Month: February 2012

Day Twenty-Six: Patch Freak Makes Life Change!

| Aspergers Girls

 

I’m going to attempt to use humor to explain a major life altering decision.

I’m back.

Bet you didn’t know I was gone.

I totally (California born and raised) slipped out of focus and got sidetracked for an hour’s time about the origin of the word humor. Why? Because I used the word humor in a sentence, Silly. And that led Brain away, like a string of yarn does for a kitten. This morning Brain’s string began at etymology: the origin or development of a word, affix, phrase, etc., and the string ended with black bile. Yucko-mania!

If Brain hadn’t allowed for a detour into Reasoning Forest, and instead he/she had left me in the moment, I fear I would be profusely apologizing for the spattering of snot and tears all over the computer screen. Yes, remarkably indeed, Brain returned me to an emotional state of equilibrium, with one quick, and rather boring, sidetrack.

And I have good news. When Brain examined the root origin of humor, which included words like phlegm, LV (little voice in my head) found us a new patch for our sash! Our lovely patch Melancholic is one of the four temperaments, the others being: Sanguine, Choleric, and Phlegmatic.

 

It is black in color, the Melancholic patch, and now firmly sewn on to LV’s slash, amongst her numerous other merit badges of distinction. She tore off the high-maintenance patch to make room for the new one. The patch of Melancholic represents the following traits: sensitive, intuitive, self-conscious, easily embarrassed, easily hurt, introspective, sentimental, moody, likes to be alone, empathetic, artistic, fussy and perfectionistic, deep, prone to depression, avarice, and gluttony!

Sidetrack: (Brain left again, but only for a brief stretch. He/She had to know the origin of origin. Call him/her crazy. I do. At first I was afraid that there was no origin of origin. Fear gripped, an anguish surfacing from the depths of Grendel’s mire: What if there is no origin of origin? Don’t panic. Luckily there is. The original meaning of origin is to rise, become visible, or from beginning source. I can live with that. I just wish the online etymology dictionary had the real origin of the universe. Which by definition would be the beginning source of the universe. Sadly, the definition only reads:  the cosmos, whole, and turned into one. No real origin there.)

The Melancholic patch is an improvement over some of the qualities listed on the other temperament patches, such as: hedonism (which is an ugly word to begin with), impetuous, prone to hypocrisy, and prone to sloth. Prone to sloth, makes me giggle. To learn more you can click here

I think from now on, when I’m in an Aspie funk, unable to make a decision, on overload, and/or plain overwhelmed with my brain, I will say: “I am prone to sloth, presently exhibiting attributes of the phlegmatic temperament.” Just warning you ahead of time.

Concerning the brief mentioning of my life altering decision, I was a daredevil speed racer in my mind for three hours straight last night, between the convenient hours of 11:00 pm and 2:00 am. Riding a cranked-up dirt bike up and around turn tunnels and across perilous ramps. LV had a lot of processing to do. And when I woke up, I endured two more hours. I did not know it was humanly possible to pour gallons of tears out of my tear ducts; but then again LV is sporting that hip new Melancholic patch.

The good news is the tears have cleared and hope has set in. There’s a seedling sprouting at this very moment at the belly of my spirit and stretching to the open sky.

What happened? You query, so sympathetically, (or not). Well…I took a whirl at taking care of Brain, LV, and Me, and got the Heck Out of Dodge! (Brain notes: Get the hell out of Dodge is in reference to Dodge City, Kansas, a favored location for westerns in the mid 20th century. Most notably, the saying was made infamous by the TV series Gunsmoke). And that’s the only reason my husband tolerates me–because I’m full of…interesting facts!

Sorry, about that. Suspense building. Drum roll. Shying away. Just going to splash it out in one big wave:

I got the Heck out of the University that I was attending for my Masters Degree in Counseling.

Kaput! We Gone!

There are a few distinct patches I’d like to stick on that subject, but I won’t.

For now, I’ll let Brain be, and LV rest, and Me, Little Sweet Me, I think I’ll treat her to an overdue retreat. Pardon me now, as I venture into my Phlegmatic Zone, and contemplate how to proceed through the glory of a new opened door.

