You Thief Me Not

 

Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? It was probably the same person that stole the words from my brain. Yes, surely it is one and the same. I’m thinking, if we join forces and try to capture the culprit and force him to return the stolen goods, we can all benefit and maybe even save others from the same terrible fate.

I think this thief preys on the weak. My brain is probably super easy to tap these days, what with all I’m demanding of it. Not only does it have to remember to tell my heart to pump and my muscles to move, it also needs to memorize copious amounts of information and regurgitate them on paper during a few high-pressure hours. Beyond those, it also has to constantly encourage my body to keep moving and keep coming up with new thoughts and fantasies to distract me from my pain. I sympathize with it, truly. That’s why I don’t blame my poor brain for being so vulnerable. It’s not its fault.

Now that we’ve established how the thief chooses its next victims, let’s move on to how he executes his crimes. My brain is most susceptible when I’m sleeping, of course, but I think that those hours are relatively safe because I close my shutters at night. Shutters keep brains safe, I believe. After much pondering, I have concluded that he must be operating while I sit down to write. This makes sense. Do you get it? It’s the perfect moment to act, while my brain is open and spewing, he can just come and pick out the best of the best.

Is the thief working alone? So I believe, for is he were not I would surely see someone else gallivanting with my words, and it has not come to that. Yet.

How will the thief be stopped? How do I restore my words to their proper domain and protect the future ones from being lost?

This is my plea for help,

Ella

 

Song Quote:

As he faced the sun he cast no shadow, bound with all the weight of all the words he tried to say. –Cast No Shadow, Oasis

 

P.s. If you help, I promise to share the cookies with you when we reclaim them.

We Need Therapy

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A conversation between my mind and my stomach, for your amusement. Henceforth, my mind will be called M, and my stomach will be called S.

M: Hey, did you hear that?! We can eat gluten again!

S: Yippee!!! I’m hungry, let’s do this thing.

M: Oh look, there are cookies. Heads up, here they come!

S: Is it just me, or are these cookies strange?

M: What do you mean “strange”? They’re cookies.

S: Yeah, but M, I’m not so sure about this…

M: Oh my god, freshly baked rolls, S!!!

S: I’m not so sure that’s a good idea…

M: Too late, get ready.

S: Ooh…. You know M, I think we need to go to therapy. You really haven’t been listening to me lately. I try to talk to you and tell you how I feel, but it’s like talking to a wall.

M: Oh please, don’t be so melodramatic. Digest your gluten already, the cake’s going to be out of the oven soon.

S: I am not being melodramatic, M. My feelings are real.

M: Okay, yeah, sure.

S: You don’t believe me?!

M: No. I don’t. What are ya gonna do about it, huh?

S: Oh, I’ll show you what I’m going to do about it. I am sick and tired of this, M. A stomach’s gotta feel like it’s appreciated. I’m out.

M: Where, exactly, do you think you’re going to go? Out where?

S: Out of order.

Uh oh….

Yours Truly,

Ella

Song Quote:

Sometimes I wish we could be strangers, so I didn’t have to know your pain. –No Angel, Birdy