My brother Mike used to say I have CRS. If you don't know what that stands for, you'll figure it out in a minute.
I have been struggling with short-term memory issues for about ten years. My memory is about as long as the hair on a cockroach. My excuse is that I'm menopausal, on medication, have too many projects going at once, my brain is overloaded with knowledge, and... to be even more honest - some things simply fall out of my overloaded brain because there's no more room at the inn.
It's downright embarrassing. It's frustrating, too. Back in "The Day," I was sharp as a tack (oh, crap, now I'm relying on cliches. My apologies...) See the expression in that poor monkey's (ape's, baby gorilla's, hairy alien from Saturn's????) eyes? That's the expression in my eyes sometimes. I know because I've seen it in the mirror. Mirrors can be pretty scary; scarier than the creepy walkers on "The Walking Dead." Come to think of it, they can't remember anything, either.
Well, just call me, "The Walking Forgetful." Although some days I feel like The Walking Dead, I can proudly say I dodged the Reaper back in July of this year. However, it took the addition of more medications to my at-home pharmacy of must take to function miracle chemicals. Unfortunately, those additional meds ate another layer of short-term memory cells, so now I am short a few more. How many? I don't know. Their names? I can't recall.
What...? Don't most people name their brain cells?
Okay. Add burgeoning insanity to my list of ailments. No, wait; let's call it burgeoning harmless insanity, because I am a gentle soul. Ask any spider that I have rescued from the ceiling and set free in the yard.
Note to Reader: Colleen intended to write something important and profound on her blog today. Please accept her apology; she could not recall what she meant to write, and she was distracted by a big hairy spider on the ceiling above her computer. At this moment, she is looking for a very large jar in which to capture the spider. As you may suspect from this, Colleen is borderline OCD, depending upon the situation. Oh no... here she comes with the jar! Gotta go before she reads this. Sincerely, The Editor.