SO FAR THIS IS WHAT IVE GOT, it did change.

Dedicated to:
Anyone that has ever tried to Catch A Rae, and to anyone that has ever made a significant impact on the goings-on in my life.




Dear whomsoever decides to read my rendition of what occurs after one, this ‘one’ that I will be referring to on and off is primarily myself and what I think the things other people that have sustained a traumatic brain injury (T.B.I.), may, or might not, be thinking when introduced to any new and confusing situations;

Do not approach this book lightly, thinking that it will be a ‘quick read’, or…do that if that is what works for you.


This book might get slightly confusing, and you, like I had to, will have to read certain things two or three times before you decide whether I made a grammar error or not. If whatever I have written seems to be about you that is because it is, probably, about you. If you dislike what I have written, it is probably about you. Before you consider suing me think about this; if you had wanted me to write something kind about you then you would have behaved differently to me.


But, you are immediately knocked back down again whenever you stop to think of anyone whoever has/had a more drastically worse-off life than you had. I have no specific ‘yous’ in my mind, well…; at least, I don’t think that I do…



War disarms me, like, a total lack for words.
How can something so universally hated, time-consuming, and costly be played and replayed so easily?
It’s like stubbing your toe, then immediately, after you have thoroughly enjoyed that sharp painful stinging that slides up your body to your brain, only after you have recoiled and the whole spiel, quickly retracing your steps to be sure that it happens again.

Possibly not as hard as the first time, but who really cares about the amount of pain released? Who is going to be calculating, or tallying your level of pain besides you?
Time consuming?

The music was basically blasting when I jumped into the back of his new, white car. Didn’t really care he was driving; I just liked to feel he was there.

“Bronwyn, g e t  o u t  o f  t h e  c a r. Get out, no now.”

He had never used that tone with me before now, so I was quick to comply, not that I would have ever asked him for anything three whole times. I just tried to go back to the part and all of that, but I am no good with social constructions designed purely for self-mutilation, and sex.

Safe ride home and I will call it a successful evening, after all, he did talk to me for the first time in a long time. I may or may not have been the brains behind the designated driver that night. I usually always get home safely, either I have a safe person that owns a license already lined up, or, I will walk. The point is that I got home safely.


The next morning was beautiful. I would find out later that morning something that I am glad hadn’t waited too long to find me. It would push me to the edge; stretch me until I thought I might break. A thing that I couldn’t even let anyone know how much it had affected me for fear of displeasing the Favio that now lived in my soul.


Favio didn’t like people up in his business; and, I was his business and he knew it, even if he wouldn’t admit it.


It broke me to try not to show everyone just how much he broke me…


I am fighting a silent war with every other decision that I have made, or decisions I pleasantly decide not to make.

What about making drugs; that is time consuming, and costly. Drugs have cost us so many lives; drugs have cost us so much fucking time it disturbs me a fraction, but don’t worry, not enough to make me become a member of the congress or anything.


Joe was thinking about his life ‘what happens when it all ends?’ sort of thoughts. Then he got upset, and he very suddenly found himself sitting bolt upright wishing that he wasn’t too manly and old to go and sleep in between his mother and father. But, then, what about the people that have no mother and or father to even consider seeking refuge in-between? What about people without any bed to begin with!


Joe started to feel it beginning again; he sat up far enough to reach the little lamp switch. Joe felt his fears beginning to mold into some incurable problem, so he got dressed and decided to study or something useful.


“Don’t look at the clock,“ he kept reminding himself. He thought that it must be sort of strange to even feel it was necessary to even think that in the first place. I mean, it wasn’t like Joe particularly was planning to look at his glowing alarm to see how late it was getting anyway; the alarm would go off when it got to be that blessed time to prepare for school. Why even think that thought?


Now Joe could not deny the urge to know exactly how many hours until go time. Only 3:59. You know that weird feeling you get; like, a pressing urge to check the time or write something down before you forget it; Because, Joe fucking knew that he would forget to remember to tell his mom when she woke up that… SHIT. If it’s really important Joe will remember, eventually, he thought.