Oh, Crap. Brain wants to explore truckers’ lingo! And LV is shouting, “Yes!”   The Gods truly must be crazy. I like the words: Gator Guts, Seat Cover, and Suds and Muds…you know you’re curious. Click  Truckers’ Slang Words or check out the video below:

Below You Can Read: All About the Origin of Humor, By Sir Brain  

 

Humor is Latin in origin and first meant liquid. The word represented moisture, especially the moisture of fluid of animal bodies, such as lymph.

Around 460 B.C. Hippocrates noticed that blood removed from the body separated into four parts: clear red, yellowish liquid that rises to the surface, dark liquid that settles at the bottom, and a whitish liquid. He and his students developed a theory based on Hipporcrates’ observations. Later the theory was expounded upon. Theorists believed mental health was a matter of a good balance of the four liquids (humors). The word humor eventually became connected with someone’s temporary state of mind. Humor’s meaning of amusement did not occur until the 1600’s.

The theory of bodily humors holds that each person produces four humors but that a preponderance of one relative to the others brings on sickness.  Fluid was thought to be part of the makeup of the body, and temperament, (meaning mixture), was determined by the proportions of four fluids (humors): blood, phlegm, bile, and black bile.

A predominance of blood, associated with the liver, equates to an optimistic and sanguine (confident) temperament. Sanguine is rooted in the original definition of ruddy or blood red face.

A predominance of yellow bile, associated with the spleen, equates to being choleric (short-tempered). Too much yellow bile and one viewed the world through a bilious eye. Choleric is rooted in the Greek khole, meaning bile.

A predominance of black bile, associated with the gall bladder, equate to a melancholic (pensively sad) temperament. From the Greek melas (black) and khole bile. Melancholia means too much black bile.

A predominance of Phlegm, associated with the lungs and brain, equates to being phlegmatic (slow and unexcitable).

Any imbalance of these humors made a person unwell and perhaps eccentric. Through the passing of time humor took on the meaning of oddness.

Fasting is thought to bring humors into balance. Humorism postulates that each person is born with a basic temperament.

You can find more information about the origin of humor here: In MY BRAIN!

 

Day Twenty-Five: A Prophet in My Pocket

| Aspergers Girls

 

I have a prophet in my pocket.

Ever since I identified my little voice inside my head as LV, and labeled the gray squishy world-ball as my heterogeneous Brain, The Prophet in my Pocket has been speaking to me in rhyme and rhythm.

The Prophet part makes sense to me. All through my life I’ve had precognitive dreams, premonitions, and those “feelings.” I can recount the events in detail. They are numerous. Grand in scale, like the time I predicted an influx of people would be traveling to the small town of Colfax, California to see a spiritual manifestation. Or smaller in scale, but just as potent, like when I saw my mother’s friend die in a VW Bug exploding on Homan’s Highway in Carmel, California, days before my mother’s friend’s death.

I’ve had strange encounters, strange coincidences, and a plethora of people tell me that they know me from somewhere. I’ve also been sensitive to physical pain, since I can remember, starting with terrible intestinal pains and rashes.

I’m officially deemed handicapped, even have that nifty handicapped plaque, that comes in handy when my pain threshold is registering low on the scale. By all definitions, if I wasn’t such a poop-head at times, in theory I’d qualify as a Shaman in some cultures. The thing that sucks about being a Shaman, or anyone born with distinct spiritual abilities, is that the healers always seem able to help most everyone, except themselves.

I think that’s why I have a prophet in my pocket. I think he’s there to guide me through the proverbial mire of life—the sensitivities, the pains.

Looking back at my writings, sometimes I’m amazed I’m still here. I remember an intake psychologist telling me, years ago: “And you’re sure you’ve never been addicted to drugs or had any form of substance abuse? It’s hard to believe you could survive all that, and not turn to something.”

I turned to something. I turned to my faith. And fortunately the powers that be provided me with distinct mentors and supporters along my path.

Which leads me to the current problem I face, that has resulted in my current funk. Recently I’ve lost many of my supporters. Some have disappeared through the engulfment phase of a new love interest and others through moving to a new physical location—some thousands of miles away.

