Did I Stutter?

Dear Aster,

I hate having to repeat myself. That’s it, that is my pet peeve. The funny thing is that half the time when I have to repeat myself, it's totally my fault — I am a perpetual and unrepentant mumbler. I also talk faster than most humans. So the combination of those two things means that there will be many times when people I speak with ask me to repeat or clarify what I just said. Which is infuriating, but understandable. During those times, I do my best to check myself in the moment and remember that this particular instance of irritation was likely brought about by yours truly.

However, there is also this scenario: I am telling someone a story or developing a line of thought, and I reference something I said to them recently — a detail, a character, a concept, etc. Whatever I am currently saying is directly dependent on this previously-discussed morsel. I assume that my companion is in tune with what I am saying and continue to excitedly elaborate my brilliant discourse. And then, they do that thing when their eyes glaze over, confusion clouds their face, and they look at me like I am suddenly speaking in a foreign tongue. “...what?” *innocent, inquisitive stare* → *murderous seething…*

Look, I get it. Not everything I say is holy-crap-earth-shatteringly memorable or interesting. And people shouldn’t be expected to remember every tiny little detail about everything, like my lunatic ass does. And supplying a little reminder shouldn’t be this infuriating. But — gaaaaaaaah! — it sometimes is. You see, I am the type of person that often remembers spoken dialogue verbatim, for years. I remember the order of obscure events. I remember color arrangements, knick knacks, smudges, and insignificant side characters. If Sherlock Holmes, who famously boasted that his mind is like a clutter-less attic, peeked into the window of my noggin, he would surely choke on his pipe.

And it’s not like the crap my mind chooses to store is always useful. No, most of the time it’s really obscure, silly, weird things that just sort of stick. They might come in handy on a random night of pub trivia, but most of the time, they sort of float around my brain, bouncing off the walls and leaving trippy trails, like an old-school screensaver.

But, all in all, I do have a pretty good memory. Something to do with my parents introducing me to a ton of memory games when I was a toddler. I realize that it’s not a widespread talent, and I know that I shouldn’t expect most people to remember all the details. But sometimes, I can’t help but take it personally, as if their lack of remembrance somehow denotes a lack of care for me. It’s dumb, I know, but that is the root of this pet peeve. It’s related to the feeling of not being on the same page with someone, of not feeling a harmony or connection. Like the things that matter to me, that I find interesting, are not important to them and therefore they don’t stick to their minds. And then I feel alone.

The awesome thing about you, my dearest Aster, is that you are just as freaky as I am, if not more. (This is why the teal is always the gray, and a thing is never a bird nor a fish.) I know for a fact that if I call you in the middle of the night to tell you about some random snippet of hwat(?), you will just be like oh, right that’s that thing from that time in that place. Duh. It’s nice having a human in my life who is guaranteed to remember all the things that I do, who can finish my sentences, who knows exactly what I’m talking about at all times. It’s peaceful and lovely. Thank you.

Love forever and always,

Your Orchid

P.S. Hokay, so there was a reason I brought up Mr. Holmes. I’ve always loved the concept of a mind being an “empty attic, and you have to stock it with such furniture as you choose.” So, let’s get creative: if your mind was a physical space — not necessarily an attic, whatever you like — what would it be? What ‘furniture’ would you have in there? What objects would it contain? How would stuff be arranged? Feel free to describe your ideal brain space, your real brain space, or both.

My brain, I imagine, is very mall-like in organization. There is a lot of stuff — always open, always connected to each other. There is definitely a colorful playground with a giant-ass ball pit and a twirly slide in the middle. The food court is also substantial and diverse: I’m talking everything from Panda Express, to Wetzel’s Pretzels, to Sbarro. There is a constant cacophony of noise, coming from all directions. Some thoughts are running around, scrambling to find gifts for the holidays; some are power-walking a straight line, dressed in tracksuits; some are making out behind the Abercrombie; some are just lost and looking for their mommy. The mall is multi-functional: it can be a busy commercial center or a convenient zombie apocalypse hideout. It’s not my ideal brain space, but it’s what I got. What is yours?

[Currently listening to: Pink Floyd - Hey Hey Rise Up (feat. Andriy Khlyvnyuk of Boombox) because if you thought I wasn’t going to mention The Thing, you are nuttier than a bag of candied pecans.]