Slimmed

Waking up this morning, I knew something was not right. The tick, tick, ticking in my brain was quiet. Concerned, I opened my head and removed my brain for a closer inspection. I cradled it carefully, concerned for what little it may contain, while I shifted it from hand to hand. No ticking. I considered shaking it or slapping it to wake it up but, I remembered, this wasn’t a TV set or an old radio. Best not to push my luck. I was about to talk to it kindly, reminding it of its role, when my brain melted through my fingers and onto the floor. I was happy I had cleaned yesterday. Like the meatball on top of old Smokey covered with cheese, my brain ran from me, or slimed from me, I couldn’t tell which one. It headed for the space underneath the couch. I begged it to stop, I hadn’t cleaned under there. But my brain wasn’t listening. My dog Max noticed the movement and this scared the shit out of me—walking brains equals good fun for Max. So there I was, brainless and helpless as my brain slimed its way under the couch while being chased by an unwashed dog. I would have formulated a plan of action but without my brain I was lost. I went to call my sister to ask her advice but my arms didn’t remember what to do. I sat down. *sigh* The Hallmark channel was on playing one of the numerous Christmas movies on this month. Santa’s son, daughter, aunt, uncle, bastard child was getting married and somehow the Grinch of Christmas past was getting married as well to the daughter of the president of Wal-mart. A great consumerist Christmas was being planned and Santa had signed a multi-million contract to televise his son’s, daughter’s, Aunt’s, Uncle’s marriage on pay-preview while being simulcast on QVC. Little images of ceramic Santa’s being sold—hurry—we only have five left. Without my brain, all of this seemed to make sense. My Harpo cat heard the commotion of Max barking at my brain which had now entangled itself up in animal hair and belly button fuzz under the couch. I stood back up and somehow, by a magical connection my body had with my brain, walked over to the couch. The cat was dangerously close to squeezing himself under the couch and using my brain as a play-thing. Thing One and Thing Two appeared and married both the Grinch with daughter of the president of Wal-Mart and Santa’s relatives with QVC. I shooed the dog and pulled the cat away—diverting his attention with catnip. I called to my brain. I told it that I was sorry for watching Hallmark movies, one after another without anything to offer it but bad commercial breaks. I would change my ways, I would reform this horrible addiction. I knew I had to do more to prove myself to my brain then offer it empty words. I grabbed the remote and just as the Grinch was about to have an illicit affair with a QVC object, I switched the channel. There was a loud cry head from under the couch, one of pain and sorrow. One of anguish and regret. I had inadvertently switched the TV to Lifetime. Shit. My Bad.