His mom was the only one who gave a fuck about his stories now a ’days anyway. How depressing is that to admit?


Then, Joe started to work for the town pie shop. So,… what? Was he supposed to be playing everyone’s desert?


When I had that mental collapse that semester; Joe was there, just like everyone’s faithful, favorite desert that never gets too far. I had briefly entered into the life of someone who could afford to buy desert.


So I came and sat in the front and watched as my desert did silly things your desert never does. Mainly, it began to respond to the little things I would say, or insinuate… Joe would reply in such a way that made it increasingly difficult to tell if he was a spy sent from my last online lover, his older brother, Roberto Jenkins to spy on me and to see if I was the proper candidate to play the new woman lead of his boy band, through the body of his older brother (the darker haired Roberto, I assume (I mean, they are related).)


He had no idea who I was; yet he insisted upon… working and not letting a little red headed girl fuck with whatever stuff he was working.


Increasingly I got angrier and angrier; was it fair that I had been in the kitchen washing dishes when Debra opened shop, and she never thought to let me go into the front of the house, never, not once, did she invite me up there.


I understand where she might have been coming from with that one. Me, in the front of the house? At first, her thinking made sense… Then she hired Lylah Bateman. …? Lylah? But, wait, I was right here the entire time?! Sure I am related to my father and my mother, but you have my father come in to do his chef-ing stuffs all the time, and my older brother too! So, tell me why you hired a girl who complained of your attitude and dirty kitchen and not me, to work a job that I have proved to you upon special occasions that I can fully do.


Dark hair. Everyone has dark hair but me. Everyone that she decides to hire for the front of the house, has dark hair, like her.


URICA! ‘Over, and over’ those were the words that I was missing! What makes something art is whether or not you are able, not to ‘recreate it EXACTLY, at least in my case, but that you are able to create it on the same level of awesomeness each time as the time before, or more awesome than before!


Using that thinking, conversing with other homo sapiens is an art form. Being able to read people that do not wish to be read; that is an art form. Being able to understand who someone is through their typing variations on Facebook; that is an art form. Being able to fully engage in a flirting match with whoever or whatever type of person walks into Debra’s pie shop; is also a form of art that is attempted, and not succeeded, by far too many.


Never mind it. It happens to be how that same lot will attract his/her their potential mates.


Brain injury, that’s right, this book is supposed to be about brain injury, and not the life of a Bee. Ashley told me one day, after I was back to hanging out with the old people, that her new friend Bronte was ‘B’, so I am ‘Bee’. This all happened while I was in a coma, by the way. I was diagnosed with T.B.I. (Traumatic Brain Injury) once I learned to talk, and I was ‘demoted’ (or so I thought, at first) to ‘Bee.’


I got a bee on the side of my neck to clear up any of my, or anyone else’s, confusion. OK; so what, I got this bee to remind me of who I am now. To remind me that it is ok for me to be busy… it is ok to be me.


I know what people that don’t know me think when they see this bee. “Sea rhymes with bee, and I am ‘seeing’ that there bee right at this very moment. Wouldn’t that be fun to think about while I wait for my real king to resurface? Wait; I am a bee, and bees fly around and get stuck inside sometimes and think about being outside. SHIT; wait, that translates back to me also… and, and Bronte, in a way.


My traumatic story starts with snowy roads and ended up landing in a snow bank on the side of the road, sorta, I think that is where I landed; I am not exactly sure how I landed, that bit of info seemed to get lost in the translation of my accidental, momentary death.


“You should write a book,” is what ‘they’ say to me. My response to that is always the same, in the back of my head somewhere, it’s like,” “Yeaa…sure HOPEFULLY one day;…maybe.” * I proceed to consider the hoopla of ideas for a novel that are pulsing. My thoughts always somehow get on the fact that my life was choreographed for that Bull Shit(Bronwyn Schroeder, BS.)< (Curtesy of Dan T…); my life was choreographed to write a abook for everyone else to read.


NO; my life was choreographed to produce a novel that will hopefully one day have an impact that is greater than anyone could have ever guessed.


