There are large gaps in my memory because I am fucked in the brain. Everything before 10th grade is a blur, really, with only one day I can remember in its entirety: my 13th birthday.
I don’t know why. There’s no significance to it. It was a sad day, sure, but I’m told I had plenty of those. Still, I know the presents I got, and the order I enjoyed them, and the time my friends arrived and the looks on their faces when I told them we couldn’t afford a football so I’d made one out of an orange wrapped in carrier bags.
Right now I’m sitting in bed — not wearing any clothes and a little hungry — and playing Animaniacs on a SNES emulator whilst I listen to a podcast and Abby sleeps in the background (on Skype).
Am I going to remember this moment when I’m eighty years old? Will it take the place of a memory more beautiful? Am I going to have to lie to myself and say that all existence is to cherish, and who cares what bits you remember.
I wish I could forget what I want, and remember the important stuff. I can’t trust my brain.
That last sentence is probably the key to my whole being. I can’t trust my brain.
Back to the dick jokes.
