Prepare thyselves, mortals, for you shall bear witness to a sin against reality and a turpitude upon decency and joy.

I bring to you: ruination.

Ruination

Sometimes, when I ask Terra where something is located in our domicile, she will reply, “Under the sink.” I will invariably launch into a rendition of “Under the Sea” from The Little Mermaid. I’ve been trying to be nice, lately, and have only sung it to myself, in my head. But trust me gentlebeings: it always happens. Every time I hear the phrase, “Under the sink,” it is immediately followed by that song, playing in my head. I’ve been ruined, you see.

This also happens if someone says, “I’m so excited.” It’s an even split between hearing the Pointer Sisters’ smash hit and seeing Jessie Spano’s caffeine pill freakout, but it, also, always happens. More ruination.

Similarly: if someone has gone through some turmoil recently and I ask that person how she’s holding up, if she replies, “I’ll survive,” then it gets all Gaynored up in this piece.

Ruination.

My Brain, My Future, My Fear

Ruts have been driven into my brain, you see. I have these tracks that have been driven over so many times in my head that they’ve become rote, nearly autonomic Pavlovian responses. They can strike without warning, swooping in upon musical wings to peck at the eyes of my attention and caw manically as they swoop away to swarm over the bloated corpse of my former train of thought. I’ve been ruined.

I will always be like this. These little jokes that my brain has been playing on me have gone on for some ten years or so and I don’t expect they’ll go away. They don’t intrude upon my life. I’m not OCDed into flipping some light switch exactly twenty-seven times for fear the world will end if I don’t complete it exactly. But they will be my constant companions, little viruses lying latent in the nerve centers of my mental state waiting for the proper moment to pustulate upon the surface of my thoughts.

Once I diagnosed my condition, my fear is that I will gain more. I’ve counted at least three so far. Three stow-aways that have taken root in my brain’s garden, sprouting flowers of distraction that drive the honeybees of my thoughts to buzz away from the fruitful blooms of rational pursuits. Alas.

Your Turn

Unfortunately, I may have just ruined you. By given name to my own imps, I may have coaxed yours out of the shadows to poke and pester your brain when it would be better off having interesting conversations about delicious cheeses or meditating upon the symmetries of nature’s bounty.

Because, after all: darlin’ it’s better, down where it’s wetter.

Take it from me.