My story ultimately left me with a traumatically injured brain, and a curious way of looking at things. When I say ‘things’ I mean ‘people’, in this instance.


We know SO little about this massive organ controlling everything. I know that fucking fact. I was in high school, I am going to college now so, I know what you are probably thinking, “What kind of stuff could this 21 year old girl be able to translate to me/us about the brain?”


Thank you everyone for asking me. If you have not yet figured things out for yourselves yet, let me try to sound it out using some different words…


Let me just tell you that anyone who claims to ‘know’, frankly, ANYTHING ‘fully’ is half-ass-ing it. Ask a mother or a father how truthful this statement is; go ahead, they will hopefully share with you what I think I might have learned after my 21 years of life. I only know one thing for a fact…I know it all too well actually. After my 21 years of life I know literally 75% of all that goes on inside of me, and next to 15% of all that goes on around me. The other percentages are lost in translation, just like half of the BS that gets filtered into our frame of attention.


Smoke and mirrors are a huge part of my life. Not the band either. I look at myself a lot AND there is far too much smoke in my life considering I don’t smoke. Back to the first thing; OK, so sue me, I am the only one I feel comfortable looking at me nowadays… I definitely don’t want to put anyone else through that…


My traumatic brain injury doesn’t ever let me forget what is taking place; however, being nurtured by a Cathicolly raised literature/philosophy buff, makes me want to grow and to learn how to use this thing in here. Being the daughter of a father of a chef makes me love to please people. Being a bee has always made me want to run around and fix things. Being a Bee has made me want to be in Social Work. Being a Bee makes me want to fix what I have broken.


My T.B.I happened, and now I am trying desperately to work with it. I run because my coach/the boys half of XC taught me to. I run because he makes me mad. I ran because she makes me fucking furious. I bleed too.


I bled so much that day in 2008. I fractured my spleen, and I here they bleed a lot. I bleed so much that I donate blood whenever I get a chance to. The first time I donated, I fainted. My faithful brother brought me back home, again. Connor always does bring me back home from places, he picked me up that day I fainted… Whenever, whatever, however it has to happen; he will always make sure I got home, no matter what.


Unless he is not there, or drunk; or, both at the same time. You know who brought me home after the car accident? T.G.S. brought me home, not literally, figuratively. They brought me home even if I wanted so badly to stay out with them. I am forever grateful to them for this, actually. No one can laugh at the things that you say if you are pretty much always not there. But, no one can ever laugh at the things that you will say if you are unable to function without sleep and end up in worse shape than after your two week long coma.


Everyone has got to get some culture. That, and that alone, is the reason my world is falling apart at the seams, it feels like. It is painful to watch it happen the way it is. So painful that there is enough pain for everyone to feel a little fraction, and there would still be enough left over for me to still make me scream out loud. If every person just pick up the slack a little it, would make me feel 100X better about my new 21 year old life.


Yup I have traumatic brain injury. I came out of a coma, and, at first, I was kinda quiet; compared to me a month ago I was quiet, anyway. The quiet me is more fun for everyone else; I stress more, and everyone else feels nothing, because I am quiet… So, they do not ever know that there is anything to be stressing about in the first place. For a bit it was fun for me; but then I understand why it shouldn’t have been so fun. Why you/he/she/it/they decided to act the way they decided to act. I give everyone the benefit of the doubt; at first. Then we talk and they feel comfortable enough to revel their true motives; reveal their true motives to me.


What can I say? I have that effect; or some other word, I cannot think of that specific word right now; on people. Seeing as how that means that right now I am a social scientist… Seeing as how I am also a 21 year old girl aspiring to be a social worker, maybe… that is why I advocate primarily or myself, and I get balls rolling. Maybe these ‘balls’ are not rolling exactly in the direction they would like to be falling, or at the speed that they would like to be falling, but, they do roll and I win; and that, for anyone that cares, is what happened that day at Me OH My pie Shoppe in RHNY 2014.