I’m understanding this dissipating funk more clearly. In the last ten months alone many of my supporters have disappeared, my beloved dog passed unexpectedly, a professional used callous words about Asperger’s Syndrome, my mother-in-law and my mother were diagnosed with cancer, my son had a serious reaction to medication, a homeless person ran his bike into my moving van… this on top of the everyday stresses of raising three boys, with one on the spectrum, keeping a household running while disabled, and dealing with my sensitivities, coupled with my recent diagnosis of Aspergers. Deep breath! No wonder I’m sad.

This prophet of mine, if he does indeed exist, I fancy the idea of him residing in my right pocket. I can picture him there, rather small and distinguished looking, like a little cartoon stereotypical university professor. He has the type of beard that’s good for running fingers through, and spectacles that are speckled with dust. He doesn’t brush his wiry white hair. His appearance is not even secondary. His appearance doesn’t matter to him one bit. He speaks in rhyme or rhythm, or very fast in a combination of visuals and streams of words. He uses symbols lots, and has a glorious sense of humor.

The Prophet in My Pocket is the one I pull out often in my sacred hours of writing. He whispers to me through my interior voice (LV), sometimes for the stretch on an hour, and then he gently recedes, returning from whence he came. Here’s a poem he is whispering to me now:

There’s a Prophet in My Pocket

There’s a prophet in my pocket,

And he’s always standing near,

Listening to my stories,

And then whispering in my ear,

He doesn’t long for fame,

Or simplicity of life,

He reaches for the stars,

And lends them through my strife,

His answers are so clever,

Though sometimes rather thick,

With philosophy and prose,

That pours out rather quick,

I think he’s standing near,

When I dream of what’s to be,

I think he hears me cry,

When I’m scared of what I see,

He tells me I am loved,

And that all will be all right,

He tells me to just trust,

And embrace my inner light,

I’m a beacon on a hill, he tells,

And my glow is rather bright,

And you see, he says to me,

“Because of this you fight,

The shadows that draw near,

The games they try to play,

The gifts you carry with,

They try to take away,

Be gentle with yourself,

Your challenges are grace,

Humbled in your walking,

Humbled in your pace,

Remember I stand strong,

As the shadows linger in,

Standing at the doorstep,

Readying to win,

All their twisted dealings,

All their twisted means,

They are nothing to you, Darling,

Even though it seems,

Just call on me, your prophet,

Whenever you’re in fear,

Just reach into your pocket,

And know I’m always here.”

~ Sam Craft (2012)

Much Love ~ Sam

Day Twenty-Four: Life is Like a Roller Rink (and a letter from LV)

| Aspergers Girls

 

February 22, 2012

My Dearest Samantha,

Here are a few things you need to get straight. You are a loving being, and humble enough. Don’t pray for any more humility, please, because you already know where that gets you. Take your husband’s advice, and ask for more pride, for goodness sake!

And don’t eat frozen carrot cake by the fork-full when you’re stressed out; it’s not good for the system, or that spare tire you’ve got going around your waist. Thanks to you, we’ve got this non-stop, hacking cough, because YOU shoveled the cake so fast a nut scratched your throat. Thirty minutes later, after a cough suppressant, Benadryl, and cough drop, you’re still coughing. And so loudly, you’ve concerned the youngest lad. And you don’t even like carrot cake. You only like the frosting. What’s up with that?

What’s going on, anyhow? You know what I’m talking about. Where’s that go-getter who wouldn’t let the world stop her? The lady, who taught, counseled, advocated, and even woke up early to meditate? Where is she?

Somehow, when I wasn’t looking, you’ve latched on to this Aspergers gig like there’s no tomorrow.  By the way, I read your post from a few days ago, and I don’t talk that much during most movies, just the boring romantic comedies with no plot worth following.

Come on Girl, I’m dying in here watching you beat yourself all up. And who cares about the professor not recognizing your writing ability and knocking you down points, because you didn’t follow her rules to the exact. That’s life.

You can’t always earn full points in life. Isn’t that what you always tell Joe—to not let what others’ think bother him. But here you are worrying all the time that you’re not enough. Get with it, already. You are already enough, and so much more.

