I’ve started a lot of sentences lately with “My brain feels like…” And today my brain feels like mush. Or maybe more like a mushroom.
It feels spongy and delicate and stringy. I’m realizing it usually feels like this on weekday evenings. My job sucks all the texture of my brain into hidden, fibrous pockets and leaves the remains feeling shriveled, overexposed and limp. I don’t dislike my job. Sometimes I just wish it left me feeling like less of a vegetable at the end of the day.
I considered this while I was walking home. And then I realized how tired I must be that, not only was I drawing comparisons between my brain and mushrooms, I thought it was worth writing down.
I stepped over an abandoned cigarette butt at this point. It had a Barbie-magenta lipstick stain at the tip. Something about that childish hue shimmering at the end of a cigarette was so silly to me that I couldn’t help but start laughing to myself in the middle of the street as I lifted my skirt and kept on towards home.