Welcome to spaghetti land
My memory is for shit. I’m like Ten-Second Tom, plus a moment or two. “In one ear and out the other,” as my mom...
My memory is for shit. I’m like Ten-Second Tom, plus a moment or two. “In one ear and out the other,” as my mom likes to say. The clever woman. I do love her dearly.
But do you want to know what the worst part is?
It's my dirty little secret, so keep it between us.
My secret is this: I don't have a memory issue at all.
What plagues me is the act of listening—or the lack thereof.
Can someone who reads this give me the fix?
I want to listen—
I promise I will this time—
I'm begging you, please!
Give me your tips and tricks; show me the YouTube video that will solve all my problems. I'll even smash that like button and subscribe.
"What did I just say?”
I honestly don't know.
These aren't my words, and god, how often do I hear them!
You’d think I was a child or a chimpanzee, and perhaps I am a little bit of both.
Whose podcast has the answers?
This simulation has limited bandwidth.
I'm looking on Amazon for a book to fix me, but only if it can be delivered by tomorrow.
Would it be rude to ask for you to hear me now?
My only want is what we all want. Can't we just admit it already?
Why else would my mind plague me with these useless ideas, disguising them as something important?
"Tune out," Mr. Limbic says to me. "This idea is good...real good."
You'll hate it in an hour.
I just returned from a gas station where the motion sensor was broken on the automatic doors to the mini mart. The doors just kept opening and closing, opening and closing; doing so while sounding off a robot voice: "Ding-dong…Welcome…Ding-dong…Welcome.”
Or was it “Hello, welcome...Hello, welcome..."?
I guess I should have listened there, too.
And, yeah, so what if I'm three tall-boys deep?
I would if I could.
I'm in Bakersfield on busy-ness, baby.
Welcome to spaghetti land!