Pull out the prayers and poetry you use for inspiration. Reread some of the plethora of spiritual and religious books you’ve collected. Stop focusing on only one genre: That of poor little old Sam and Aspergers. You’re creating more clutter in that brain of yours than you need.

Yes, you can write a post like this. Who fricken cares? If this is the only post they read, and they think your nuts, so be it. I might wear those tight sweaters with the LV monogram, but I’ve got enough of Brain for the both of us. So let me take the lead awhile, would you?

Stop trying to control life and just ease up and relax. Just because you don’t think you can, doesn’t mean you can’t. You aren’t even trying. You’ve got all you need around you, and more, but still you wallow in self-pity. This isn’t thirty years ago. You don’t need to be sad anymore. This is life—right now, this day, this moment, seize it.

Get that pedicure! See that movie. Have that tea with a friend. Stop hiding in your house. Blast the music. Open the windows. Let the fresh air in. Bang pots and pans. Light incense. Scream. Shout. Cheer. Do whatever it takes to break out of this funk.

Yes, Scooby’s dead. Yes, you have to retrieve his ashes. Yes, sometimes college totally sucks, and your fixations seemingly suck you dry. But you know what, you are the one who has a choice. You always have the glorious choice. Continue to sit on your rump and feel sorry for yourself, or get up and get moving. I don’t care how far or where. Just take a step in any direction.

I know this is harsh, but harsh is what you need right now. I know what’s best, and I see what you’ve been doing. Enough already. Get back to where you were. Nothing has changed that drastically. If you must, keep mourning the loss of Scoob. But please stop mourning the loss of you! You’re still here. You’re still you. Even when others don’t see, you’ll always be you.

Here’s a poem to keep handy. Now get of your butt and start skating! The world’s waiting.

Your Friend for Life,

LV (the Little Voice inside my head)

Life is Like a Roller Rink      (February 2012)

Life is like a roller rink.

We each groove and glide to our own beat.

We slow down, speed up, and then slow down again, taking the turns as they come.

Though others may knock us down, run us over, or push us out-of-the-way, we get back up eventually, and keep moving.

We glide forward and sideways, and every once in a while find ourselves going backwards.

After twirling too fast for too long, we laugh; we cry.

We hold hands to keep our balance.

In moments of bravery, we speed out to the inner circle, keeping our pace in the fast lane.

In moments of caution, we remain on the outer circle, gripping the wall for dear life.

Sometimes another gently pulls us off the wall.

We get blisters and bruises.

We ram into others, stop and apologize, and then lend a hand.

We tangle up our feet and fall on our butts.  Some of us have more grace, some of us more padding.

If we aren’t careful, when we try to pull others up, we fall down right with them.

From the sideline, we observe those gliding by, wondering how they do the things they do, or questioning if we might, someday, do the same thing.

We sweat.  We stink.

Sometimes we trade in the skates that served us well, in hopes of discovering a better fit or style.

There are speeders who don’t pay attention to anyone else, until they collide into someone, or collapse from exhaustion.

Racing ahead, we partake in games, in hopes of a prize.

Some are left behind.

While many never seem to catch up.

We feel the wind in our faces and the rush of adrenaline.

We are surrounded by lights that illuminate our way.

Some spin and do tricks, in hopes of gaining attention.

Somewhere, up high in a box is a person in charge.  We may make a request or keep moving without second thought.

We don’t take much notice that we are going round and round, only to end up right back where we started.

When we rest, regroup, and nurse our injuries, there is nothing that can stop us from getting back on our feet, and starting the circular journey, all over again.

And in the end, when the music inevitably stops, we all must leave.

By Everyday Asperger’s Blog author, Samantha Craft

Day Twenty-Three: A Sliver of My Sacred Hours

| Aspergers Girls

Everyday that I sit to write, usually between the Pacific Coast hours of 9:00 and 11:00 a.m., is a sacred journey for me. Whether I am coming off a black tea caffeine-high, and spicing my ramblings with humorous prose, or sharing a profound recollection or excerpt from past journals, I honor this time as a part of my spiritual passage. And for being here, and sharing in this journey, I thank you. My hope is that you leave with something of value, though I understand your experience is your experience, and out of my control. Still, my intention is to connect and share, to never preach or persuade. I hope you can sense my intention.