He knew it. He had to ride the loop bus too. Debra had to choose to set up her pie Shoppe right a fucking cross from the spot where I waited to catch the Loop those four years. I run because I had a ‘super fast’ mile time when I had to run the mile for gym class in sixth grade. Although; the whistle does cause me to pee my pants a little, somehow, every damn time the gun goes off to signal the start of a race.


“Do you want to know why we run so fast?   Raff’s got a gun.”


They may, or may not, all be running to save my soul; whether they know it or not. Whether ‘they’ understand it is purely up to you to decide for yourselves, but Raff may or may not have saved my life. Running cross country may have saved my life. Running cross country I think saved my soul; by running cross country I saved my own life, and by running you prove to me that we are allies; forces to be reckoned with.


You can only prove what we already know about, right, so what the hell am I trying to prove? Whatever you think that the answer is to that question, my mind is already coming up with at least five different ways to disprove that answer.




I cannot win. Life is a game, this is all a race; and, I am not winning anymore. Whoever it/he/she/thy are left a long, long time ago and they may, or may not have taken a bit of my soul with them when they left. I cannot remember what it was that makes that thing I lost so special at this moment.


I can only remember what it smelt like. So vividly the smell is, actually. Smells are that one sense that lets me know for sure that I was fully alive the first time through this whole mess. I didn’t donate blood like I should have been donating, but I do now, a lot. It is hard for me though, to donate I mean. My iron levels are frequently so low that they won’t even accept my donation… The first time I tried to donate, I had skipped cross country, but I fainted for the first time in my entire life instead; surely that must count as some sort of “workout”?


I was on the way to the snack table that they have for the donators after they give blood. My grandmother, Fran, is 90 something. Very recently when she was donating some of her time at a blood drive that was in her town. She was telling me how in the past they brought in some food from home to give to the donors; my first thought, “Brilliant!” Then now, I am rethinking it all. The snacks they do give to donors are the same taste every time you open a package; no surprises. Not everyone that would donate to something like a blood drive would have the amazing culinary skills that seem to be so ‘normal’ about the people close to me in my life. These ‘surprises’ that donors encounter would most likely lead them to faint faster than low iron levels.


My older brother Connor brought me home that day; he was not angry. I can’t remember him ever getting too get angry with me; unless you count that time he pushed me into a lake and I got my first set of stitches on my forehead, where the Harry Potter scar is located ironically enough. Back to about how my life is choreographed for literature; I was named after my mother’s good friend Bronwyn who had been in a car accident and couldn’t have any children because she was paralyzed from the waist down, then Connor pushes me into a pond at my grandmother’s house when I wasn’t even old enough to zerox yet. I acquire a ‘Harry Potter’ scar; now I get into a car accident like the first Bronwyn.


Ironies become blurred with magic, and more blurred when it comes to love. He was not angry. He is not angry with me, oh no, not me. He was never so bluntly angry with me until a few times with his new girlfriend Rachel. I liked her so much at first. Then her true colors shone, they shone like… like… well, something very shiny.


In the hospital I asked him to bring me back home.I do not know if he literally ‘brought me back home’ from the hospital, but what I do know I keep deep, deep inside. I know that I love to donate my O+ blood whenever I get the chance to.


I also know it makes my father curious why I donate my begin with. He never donates and he questions my sanity because I donate my O+ blood even after what I went through. Even after I have fainted and everything. I have lived through fainting, a broken hip, ribs, and jaw, a ruptured spleen, and learning how to walk down stairs and tie my shoes again.


So donating blood and fainting does not seem to be so bad; that seems like I should be allowed to verify; fainting is like a walk in the park compared to breaking a jaw.


If you’re ever curious enough about what it is like to be me; you could watch the movie “Phoebe in Wonderland”. That nails it on the head (no-pun-intended.) He always sort of pretended to know me so well. Sneaky mother fuckers; it is that graduating class, they are all sneaky conniving mother fuckers. In other words; they live for the swings and not for the set. He gave me my first set of stitches at the Upper Pond at Grandma’s. He was mad because I do not like that this new girl takes a big piece out of him, a piece that I had looked up to, artistically at least.


Peter Schroeder, My mother and father chose the name ‘Peter’ for the baby boy that came after me but before Molly. Peter would have had dark brown hair, darker than mine, but lighter than either mine or Connor’s.


