A Day With My Brain

Not an entire day though, just the highlights.  There are arguments to be made that this is a typical day and arguments to be made that it isn’t.  Personally, I’m leaning toward typical.

Earlier today I left the house and the truck alerted me to check the gauges.  As I did, I noticed the oil pressure drop to nothing and then go right back up to the halfway mark where it always is.  It did this yesterday too.  What follows is the discussion between my brain and I:

“Huh.  What the hell would cause that?”

No fucking clue.

“Should I check the oil maybe?”


“You’re helpful.”

Hey, check the oil asshole.  Or don’t.  You’re a middle-aged man, make a decision.  Grape Slushies are good.

“Yeah they are…”

So I didn’t check the oil.  Then I get a call that ends with me having a job interview tomorrow.  This sends brain into an instant panic:

Holy shit, you got an interview!  Sweeeeeeeeeet.  Wait a minute, do you have clean clothes…yeah, yeah, okay, we’re good there.  But wait you got a doctor’s appointment AND school.  Fuck.  Three things.  You got three things tomorrow, how the fuck are you gonna get through all that?  Oh shit and the workshop.  Goddamn you are so fucked.  How the fuck are you gonna work at this job right now?  You got two more weeks of school and you’re swamped with shit to do still.  God I really hope you get this job, you’re so fucking boring when you’re unemployed.  Fuck though, this job is barely gonna pay and it sounds boring as shit.  Shit man, you got so many car repairs and you got the doctor bills to pay…if you don’t get this job tomorrow you are FUCKED.  If you get this job tomorrow you are gonna be so bummed when you get your first paycheck for ten dollars.  Holy shit what are you gonna do if you don’t get this job?  Oh my god, what if they’re only offering graveyard positions?  You can’t work fucking graveyard, you’re an old man.  You can barely handle sixteen units of college, and that’s without a job, how the fuck are you gonna make all this work?  Dude, minimum wage jobs suck ass.  So does getting up in the morning.  Just renew your SWTOR subscription and email your profs that you aren’t gonna make it in tomorrow because…fuck I don’t know, maybe someone died.  Holy shit, tomorrow’s the last day you can turn in your late writing exercises, you have to go tomorrow.  Oh fuck, have you even written those yet?  You are such a fucking asshole.

It keeps going, but I’ll spare you the rest of it.  So, I go pick up my wife from her appointment in Rancho and we get some dinner on the way home and she asks what’s wrong and I tell her and she points out that I’m completely losing my shit over a minimum-wage job that I don’t plan on being at for the long term.

This is just one reason I love her.

Rational thinking restored, I decide to check the oil before leaving the parking lot.  The dipstick shows literally no oil.  Four quarts later, the dipstick registers the bottom end of where the oil level should be.  This is fine, I’m getting an oil change on Saturday.  Four quarts though.

“I wonder how much oil that truck takes?”

Yeah.  It holds six.  I’m an intelligent man.  I have a great mind.  A great mind that is plagued by tard-demons, hellbent on ruining my life.

Thank you, Annette, for marrying me, but more importantly, thank you for staying married to me and for being so good for me and for keeping my head out of my ass as much as you do.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.

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