I feel guided by a higher spirit during my revered two hours. I try not to plan what I am going to write, because when I do plan, the words never match my idea of what I’d thought to type. Usually, the prose is at a dynamic polar opposite of my original preset plan.

I believe in a higher power but choose not to let my belief system affect my open heart and mind—I wish to remain available to life and avoid rigidness and dogmatic viewpoints. Obviously, in someway, my belief system will always define, minimally at a subconscious level, how I perceive life.

In analyzing my spiritual reckonings, I say today, at this very moment of writing, I haven’t had a choice but to believe in some higher being, collective energy, or presence. A source that remains beyond myself and my limited understanding.  As odd as that may sound—the statment of having had no other option but to believe in a higher source—this remains a fact in my life. I accept this is my current truism, and recollect, that like the flowers through the seasons, I will inevitably transition, possibly into a new state of comprehension. As I explained in my fist post, I conjecture our perception of life is based on multiple factors:

“Our understanding of this life experience is primarily based on our individual genetic makeup, societal influences, family environment and dynamics, adopted belief systems, and the limitation of the five senses. Some would go further and postulate that our experience of this life is based on a collective spiritual, and perhaps even ancestral, journey, and/or that we are living a journey already preordained and set out in an exact blueprint. There is the concept of emptiness. There is the idea of heaven. The thought of the collective unconscious. The faith of a higher power. Some even hold true to the fact that we are living in multiple dimensions, creating infinite destinies with each and every decision, each and every breath. Others believe this life is finite–that the real reward rests beyond.

Each of us holds something to be true about our experience of the world: even if that truth is simply believing no truth exists.”

 I understand this is only my idea of my universe. I choose to not place my view onto others, as I recognize my individual limitations to see the whole of what is before me; if in fact, anything exists before me at all. Within the vastness of my mind, I postulate that my higher source is an energetic love, and whether he or she, or even it, bares the face of a recognized deity, God, spiritual being, or other established truth, serves no baring in my determination of what is momentarily true for me.

Whether or not my higher source is the commonly accepted name of any given society—past, present, remote, distant, or near—is no matter to me. Having clung to and/or embraced multiple belief systems and faiths, I have determined, for myself, and me alone, that whatever the masses proclaim to be the form or name of a higher power, does not substantiate or decrease my belief.

I believe the power behind words, particularly the names of gods or deities, comes from the intention of the people proclaiming said names. When a word is spoken by the masses to represent truth and love, then the word reflects truth and love. And I conjecture the opposite to be true.

Like others before me, I believe words and symbols vibrate with collective energy, and that the level of vibration is determined directly by the belief system applied by the individual writing or speaking the word. Each of us experiences a word’s vibration based on the collected whole’s interpretation and in combination with our own life experience and understanding of the word. Words are simply, or not so simply, symbols transformed into pictures, images created in our minds. What I visualize in my mind is ultimately different from what another pictures in his or her mind. The variance of experience is inevitable, but the power behind a given word remains universal.

In current times, the line between science and religion, and other belief systems, regarding human’s state of existence, is becoming narrower and narrower; the line often appearing to vanish, as one sect’s of accepted truth overlaps with another sect’s of truth. I believe any man (woman) who holds onto his or her truth as the exact and only truth to be an innocent one. Inside the elements of my truth, all of us are innocent: for even when one accepts the limitations of the mind, he or she is still grasping at his or her individualized way of interpreting the world. This is not to say that I do not envision my higher power as a particular embodiment, only to say I understand my mind’s limitations.

In actuality, there is current evidence for an ever-changing world and belief system based on individual perception. The science community continues to postulate, from collected data, that an electron’s movement is directly related to the observer. And man has recorded photographs of water crystals forming exact shapes and form based on the vibration of the written words and/or the intention of one’s thoughts. Reality is being captured by man as a state of perpetual transition based on the observer.

