It feels really good to type! I wish I had a ton of thoughts, though! Because then I'd have something to type! Who am I kidding? I have too many thoughts all of the time. There doesn't seem to be any connection from one thought to another -- is that called Monkey Mind? Hopping from branch to branch? Do monkeys hop? Ahhhh! Too many questions and exclamations and "ands" and constant critiquing! What if my name was Quing. Quing Wiemer, PhD. Here are some more of my thoughts:
I want to read a scary, stupid book about a carnival. Ever since I was a bud in my mother's stomach (do babies live in the stomach? they don't, do they? whatever!), I've had recurring dreams about carnivals. Scary carnivals! I'm interested in what reading about scary carnivals would do to my psyche. I want to psych out my psyche. I want to walk into the fun house of my mind and see my subconscious reflected in a mirror, distorted and tall. I want to shrink down to the size of a thimble and walk through a miniature door into a world full of empty rooms with clean desks and blank papers. I will sit down at every desk and write with a pencil four times my size! Then 7:00 will roll around and I will have to decide whether it's AM or PM and whether to eat dinner for breakfast or breakfast for dinner. I'll take my time deciding because time will not exist. I will have no watch, but the sounds of a large ticking clock with be constantly overhead. Where is that clock? And can I smash it so it shuts up? I have menus to plan and meals to cook. I can't concentrate with the nonexistent seconds tick tick ticking. Let's go smash some clocks, shall we?
And so these are some of my thoughts. I would keep writing and maybe I should and maybe I shouldn't and who's to say except for me? You may not be reading this anymore. You may have started to read this post expecting to gain some beautiful insight into the nature of human existence, but instead you read, "I was a bud in my mother's stomach" and you were, like, "no thanks, I'm outta here." Then maybe you exited and entered BuzzFeed and found yourself reflected in a particular Disney princess or in a city in the world where you are supposed to live. Thanks for reading what you could stomach, however. We can only take so much before we are full. But let me get back to my empty rooms and comically large writing utensil. Is it writing utensil or writing instrument? Is it a fork or a tuba? Think about this and get back to me at your leisure. I love you.