My brain ran away and now someone else’s lives inside my skull

I Googled repoire because I was trying to type it. But auto correct was drawing a blank too. Google called me an idiot. Well I’m paraphrasing. It said repoire is a common misspelling of rapport. How long do we keep misspelling it before the wrong becomes right? If the majority misspell a word, can we just consider that the correct way? But I guess not, because the majority isn’t always right. But then who dictates what is right and wrong? If I choose to spell repoire that way, can I argue that it’s my personal preference? I probably could but then people would think I was an idiot for ‘misspelling’ a word. Shakespeare created all kinds of words. Funny how some people are praised and some are berated or the exact same actions.
Words are odd. They’re noises constructed in a random order and sometimes the person we’re talking to constructs a visual of what we’re saying. Sometimes we confuse each other and can’t seem to hold the same thought process.

Why can you say the word rape but not fuck? They’re essentially the same meaning. Only one is more medieval time frame. Maybe we just hate medieval times. But then we have the Renaissance fair celebrating the barbaric times. I wonder if the Renaissance fair would consider fuck a curse word? Not sure how I’d use it appropriately in context.

I wonder how certain syllables earn censorship status. Maybe the sound hurt someone’s ears once and that’s how it started. I hate the sound of too many ‘s’ in a sentence. So I understand. Maybe I’ll start a trend where sighs are considered curse words. I’ll tell people it hurts my ears. Get the ball rolling.

I have to pee. For some reason, when I’m in a public restroom and I hear someone pee, I automatically feel like we have bonded. We should be friends. We know each others bladder capacity. It’s odd though. I don’t feel the same about hearing a person defecating. Though that’s probably more personal.

It’s really awkward when two people with anxiety go into the restroom at the same time. You can’t leave. Then the other person will know you’re an insecure loser with anxiety. So you both enter the bathroom and sit quietly hoping the other person is more audacious or desperate and begins urinating. If you pee too little, it almost seems like you didn’t need to go to the restroom and you were actually there to do something else embarrassing that you’re too nervous to do with another person here. Like look in the mirror and see if you have anything on your face. It’s awkward when your insecurity looks like vanity. Too much and clearly you waited too long, but I guess it could also mean you have a big bladder. Somehow that’s really not impressive though big muscles are. On your arms or legs. Nobody really is impressed with sphincter muscles.

Then when someone finally does get betrayed by their bladder, we’re relieved at every embarrassing noise they make. As long as I keep my embarrassing noises at a lower level than the other person, I feel confident. More thinking goes on in a public restroom than in a classroom.

Embarrassment is so weird. We’re terrified of it, yet spend most of our time focusing on not embarrassing ourselves, we hardly notice other people embarrassing themselves and then feeling relieved that nobody seemed to notice.

Yet the next time we’re in that situation we’ll fear embarrassment again and then get relieved when yet again nobody noticed.

I guess Alzheimer’s might be a spectrum.

Emotions are weird. Sometimes our thoughts spiral us into a hurricane of emotions which all live inside of us, unseen to the world. Maybe we’re all crazy. Or at least our emotions and thoughts are.

I forgot to take my prozac and wellbutrin today. I guess that’s a good thing. I wasn’t intimidated enough by the day to remember my pills. Or I was too busy worrying about all the things that make me anxious, I forgot that I have a pill for that. I guess if I have a bad day sometime I’ll have two of each pill to take to compensate.

I wonder how many times I see or hear things that aren’t there. What if we all do? How would we know? If someone told us we were hallucinating maybe we didn’t hear them as easily as we hallucinated.

I read a genius poem about bipolar disorder that resignated so well with me I had to reread it and realized I missed a few references and metaphors the first time.

Readers are probably smarter than the authors they read. Maybe all popular writing is simply vague enough to apply to a magnitude of situations and people. Readers read it introspectively and see the genius inside themselves in other people. Maybe that’s why readers are so smart. Smart people are just drawn to reading material and not the other way around.

Not saying non-readers are stupid. Not that it matters because non-readers probably aren’t reading this. Unless a non—reader decided to make a change and this is the first thing they’ve chosen to read. In which case, I apologize the universe is a cruel and ironic place.

Apologies are weird. We don’t apologize when we regret something. We usually apologize when we feel we’ve offended someone.

Offense is so weird. I don’t understand why we feel personally attacked when someone’s life or thoughts aren’t parallel to ours. I can’t remember ever really being offended. I remember thinking some people are idiots or assholes.

When a person writes an autobiography, how do they decide the stopping point or end?

I made progress on a story I’ve been working on for over two decades and probably more than 1,000 edits. It’s never right. I’ll probably have my final will deligate someone to publish it for me. I really think it’s interesting but it never gets the connotation or crucible I envisioned. But if it’s not published in my life time and I have someone responsible for it after my death, I’ll spend my time on my death bed wondering if it’s just right. Or maybe I’ll remember a better way to word something and my final breaths will be spent wishing I had the energy to change the wording or have someone do it for me.

Indesiciveness is the root of most problems. I think. Not making a decision is still a decision, just usually the worst possible one.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Son of a bitch. I did it again. Time to make the coffee extra strong again.


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