I share this with you as a form of preparation. Not for you so much, but for me. As this aspect of myself is a vital piece of who I am, and how I currently present myself through words. In my walking world, where my physical form is present, I often shy away from topics encompassing my reality of life, but here, where I am shedding light on my experience, I find a necessity, at least for today, to be as real and authentic as possible.

Ironically, I aspire to paint with words a picture of my individual reality, while I know this world is not mine to own or create alone.

I’ve included a substantially complex prose entitled Universal Measurement below, which delves deeper into one’s  perception. In no way do I claim this as anyone’s truth. I’m not even certain the writing is what I know to be true. The words are only words, miraculous letters combined to convey a sliver of a glimpse of what I perceived. I still embrace many aspects of the religion I was raised to know; the main difference now is that I acknowledge my own being’s limitations to ever know the exact truth. In peace and love ~ Sam

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Day Twenty-Two: Brain, Little Voice, and Me

| Aspergers Girls


Have you ever been in one of those relationships where the person is highly intriguing, passionate, and overall seems like a very likeable gal, but for some reason, you can’t stand to be around her? That’s the type of relationship I’m currently in. Only it’s not exactly with a person….. It’s with my brain!

Brain and I, we go a long way back. Yet, I’m still trying to figure him out. Sometimes I try to understand Brain more by comparing him to other brains.

For instance, just the other day, I asked my husband, “What are you thinking about?”  He responded, “Nothing.” And I said, “What? You’re joking. Really? Absolutely nothing?”

He thought (or did something) for awhile, and then answered, adamantly, “Nope. Nothing.” Now, by this time I’m laughing, in that annoying I-do-know-better way, wanting to knock my knuckle on his head, and say: “Hello, in there!”

Later, I asked my eldest son, the same question. And his answer mirrored his father’s. “Well, what were you thinking about a few minutes ago, then?” I queried. “I don’t know, Mom. Leave me alone. Nothing important.” (He’s fourteen.)

Now, get this. When I asked my middle son, “What are you thinking about?”, he gave me a thirty-minute dissertation. Can you guess which one has Aspergers?

I didn’t bother to ask my baby-boy, Robert; he was too busy securing plastic wrap over a clear plastic cup that he’d carefully filled with the blood he’d collected from his bloody nose. He was saving the blood for future science experiments. I easily guessed what he was thinking about.

Movies are interestingly-annoying with Brain. There are times I  have to press the pause button on the remote during a film, because I’m so excited by the fact that I was actually enjoying the show for five minutes strait without brain interruption!

This is a super big explanation mark deal in my book, because usually when a movie is playing, some 99.99 % of the time, LV (Little interior Voice in my head) and I are carrying on an entire conversation.

I noticed today that LV is starting to have a full personality. Which causes my stomach to rumble, somewhat in fear. Because I fret I may end up with yet another neurological disorder. And there’s only so many LV and I can keep track of.

I picture LV like Laverne, from the show Laverne and Shirley. Like Laverne, LV has letters monogrammed onto her tight sweater (LV), and she’s totally clueless that her sweater is too tight. So she looks like a loosey-goosey, even though she doesn’t mean to appear that way. She’s like me, when I wore those glossy yellow shorts, during freshman class physical education, that were way too short; yet, I hadn’t a clue why the boys and girls were calling me those names. I’m picturing Rudolph the reindeer crying. I’m fine. Santa and the elves loved Rudolph.

Not to should on LV, but she should have a question mark right along side her LV monogram. It’s all about inquiry with that chick. Here’s the typical repertoire of clauses she choses from, while I attempt to watch a romantic, carefree comedy:

Is this the director’s first movie? I wonder how much that actress got paid? Do you think Shakespeare knew actresses would be idols one day?  Is this a box office hit, for real? Wow, nice hair; maybe I should get my haircut. Look, did you see her pause for a whole fricken five minutes to let the other person talk?  How does she do that? Is that normal? Is that what I’m supposed to do? Oh my goodness, do you think she realizes what the plastic surgery did to her face? That can’t be her? Is that her? Should I pause the movie and ask? I want that table wear. Is that materialistic of me? The blue is so pretty. What color is that? Cobalt. Cobalt is a strong sounding word…

Which leads me back to the whole: I wouldn’t want to be my brain’s friend argument. Not that LV is my brain; my brain is mostly a man. LV’s more like the cute cuddly ambassador of my brain. And I have no idea why my brain is not homogenous, probably because he/she has a right and left hemisphere, but I feel invaded by one side—if you must know.

