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Most a the time when I try and think about stuff like nanotechnology or on those odd occasions when I’m perusing an in depth and poignant theoretical essay regarding the significant influences that modern architecture had on the cultural revolution, or lack thereof, especially in the United States, I end up gettin’ frustrated and wishin’ that I wasn’t so dumb.
It’s not that I wanna be like Albert Einstein or even one a those German Bauhaus dudes, although at times it would be nice, it’s just that I musta gotten that stupid gene that apparently plagues my family from time to time and instead of bein’ all smart and intellectual like I was cursed with dyslexia, A.D.D. and a mind like a sieve when it comes to remembering shit. Of course using copious amounts of narcotics for most of my adult life didn’t help, neither did drinking booze like a large inebriated fish, or smoking three packs a cigarettes a day like plain unadulterated air just wasn’t good enough.
And then let’s not forget my entire adolescence spent doin’ so much marijuana that I couldn’t do anything else except indulge in binge eating sessions of over-refined sugar products that were usually dyed such unnatural colors that you’d a thought them toxic waste – there’s jus’ somethin’ bout those berry flavors. Although if that had been as bad as it got I mighta been Ok, but hell, that wasn’t even close to the worst of it all as unfortunately according to my client records down at San Francisco’s General Hospital I apparently had quite a few of what could be labeled as “possible brain malfunctioning experiences.” Like the numerous times I OD’ed on heroin, wakin’ up in the emergency room after bein’ flat-line dead for a couple-a-minutes with tubes comin’ outta me at all angles and the nurses standing there wide-eyed as I shook it off denying any and everything that they’re accusing me of having done. Or what’s even more amazing were those undocumented and seemingly impossible recoveries where I’d miraculously regain consciousness days later in some disheveled hotel room, the needle still stuck in my arm, the sheets stiff from my dried blood. Only to tell ya the truth whether it’s from havin’ survived so many horrendous life threatening ordeals or the resulting acute post traumatic stress I thankfully can’t remember most of the past and that in itself may be part of the problem.
Though I’ll definitely admit that there are at least a few good points to being unable to recall what it was that I allegedly did or didn’t do, especially when being accused of half the shit that I’ve supposedly done. Yet in the long run I do gotta ask myself questions like just how many brain cells did I destroy every time I pushed home the plunger on a hypodermic needle fulla cocaine and heard the resulting crescendo of chaos that always ensued? Just how many shots of hard alcohol were one too many, pickling my already abused brain into the submission of chemical induced retardation? And did these and a few other aforementioned bad habits permanently ensure that my mind’s capacity for thought was greatly impaired for the remainder of my days on earth?