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Thursday, May 04, 2006

Brain Fog

So, I mentioned the "brain fog" thing before.

Fibromyalgia has a tendency to make the person suffering from it...confused. And quite possibly retarded.

I often forget what I am talking about in the middle of a sentence and then have to cover for it gracefully, like so:

Zombie: Hello, Zombie's Boss.

Zombie's Boss: Hello. What are you up to?

Zombie: I have finished... *long pause as brain gives out* ...the thing.

Boss: What thing?

Zombie: know...the thing.

Boss: ...

Zombie: The thing. With...the stuff.

Boss: You finished the thing with the stuff.

Zombie: Yes.

Boss: The website updates?

Zombie: YES! That thing. With update...stuff.

Boss: You hurt my head.

Zombie: I am sorry.

Luckily, my boss is a forgiving sort.

In an effort to combat this problem, I acquired a little notebook and handy pen, for with which to write down lists and make notes, so I know what I should be doing at work.

I thought this was a brilliant idea until I realized that I don't know what my notes mean. Oh, my handwriting is legible, it's just that the notes themselves are indecipherable because I keep thinking I am a super genius and make up my own shorthand that changes from day to day, and leaves me never knowing what the fuck I am talking about.

Zombie: Hmm...why did I put a little star by this? Is that important? Does that mean it is urgent or that it can wait til tomorrow? Shit...Zombie's Boss, do you know why I put this star by this thing?

Boss: You are hurting my head again.

Zombie: I am sorry. Note to Self: Do Not Write Notes, Because You Are Quite Possibly Retarded.

I worry I am going senile sometimes. I tell people the same stories over and over again, sometimes right in a row. I am like a little old man, sitting on a park bench, muttering about 'nam and biscuits to passersby.

Zombie: I can't find this crap in this stupid spreadsheet! I have been looking for it forEVER. I hate Excel. HATE IT SO MUCH.

Zombie's Coworker: Why don't you just use the search function?

Zombie: Oh yeah.

But maybe I am not turning into a senile old man. Maybe I am turning into my Aunt Tricia, who spends most of her time consuming mass quantities of wine and staggering around her richly-appointed living room, harassing people with her Super Important Problems, like where she left her "pocketbook" and has anyone seen her shoes and what happened to the dog? Didn't we have a dog? Where is the dog? You ungrateful little freeloading bastards, I don't have time for your crap, I can't remember what my name is!

I am not related to this woman by blood, but I fear I may end up like her if this brain fog thing keeps up much longer. I will be the Crazy Aunt. I will grab my 9 year old neices, try to force them to have sips of my Manhattan, and then breathe all over them as I cry about my ovaries.

(She actually did that to me, once. It was rather frightening. She had me cornered on my grandparents' deck, too, and I couldn't get away.

"Do you know what it's like to be 40, honey? Do you? No, you don't, you're only 9. Here have a sip of this stuff, it's really excellent. Your grammy sure can mix a drink, yes she can. Anyway, so I'm 40. Did you hear me? 40, can you imagine? And I'm not pregnant yet! My ovaries have given up the ghost, is what it is. My ovaries are slowly shriveling up and dying and I am not going to have any babies. NO BABIES, honey, can you IMAGINE? Maybe it's not me, maybe it's your uncle, maybe his little swimmers aren't - ha ha - what am I saying? Here have another drink. Where are my Virginia Slims? DAVIIIIIIIID, where are my cigarettes, you bastard? Where are you going, honey, you need to sit right here with your Auntie Trish, yes you do."


Later, I said to my mother, "Mom, keep her AWAY from me. She's, like, talking about having sex with UNCLE DAVID. I am SCARED."

She did end up having some babies shortly thereafter. Two of them. Poor kids.

Anyway, tangent.)

If any of you have had the dubious pleasure of speaking to me in person (on the phone or in IM or perhaps email) then you know that I am prone to talking a fat lot of nonsense all the time, most of which has nothing to do with anything and often doesn't make sense.

Some say this is just part of my charm.

Little do they know that I am actually like that because I am retarded.

So now you know.

You're welcome.

link | posted by Zombie at 7:34 AM |


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