Brain like woe

Dear Brain,

You are killing me. Seriously.

First you throw random, uncalled for, soul-crunching anxiety attacks at me out of nowhere, so that was a huge can of WTFBBQ right in the face. And not in the amusing cat-macro sense. In the "dear God, what fresh hell is *this*???" sense.

And if that had been all, then maybe that would be okay and I'd be willing to work around you, because you've done some good things for me. I would be willing to wait it out and grit my teeth until I can get access to a doctor.

But you're starting to screw with the creative process. Uncool, man, uncool.

You refuse to let me make critical decisions on the editing of the Tower!Guy story, thus stalling a process that's been halted more times than the L-Train at rush hour.

Then just to be difficult, you start throwing out a whirlwind of ideas and telling me that each and every one of them needs to be written right the frell now. Except you refuse to stay interested in one long enough for me to jot down an outline.

In short, lately you've been about as efficient and attentive as a monkey on methamphetamines.

Less Love Than Usual,
The Management

PS - An inflated desire for cookies is NOT. HELPING.