On Brains…

I hate my brain.

No, no. Don’t even try to defend that . . . that wrinkly, three-pound lump of fatty tissues! It and I are not talking at the moment.

On, you want to know why? Fine.

INT. GARY’S BATHROOM – NIGHT. BRIGHTLY LIT BY EIGHT (DOWN FROM TWELVE) CFT BULBS.

Gary brushes his teeth, then rinses his face and, especially, his eyes with warm, soothing water to relieve the slightly sandy, scratchy feeling. On Saturday, he tore his right cornea. On Sunday, his left. He has no patience for more cornea-tearing.

He applies copious amounts of the ointment he uses to prevent more-frequent cornea-ripping. He swirls his eyes around to spread the ointment, then makes his way across the bathroom, only able to make out bright and less-bright shapes. He makes it to the door of his bathroom, plots a path to his bed, then shuts off the bright bathroom light.

INT. GARY’S BEDROOM – NIGHT

Gary climbs into bed and spends several minutes getting comfortable. Pillows in just the right places. Blankie pulled up just to the right level. Breathing slows . . . he’s starting to drift off . . .

BRAIN

Hey!

GARY

No.

Gary snuggles into the pillow emphatically.

BRAIN

What do you mean, ‘no’? You don’t even know what I —

GARY

No! Whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow. When I’ve had sleep. Remember ‘sleep’? You need sleep. My eyes need sleep. Otherwise, I’ll have a hard time staring at a computer screen tomorrow.

BRAIN

(in a disgustingly sing-song tone)

But you’re going to really liiiiike thiiiis!

GARY

Go. Away. I’m trying to sleep.

Brain vomits out the entirety of the remaining plot points of the novel Gary and Brain have been agonizing over for several months. In detail. With red herrings, false leads, and answers to all the difficult parts they’ve been butting against. With — BONUS! — motivations for the secondary protagonist.

Gary rolls over, opens eyes, stares blankly in the direction of the ceiling.

GARY

I loathe you. Why did you wait until — ?

BRAIN

Yeah, yeah. I love you, too.

Pause.

Listen, you should probably write all that down.

Gary rolls over and closes his eyes, snuggling into the pillow once again.

GARY

I’ll remember it.

BRAIN

(whispers, smugly)

SkullCosm.

GARY

Ass. Whole.

Gary gets out of bed, stumbles through blurry darkness to blurry slightly less-dark adjoining office. The night-light in the office is green, which casts eerie shadows on the walls. He moves the mouse on his PC. Immediately, bright light floods the office — and his bleary, blurry, ointment-filled eyes — with searing whiteness. He leans into the screen, locates the blurry outlines of the Evernote icon, clicks it. Types for about fifteen minutes, eyes closed, hoping he’s making some sort of sense.

GARY

Happy?

BRAIN

You’ll thank me, later.

Gary makes his way back to bed. At least it’s still warm. He goes to sleep in less than five minutes.

So, yeah. My brain and I aren’t on speaking terms, today.

I know, I know. It sounds like I should be thanking my brain, doesn’t it? But, you see, what it did was, it waited until after I sent my first five thousand words off for critique at Paradise Lost 6 to supply me all this. Until after I wrote ten thousand or so words of the novel. Most of which now have to be rewritten. Or at least heavily edited.

Couldn’t it have done this . . . I don’t know, three months ago?

<sigh>

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Comments
5 Responses to “On Brains…”
  1. Barbara Tate says:

    Well said. It is strange how our brain won’t shut off at night. It seems that “the brain” wants to work at its own time and it’s own pace. Hope you got all that written down while it’s fresh. Waiting for that book.

  2. Barbara Tate says: says:

    (Who put that I in there?) As you can see, I am having eye problems this morning too. Lol

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