So, it would have been black hair, dark red, strawberry blond, but more ‘strawberry’ than the youngest, Daphne’s strawberry blond. Or, maybe mom was always planning on stopping after her fourth. My mom had 5 children. Imagine, if you can, no Daphne. No Daphne…weird, OK done with that.


How does one go about writing a book about T.B.I.? I suppose, if you were inside things would make more sense, but this is the mind of a traumatically brain injured girl trying to get out her definition. So, one may, or may not, say that this is a definition of Traumatic Brain Injury. I keep on failing English, and it makes no sense to me sometimes.


“You will not ever be able to completely understand what is going on in another person’s head,” says someone. I understand the things that are going on, I just do not always understand/see why they are going on. I always try to figure out why, though, and that ‘trying to figure shit out’ part is what seems to get me into trouble so much. I am curious, so I spend a lot of time analyzing the people who show themselves to me; and also, the people who never wanted to show me anything.


It kept going back and forth, in his head; and, trying to dive deeper into this great-all-powerful thing we so simply have come to accept is called ‘the human brain’ is proving to be a difficult task. Being where he was, going through everything that he has gone through, you would think that Joe might have some fantastical insight for you, or at least confidence that trumped anyone else’s. Truth is that after living through his 21 years he is only confirmed on fact that he is confident to say is truth, and that under any and every circumstance that you are placed under, it will remain true. After his 21 years of life he can confidently say that he is 100% sure of basically nothing, and anyone that does say that they are 100% confident in anything, should go and sit down for a minute, or five, to reflect.. My mind jumps to the Russian ballet and growing up and how my childhood seemed, what I can remember, anyway, to be pretty Russian. The women that lived in the apartment underneath my house was very Russian. I can remember she was very adamant about eating every bite of your apples and foods like apples


Euthanasia suddenly comes to mind. Not really the word itself entirely, but the sound that it makes. The way the word sounds like ‘Russia’. I looked up the definition of the word ‘euthanasia’. OH… my mother just went to California for a funeral for a close friend, and the way that woman died was suicide. It was a pleasant sort of suicide mom said, if you believe in such a thing as a pleasant death. Doctor assisted dying, or Euthanasia, might have been less troublesome or something. I don’t think Euthanasia is technique permitted on U.S. soil, maybe it should be considered, though.


Game over. I cannot sleep; it might actually be using up more fucking brain power trying to fall asleep, as the usual.


Stand-up comedy; someone, Chuck, always tells me about how I should become a stand-up comedian. His ex, my babysitter when I was younger, would probably have an odd time agreeing with anything that he says about young girls, but whatever. I thought he was correct way back when he first said it, though. I have been thinking more seriously about the whole idea ever since the first time Chuck had said it. Now I am reading this novel, “Sleepwalk with Me, by Mike Birbiglia,” I am presently scheming about how I am going to begin a journey to become a possibly famous stand-up comedian.


NO MORE! I will have plenty of time to sleep once I’ve died.


I understand now; why had I not been thinking the way that Professor Norton had taught us to all that time ago that first semester of DCC in 2011?


 I was sharing all of my ‘techniques’ of making sure everyone would understand who I was, but I was doing that way, way too openly. Norton was always preaching/teaching to the class all that time ago way back in 2011 that everything is money, in this case, all the time, and every decision is either going to make or break SOMETHING.


So,… ‘they’, these Sun Gazing/Moon Gazing users begin using that same method, and I noticed them doing it. YAY! A GAME!!! So, I started to ‘share’ everything EXACTLY 3 times. 3 is my favorite number. Everyone knows for sure that anything done three times is MONEY. Also, on Facebook, everyone knows for sure that you did not ‘accidently’ click the ‘share’ button twice, but it’s not as annoying as the numbers four to infinity amount of shares, likes, or comments.


