My memory is for shit. I’m like Ten-Second Tom, plus a moment or two. “In one ear and out the other,” as my mom likes to say. The clever woman. I do love her dearly.

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But do you want to know what the worst part is?

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It's my dirty little secret, so keep it between us.

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My secret is this: I don't have a memory issue at all.

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‍Nope!‍

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What plagues me is the act of listening—or the lack thereof.

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Can someone who reads this give me the fix?

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I want to listen—

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‍I promise I will this time—

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I'm begging you, please!

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Give me your tips and tricks; show me the YouTube video that will solve all my problems. I'll even smash that like button and subscribe.

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"What did I just say?”

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I honestly don't know.

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These aren't my words, and god, how often do I hear them!

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You’d think I was a child or a chimpanzee, and perhaps I am a little bit of both.

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Whose podcast has the answers? 

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This simulation has limited bandwidth.

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I'm looking on Amazon for a book to fix me, but only if it can be delivered by tomorrow.

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Would it be rude to ask for you to hear me now?

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My only want is what we all want. Can't we just admit it already? 

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Why else would my mind plague me with these useless ideas, disguising them as something important? 

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‍"Tune out," Mr. Limbic says to me. "This idea is good...real good."

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You'll hate it in an hour.

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*Click* Posted.

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I just returned from a gas station where the motion sensor was broken on the automatic doors to the mini mart. The doors just kept opening and closing, opening and closing; doing so while sounding off a robot voice: "Ding-dong…Welcome…Ding-dong…Welcome.”

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Or was it “Hello, welcome...Hello, welcome..."?

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I guess I should have listened there, too.

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And, yeah, so what if I'm three tall-boys deep?

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Sue me.

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I would if I could.

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I'm in Bakersfield on busy-ness, baby.

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‍Ding-dong...Hello...‍

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Welcome to spaghetti land!