This is whatever the opposite of an ode is called. The sincerest “fuck you” to my brain, if you will. A plea for some magical rewiring that would allow me to function a lil less spastically on a day-to-day basis.

You see, I’m getting pretty frustrated with my memory lately. That whole nostalgia thing is acting like a real beezy, and I’m gettin’ tired of her poorly timed BS. I would shoot her a text and tell her to stop, if only I could remember her number.

To be honest, my entire noggin could use some feng shui. Like, the part that neglects to remind me of my parent’s birthdays, but knows that a Corona fits perfectly in most to-go coffee cups. The part that’s able to belt out the entirety of Avril’s “Complicated” at a stoplight, but can’t be bothered to summon the digits of my social security number at the DMV. The part that imagines incredibly detailed Adventure Time characters staring at me from the patterns in my ceiling, but can’t remind me that reaching out to my ex-whatever-he-was is so fahking painful I could die.

I find it somewhat comical what my mind considers arbitrary information. Simple math? Not interested. Anything involving politics? Lolol. The ability to picture the exact outfit & accessories I wore on my first day of kindergarten? OH YA, BOOKMARK THAT SHIT. I’m convinced I could master Java programming or cure that pesky Ebola crisis if only I could set my synapses’ priorities straight. I wish there was a way to free some space up there so I could eliminate the sloshing of all

the junk.

the look on Lauren M.’s face when she saw what I was wearing for picture day in second grade
the precise order of the glass polar bear figurines in my old best friend’s unlivable living room
the embarrassment of “becoming a woman” at my dad’s house with nothing but toilet paper to accompany the journey
the exact change required for half a dozen donut holes
the sensation of running, sprinting, sobbing to get away from May 23rd
the feeling of his non-toothpick fingers petting my face as he lisped I was “tho pwetty”
the cadence of his “oh, fuck” in response to my “I love you”

It’s too bad my mother’s maiden name makes a more concise Gmail security question.

Is there a way to shut off the trivial stuff and tap into that brilliance supply? If you know how, hmu, that’d be fab. I want to be able to revisit the good stuff—the scent of puppy breath, the squish of mommy hugs, the belly fullness of too much naan. The fist in the air triumph of conquering spoken word, the shameless love of 7/11 Monterey Jack chicken taquitos, the glorious hair swoop of the boy who used to deliver them to me.

Maybe I could sing these things to myself repeatedly until they’re as engrained as an obnoxiously catchy melody; make post-it note charts all over my walls like I did to memorize dinosaur cladograms during midterms; listen to a creepy repetitive recording while I sleep in hopes of waking up brainwashed with only fondness.

Or maybe I could just learn to stop categorizing memories as strictly good or bad. I’m sure there’s some Pinterest quote board about how to do that, right?

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