Wait! I have learned more than I gave myself credit for before! You, someone, a person gets T.B.I.. BAM; that BAM may or may not have been a literal BAM; but however/whatever happened that landed them diagnosed does not matter so much. Life inside of their head is thrown backwards (again this may be a literal ‘throwing’ or not exactly a literal throwing.) It is like they have to learn e v e r y t h I n g again, BAM back to potty-training days.


Trust me do have factual evidence for this fact. For your reading pleasure I will leave that part out.


Me OH My, Joe, was clearly Roberto Jenkins younger brother in disguise.


Sent all the way from Italy, but for what?


The third brain lives! I may not have been enlightened. By who; do you ask? BY ME. I spent so much time trying to understand or come to grip with who, or what has caused my super-fantastical transformation. I owe it all to my fantastically, traumatically, brain-injured self that’s who. OH,… and, the Sun Gazing Page on, and Me OH My, Joe.


The number3 is a magic number; do not forget that.


I would share all the things I thought NEEDED to be read 3 times each, to get the message across that they needed to be noticed. You know 2 times could have just been an accidental click of the mouse. OH, but, 3 times is MAGICAL. Suddenly people perk up, whether that ‘perkiness’ is out of pure irritation or purely out of interest.


WHY HADN’T IT OCCURRED TO ME BEFORE TO THINK OF WHAT PROF DE NORTAN HAD TAUGHT ME THAT FIRST SEMESTER AT DUTCHESS? It is all so god damned obvious to me now… If you say or do something catchy people will eventually CATCH ON.


I am becoming aware of something that I had already kinda known that I knew; which, happens to me a shit ton. It is like… When memories/thoughts/realizations come back to me that I had known before the car accident even a little bit, I always feel, for a moment, that I was reborn from a wise old hag that had died years ago… Like, reincarnation or something. I do not ever seem to fit in with my ideas of what I ‘should’ be fitting into, but then, I am the one making up these accusations of the mold that I am ‘supposed’ to be fitting into. In the end I realize that I do fit in with the norm; in the end I remember that I am a completely relatable person to real-live people. It is these illusions that I have created inside my own mind that I have trouble relating to,… Or, maybe, it is the illusions that they/you/he/them/her/it has put into my head that I have trouble relating to.


Smoke and Mirrors,… well I do know what smoke is’ and, I do know what mirrors are. Mirrors + smoke… I just cannot remember what that fucking phrase means right now, story of my life. MMaybe it means what you think you see as being a reflection is covered by a smoky-hazy-like substance. URICA! I was basically correct after all!


People are trying to display a reflection that is drastically different from what is actually there. OH, yah, so a lot of smoke and mirrors; people seem to be always trying to project something that is so far from the truth. Something that was never there to begin with. For a recovering 15 year old girl with a Traumatic Brain Injury it is awful when people try to portray what was never there to begin with… ESP for a girl of 17/18 searching or a “mate” in the 21st century. When I first returned home after the hospital I was like a baby again; soaking up every and anything. I was a girl ‘not yet a women’ and I was on a mission. I was searching for the meaning to life and why I had survived and so many before me hadn’t. I was also always in search of food; I love food, once you live off of hospital food anything and everything tastes fucking fantastic. A prime target for men seeking a ‘gold digger’ type of lay mate.


I don’t always completely understand the importance things that I say and do are until after I say them. It also took me a very long time in the beginning of recovery for me to understand the effect that those things that I decided to say and do had on the people around me.


I did that whole ‘I meant to do or say that’ thing so frequently it became true. Just like how coach Raff always taught us to say “I love hills” whenever we ran up hills; so that, that way we would one day believe that we truly did love to run up hills. The brain is so god dammed simple that it is confusing to all of us. I have started this book called “Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley and I haven’t read too far yet, but our main character, or whatever, is touring a facility that is making ZILLIONS of babies and subjecting these babies to certain stimulus that will force them to react a certain way whenever encountered with another certain stimulus. LIKE, a thousand or so babies are produced; and, all of those babies are conditioned through the use of electric shocks to hate the sight of flowers.


Anyone that has ever honestly thought the phrase, “I am 100% right about that;” should go dig a hole and have to live in said hole with constant body guards that are like the conditioned creatures in that book I just described about the electric shocks, and Ausama Bin Laden. Even though I can already hear my Moms voice in my head, “Bronwyn, what an awful thing to say to anyone!!!” It is true, though.


