I don't know why I care, but times like these, I'd like to know why I'm as brain damaged as I am. Having self-diagnosed myself with executive dysfunction syndrome after reading this book, I wonder if it's simply something congenital, or if I really had a hypoxic event when I was anesthetized as a little kid for my tonsillectomy. Not that I'm interested in suing anyone, but I think it would be interesting to know. After all, I think I'm relatively pretty functional, with the occasional nervous breakdown now and again. I don't know, if I was brain damaged, I could probably be a poster child for how you can recover from very subtle mental deficits.

I'm not just being facetious. Well, I suppose I am, partially so. I do really have a problem with making decisions, though. And I know at least a few people with similar problems. Difficulties with prioritizing information sometimes manifests as learning disabilities, or problems with taking timed tests. This is basically what the frontal lobe handles: organization and prioritization. The kernel of the operating system known as the human mind, if you will. These are the two things I do very poorly with, and seriously, it's amazing that I've gotten through life at all. I like to think that the rest of my mind has somehow compensated for its failings. The brain, like the Internet, seems to be able to route around damage sometimes, although it can't easily reduplicate whatever was lost.

Anyway, that was a really verbose prelude to why I am cursing my disease state. Currently, my apartment is in complete shambles. It looks like the Secret Service decided to systematically ransack it in search of paraphanelia that could get me locked up in Gitmo. Yes, that's right. Systematic chaos and disorganization. There are stacks and stacks of books just piled up on the ground. My clothes are likewise folded and stacked in very random places. I have receipts organized in messy piles according to month and year. It is a serious mess, and yet it seems like it's the only way I can find anything. What is particularly fucked up is that I seem to function worse when everything is neatly put away.

And thanks to my rampant disorganization, I think I may need to make a four hour round trip drive to my parents' house in L.A. and back in order to retrieve my 1099INT and 1098T in order to properly file my taxes. What a waste of a day.

To top it off, I am dangerously approaching rush hour. (I don't really know why the call it rush hour when it clearly lasts more than one hour. They should properly call it rush epoch. Or rush eon. Anyway.)

(And another manifestation of my disease state is that fact that I always get detoured sidelong into tangents, frequently finding myself miles away from my original point.)

One wonders if this is a controllable state, much like major depression or generalized anxiety. I've tried the antidepressants, and while they succeed in preventing me from self-harm, they don't really touch these higher functions. From what I understand, that's what amphetamines like Ritalin and Concerta are for.

(Once again, I am forced to ask: am I nothing but a clockwork orange? Anyway.)

Time to get on the road. After one more tangent…