Blank. I am completely blank. I am thinking absolutely nothing. And my major concern about that is …! I have no opinion on the matter because in the place where that opinion should be hangs a sign that reads, “Vacancy.”
If you are expecting anything from me–forget coherence, let alone wit–you are going to be deeply disappointed. Maybe the ever clever Mr. Carl Williot can manage being a senior right now and being remotely competent at having thoughts and then placing those thoughts into compound sentences through some graphic mode of recording that resembles written language? I. Now. Not. Can. Right. Write? … blank.
Have you seen my:
I have no brain. It is gone. I have no idea where it might be. Perhaps in the anxiety-ridden return from spring break my system overheated, and during seminar my brain liquefied, leaking out of my ear and congealing in a puddle on the floor. I left it there, a quivering mound of gelatinous matter, under the chair. I did not realize it at the time because well, my brain was on the floor. Though I feel like someone would have said something to me, if only to remind me to wipe up the mess and toss it in the non-office-paper recycling bin.
It is also possible that someone stole it. If this is the case, could whoever is currently in possession of my brain please return it to me. Leave it outside my door in Saybrook–no questions asked.
Then again, for all I know my brain accidentally got picked up by someone rummaging around my room at 5am, searching for their shoe in the dark. My friend who stubbed her toe on my bookcase or maybe … yes, the one who was stumbling over my tangible post-sex-feeling-of-disdain! Perhaps the poor thing panicked and mistakenly tucked my brain into his backpack right along with his hooded sweatshirt?
Be on the lookout for:
My brain, obviously. Unfortunately, unlike me, it will most probably not be parading around in an excessively vibrant, ethnically ambiguous tunic-like covering. As far as brains go, I really can’t imagine that my brain looks terribly different from any of the other brains out there. But I warn you: don’t judge a brain by its gyri. [cue: the failure of an overly anatomically specific brain joke.]
It is not so much what my brain looks like, but how it behaves that should be the dead give away. If you happen across a stray brain that displays any of the following behavioral traits be aware:
–My brain is naturally nocturnal. Should you see it out and about during the daytime, it may be disoriented and aggressive. Keep your distance.
–Regardless of the hour, it will be distrustful and paranoid.
–It will most probably think that it knows better than you — do not try to reason with it.
–Lastly, if the little load of gray matter hurls funny but vaguely hurtful, below-the-belt, personal insults at you, it is most certainly is my missing brain and you should call me immediately.
[No, this is the not the point where I print my phone number. People who are big freaks read this column and I have little to no faith in their ability to distinguish between appropriate column participation and restraining order worthy admiration.]
This brain of mine is worth quite a bit. Maybe not as much as you folks who blew all that cash on the pretentious boarding school, however, I’m running up a brain tab with a significant number of zeros at the end of it. That’s a pretty chunk of change for a public school ragamuffin like me.
Now if I weren’t in such absurd debt as a result of so recklessly tricking-out-my-mind-Ivy-League-style, well then I would actually have money to offer the person who finds my brain. But that is just laughably not the case. If I had used that brain of mine to secure myself a consulting gig back in November–I’d at least treat my gender-neutral-knight-in-shining-armor to a night on the town in New York next year. But that too is just preposterously not possible.
That being said, I can unequivocally guarantee to the person who facilitates the safe return of my brain the following:
1) the three bottle of crappy pino grigio in my refrigerator
2) my five-year-old, asthmatic, Toshiba laptop and
3) a massage (which I feel like is the real golden ticket of the deal because I don’t even give massages to people I delude myself into believing I’m in love with.)
Also, I would give you shares in Jana-stock. And at the rate people keep telling me not to worry about the future–apparently my stock is expected to go through the roof sometime before I die of mediocrity in my early thirties.
“How do you know you have no brain, Jana?” you want to know. Initially I thought the crippling migraines I’ve been experiencing were a physiological ailment associated with inordinate amounts of stress and grief — nope. As it turns out, my eye sockets feel like they are going to be sucked back into my skull because of the industrial strength vacuum effect that’s been created by the cavernous space absent of matter that once housed my brain. I looked it up on WebMD.
“If she has no brain then how did she write this column?” That is what you are thinking after all of this. The whole no brain bit is a cheap subject rouse for the column. That Jana. What a deceitful cow.
In truth, I can’t take credit for this column. I found myself with a deadline and no brain and so I did what I had to do–filled my mouth with aluminum foil, knotted hangers into my curls and shoved my head out my fifth floor window. This column is the result of channeling various radio signals through my teeth. The voices bounced around in my empty skull and my wifey, Julia, transcribed.
This is the same plan I’ll be employing to complete my senior essay. I think it’s going to be brilliant.
Jana Sikdar submits her senior essay which consists of a series of “hisses” and clicks next week. Wish her luck.