refused to flush for days on end, or when the flies and mosquitoes are thick as rain.  I can sit and just meditate and think about Brenda having to wait to use the loo -- when I don't even need to right now!  My loo, with my imaginary gone fishin' sign dangling on the doorknob warning the world to "do not disturb."  Brenda knows better than to knock.  Every knock will cost her another ten minutes.  This is my me time.  Now, you might think that my power play is less effective if there are multiple loos.  Not so.  Brenda knows better than to not wait her turn to use my station.  But I am not evil.  On my way out, I drench the loo with Lysol all the better to let Brenda enjoy the surprise as the deodorant dissipates over the next hour or two.  Meanwhile, I enjoy a pineapple wine-cooler, a full Xanax, a thick doobie, and a Suboxone.