It would seem that my hard drive is in need of an upgrade. Or, at the very least, someone to get in there and clean it up to get me more memory.
No, I’m not talking about my computer needing a simple touch-up today. This is about that gelatinous lump of matter sitting in my coconut that I call a brain. You know, that thing that’s supposed to store memory and facts and process everything that you do, think or say? Yeah, that thing.
Mine is almost kaput.
I’ve noticed its shortcomings more and more lately, as information has a tendency to stick around in that wasteland for shorter durations by the day. I forget where I just put my wallet 30 seconds earlier, or where I was walking to when I start down a hallway or whether or not I remembered to put on pants before going to the grocery store.
Now, one might infer from this information that I am simply losing my mind, or that I’m now in my mid-40s and things like that just happen. I can understand both arguments, and there’s probably a little bit of truth there, but I’m wrapping my head around a bigger concept right now.
I believe my hard drive is full.
Now, let me say first that I’m not insinuating that my head is just so full of knowledge that I can’t possibly fit anything else in there. Besides trivia and odd tidbits, there have also been quite a few brain cells burnt out or fried over the years through my own reckless behavior. But I will argue that there have been things I have memorized over the years, starting from a very young age, that are still in their original condition today.
But I can’t for the life of me tell you what I watched on television last night when I got home.
For example, I can walk into a Catholic Mass tomorrow, or 40 years from now and, besides the sermon, know every word that is about to be said or sung while I do a Sudoku puzzle or mentally agonize over what’s going on in our next deadline. But I can not tell you what story Monica Scott is currently working on without looking it up on my list.
I can tell you the starting lineups and pitching rotations of the Pittsburgh Pirates and Baltimore Orioles during their 1979 World Series battle when I was 11 years old, but can not give you the score of the game from this weekend that I watched three days ago.
I can recite to you the different kinds of grenades used by our armed forces in 1990, the date and place of the founding of the United States Marine Corps and any number of military acronyms that are pieced together to imbed that information into your brain far longer than they need to be, but cannot tell you where I put those socks I pulled out to wear this morning.
Need further proof?
I can still spell “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” on command, and in less than 15 seconds, from a sign that was on the wall in my first-grade classroom. This example also displays how I should have been paying closer attention to the teacher during this time period, but it is further proof that my mental hard drive is damaged by repetitious memories from a young age, particularly when you take into account how frequently I misspell words like “sheriff” and “restraint” on a daily basis.
And I typically use those words a little more often than supercalifragilisticexpialidocious on a daily basis. I mean, really, how often do we actually put together a story around here on a “Mary Poppins” performance or a spelling bee focused on fictional words or ...
But I digress.
The point is, I have to figure out a way to get rid of some of the facts in my head that I don’t use on a day-to-day basis, or come up with another solution to my constant problem of forgetting things or not judging how much room I have left in my column to get out all these crazy thoughts and ideas t