You might have noticed, beyond the rambling, that I used the word  fricken, earlier. That’s because LV doesn’t like to swear, beyond crap and poop head. She does have fun turning harsh “bad words” into less offensive words that sound dorky. Oh, and she does call our little female labradoodle the B-word, only because that’s logical. She also calls the dog spastic-colon!

LV kept me awake last night. Her and the caffeine I had after the noon hour. Anyone, who’s had that can’t sleep ‘cause I’m caffeinated experience, knows the agony.  Now add LV to the picture. Well, I’m twisting and turning in bed, illogically trying do to the same thing over and over again, while expecting a different outcome; even thinking if I fluffed the pillow just right, I’d suddenly slumber, when bam! Smack out of nowhere, a parade of words and numbers start drumming in my head.

They were in a row, all these words and numbers, flashing at me, like the letters and digits in the television show The Electric Company.

I just made a whammy of a flashback-connection: I loved Electric Company because the show was all about words and numbers! And all these years, I thought I liked the show for the Gorilla and his bananas.

Here are some of the words I saw as I tried to fall asleep:

Pretty Sure, Maybe, Kind of, Almost Certain, Could Be, Probably, Perchance, Most Likely, We’ll See, Perhaps

LV, obviously awake from the caffeine as well, was trying to figure out how to assign a statistical number to each word to determine which word/phrase indicated a more likelihood of occurrence. For instance, when parents say, “We could be going to get ice cream later,” is that a more probable chance than parents saying, “I’m pretty sure we’re going to get ice cream later.”

LV reasoned Pretty Sure earned a 95.5% and Could be was very open to interpretation, perhaps a 51%—dependent upon tone of voice and inflection.

LV was going on and on with this theoretical rhetoric, until she concluded that all the words are ambiguous and confusing. All this while I’m side-kicking my husband for snoring and shoving my earplugs into what had to be my eardrums.

In the television series House, during one episode, this genius-type male patient is deathly ill, and the reason for his sickness turns out to be cough syrup. He had been drinking (and hiding) a large amount of cough syrup to stop himself from having complex and profound thoughts. Primarily, he wanted to stop the thoughts, so he could stay with his hot babe of a wife (who was clueless-brained) without being bored to death.

LV is reminding me of this episode and encouraging grape-flavored cough syrup. Like that’s even a feasible idea? Like I said, LV is not the type of friend one chooses. No offense LV.

I had another thought, but I can’t remember now—probably, because LV is upset.

I did want to share that I realized something about music and my relationship to music. A song was playing on the radio this morning, and immediately I became lost in my mind. Which makes me wonder, if I should be driving.

The experience was similar to stepping into a music video, only without all the sexy clothes and makeup, and weird body movements that ooze of I’m cheap, (or maybe drunk).

While I was one with the song, (Ommmmm), I was still me, but had Santa Claus powers enabling me to magically stop time. In the musical experience I visited everyone in the entire world who was sad and lonely. I saw myself stepping into strangers’ homes and staring into their eyes. I saw myself releasing mass amounts of pain and misgivings, and lifting many in spirit, so they could recognize their inner beauty. It was amazing! In moments like that, when my brain enables me to be in the music, I forgive him/her for all transgressions.

One more thing, before I head out to pick up my son and take him to Thai food… Can you hear my tummy cheering! Thai food! Thai food! He (tummy) is wearing a cheerleading skirt and looks completely (avoiding totally) dorky.  Oh no, I think my tummy is forming a personality, too.  Shootness, I just realized all my internal organs have genders! Please Google that and tell me if that’s another neurological disorder. No, don’t.

I better stop myself now, before I make this the longest post in blog history. (Thinking of the end of the Rudolph song: You’ll go down in history.) Have a good one. I’ll be chowing down on Pad Thai and assigning Sir Names to all my internal organs. I’m thinking the most of me is masculine internally. What’s that mean?