My Remembering Brain Dog, err Brother

Last Tuesday I was sitting at Starbucks with the Professor, Taketoshi, and the Little Red-Haired Girl who Tried to Hit on the Butcher But Failed to Take into Account His Unsmoothness with the Ladies (let’s call her the Little Red-Haired Girl for short) talking about some shit.

I can’t remember what shit we were talking about but it lead me to realize that none of my friends really know why the Butcher lives with me. Yes, tangentially, it has to do with his police record and the police record of the recalcitrant brother and the requirements that they both had to not associate with other felons and how that made it impossible for them to live together, but really, it has to do with my terrible birth defect.

You see, I have a crappy memory.

I don’t know if I was born with a crappy memory–I don’t think so because I can remember many things from that long ago–or just developed one as a response to all the things I’d rather not remember. But here I am, with a crappy memory.

The Butcher, however, has an amazing memory. He can remember people, places, conversations, directions to places he’s only been once, etc. This is even more surprising when you realize that none of my bad habits involve substances that cause memory loss and almost all of his do. If the Butcher were straight-edge, I’ve no doubt he’d have every book he’s ever read memorized.

So, the Butcher lives with me for much the same reasons that other people have assistance dogs. It’s his job to go around and remember things for me.

I could have used him last night. I called the Professor to tell her about my battle with the tub, which was growing things. I have a high tolerance for mess, but I cannot abide by any place growing things, especially places I like to get naked. So, I screamed, “Die motherfucker” and covered the whole tub in a generous wash of bleach. It might not be conventionally clean, but everything is dead and that’s what counts.

Anyway, as I was talking to the Professor, it became quickly obvious that I had already told her about half of what I was currently telling her and that the first time I told her, it was better. Imagine my embarrassment!

Not only don’t I have any memory, I was apparently much more clever and brilliant a few months ago!

Worse than that, as we were talking, the Professor was saying many insightful and profound things that blew my mind and I was going to come here today and tell you all about them, but… well, obviously, I’ve forgotten what they were.

2 thoughts on “My Remembering Brain Dog, err Brother

  1. It’s not just YOUR crappy memory. I say way too many brilliant things on such a regular basis that no one can remember them all. I cannot even think of anything I said last night that is post-worthy. Of course, you make all kinds of innocent things great and bad things better when you combine them and write about them here.

  2. Really, Aunt B., it’s o.k. My memory is shot to hell, so I’d probably be thrilled if you just changed the dates on your posts and I re-read them! Your writing is worth re-reading.

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