My Brain's Stand-Up Routine

My brain is a wonderful organ. It starts working the moment I wake up and does not stop until I am formally presented with a problem. For instance, it just spent twenty minutes trying to remember the name of that actor from that movie, you know, the one with the face? But the moment I need to calculate a 20% tip, it suddenly develops a mysterious and profound need to contemplate the vastness of the universe.

I’m at that age where my mind is still writing checks my body can’t cash. I saw a penny on the ground and my first thought wasn’t "pick it up for good luck," it was "do you have any idea what it would cost me in chiropractor bills to retrieve that?" My back has more issues than a monthly magazine subscription.

They say you are what you eat. Which is concerning, because yesterday I ate two things that were "award-winning" and three things that were "gluten-free." I’m not sure what I am, but I’m probably very specific and a little bit pretentious.

I tried to start a garden. I had a real green thumb. Unfortunately, all the other fingers were black. My rosemary plant looked at me with such profound disappointment, I think it was planning its own adoption. I told it, "Listen, we’re in this together. I, too, am struggling to find the will to thrive in this environment." The basil just packed its little bags and left.

My smart speaker and I have a complicated relationship. The other day I asked it to play something relaxing. It started reading the terms and conditions from a software update. I said, "Hey, play some music from my youth." It played a dial-up modem connecting to the internet. The sound of my youth is literally just screaming into a void, hoping someone hears you. Some things never change.

I asked my GPS to take me somewhere inspiring. It directed me to my couch. It’s not wrong. That’s where most of my best ideas are born and subsequently take a nap.

I’ve started reading self-help books. The first one said, "Live each day like it’s your last." So I did. I didn’t pay my bills, I told my boss what I really thought of his new "synergy initiative," and I ate an entire cake for breakfast. It was a Tuesday. I’m now reading a different self-help book called, "How to Explain Your Actions to a Confused Bank Manager."

My memory is a fascinating place. I can remember the lyrics to the theme song of a cartoon I haven’t seen since 1997, but I cannot remember why I just walked into the kitchen. I stand in the doorway like a ghost with a very specific and now forgotten purpose. I usually just open the fridge, look inside, and hope for a clue. The fridge never has answers, only questionable leftovers and a light that mocks me.

They say you should dance like nobody's watching. I tried it. My cat was watching. Her judgment was palpable. She looked at me with a mix of pity and horror, as if I’d just spontaneously forgotten how to be a human. I think she posted about it on Catstagram. The caption was, "My servant has broken. Send tuna."

I went on a date recently. It was going well until I tried to be smooth and compliment her. I meant to say, "You have eyes that sparkle like the stars." What came out was, "You have stars that twinkle like your eyes." She just stared at me. I’d basically told her she had celestial bodies floating in her eye sockets. I tried to recover by saying it was a rare astronomical condition. It did not work.

My wallet is a time capsule of poor decisions. It contains three loyalty cards for coffee shops I went to once, a business card for a man named Steve who "deals in solutions," and a single, lonely cough drop from 2018 that has fused with the fabric. It’s not a cough drop anymore; it’s a statement.

I looked at my to-do list today. It said:

Change your life.

Buy milk.

I found the milk. The life-changing part is still in the dairy aisle, next to the organic yogurt. I think it’s on sale.

I finally understood the meaning of life. It came to me in a flash of inspiration while I was waiting for my microwave popcorn to finish. It was a profound and earth-shattering truth that would have united all of humanity. Then the timer beeped. And just like that, the meaning of life was replaced by the meaning of "butter flavor." I’m pretty sure they’re connected.

My phone’s autocorrect has its own agenda. I tried to text my friend "I’m on my way." It changed it to "I’m on my yam." I didn't correct it. Let him wonder. Let him picture me, triumphantly riding a giant root vegetable through traffic. It’s more exciting than the truth, which involves me looking for my other sock.

I told my doctor I broke my arm in two places. He told me to stop going to those places. I think he might be a dad. He also charges by the hour, so his advice is both witty and expensive.

They say laughter is the best medicine. Which is great, because my health insurance doesn’t cover a sense of humor. I’m currently self-medicating with puns. The side effects include groaning and people slowly backing away from you at parties. It’s a small price to pay for wellness.

So, if you see me talking to my plants, just know I’m not crazy. I’m just giving them a performance review. And if you see me standing perfectly still in a doorway, don’t interrupt. I’m having a critical negotiation with my memory. And if you hear me laugh at my own joke, just remember: my brain is the one telling them, and it has a very, very weird sense of humor.