I am trying to think of a circumstance where someone can say that they are 100%correct about something… maybe a weird argument, and one that I might lose, in your mind, but I am winning in my mind, so here it goes.  Even with numbers there is some level of doubt for me now. Maybe they could say, “2+2=4 =truth!” But, ok, stay with me on this one.  Even with numbers there is a whole thing about numbers being just an accepted idea, like, time.


One person just said one day that when the sun is that high in the sky we will call it noon. That is the best time of day for eating lunch, it feels like, so we will eat lunch. One person said 4= four sticks, but what about all of the space in between and then the ity bitty pieces, and all those fractions of a number and shit.


I DO NOT KNOW! So, how the ‘f’ is someone ever going to be so bold as to say that one thing/statement/idea/fact/memory is 100% truth. Woah, memory; that brings up the whole thing about one group of people’s memories of things going on, or not going on, being drastically different from another groups memories of the same things going on… But, wait, can we even say they were the ‘same things’ that were going on with those two DRASTICALLY DIFFERENT people?


Even if it is a feeling that you yourself have in your mind about that thing that was going on between those two DRASTICALLY DIFFERENT people. We have all thought something that we thought was always going to be 100% truthful about ourselves; and, that thing changes as we grow older, get married, fall in love, fall out of love, have children, find out we will never be able to have a child, etc… It is just mindblowing, and to think that someone could say tlhat they are 100% certain of any-one-thing that is true for every-single-personboggles my mind a bit. Maybe the necessity of sleep; but then, there are some individuals that say, “SEVEN HOURS IS NECESSARY,” coaches that say, “SLEEP BUNCH FOR THE RACE TOMORROW, REM IS IMPORTANT!” Then there are studies and people that tell me that, “Yes, falling into rem is important, yes, studies show that more than seven hours of sleep can actually make you fatter and die faster.” I think we can all speculate that everyone is 100% different than the person sitting next to them, and that is about it.


This book is kind of like Willy Wonka; the director, or main dude showing his facility stuffs to the students, is showing how experiments went wrong and telling the kids why. Like how Willy Wonka shows throughout his tour of the candy factory how selfishness sucks.


My life book is kind of like Alice in Wonderland (and basically, I can relate it to any other Disney movie ever made.) I went on a bus to Mohegan Sun instead of down a hole.


Joe did not mind so much about playing the part as Red Hook’s manly form of desert. He was getting paid for it too, and people tipped very nicely. Especially older people. Younger women and men tip too, because I guess I am a ‘relatable’ person. Being attractive helps a lot also. Ot os lomd pf weord tp gp amd jave tp sot pit frpmt wotj sp,e pf the cistp,ers tjat cp,e omtp the store. I do not eaves drop or anything, but if people are talking around me I hear. There is a college nearby, and there is a bus that comes into town, like, hourly to drop off students. I notice a lot of things that I hadn’t thought occurred in real life all that often.


I would just like to establish right now that what occurred next isnot fully my fault. This girl just appeared. She walked into the front through the kitchen in the back one afternoon. She was wearing New Balance shoes and looked like she had worn them a lot. Wait, I know this girl, who was she; who was she and why was she walking in through the kitchen?


Connor Schroeder’s sister, Bronwyn; she was coming into highschool when I was graduating, basically. She runs a lot. I notice her running around more often lately than I did before.


“I am psychoanalyzing you; here, read that.”


I didn’t even get a chance to say yes and she thrust this composition notebook in my face.

“You know, ‘psychoanalyzing’, or whatever it is you think…”

“SEE! I am kinda right, right?”

I want so badly to say that her immature behavior was incredibly off base, ut that feels like it might… NO, she is a lunatic. Where does she? How in the hell can she say that to me with confidence like that? Is that true? She did not even know me…? Wait, that’s right, my younger sister came into the shop the other afternoon, so I think she knows who I am. Who is she?


“Who is that?” she nodded towards the tattoo on my arm.


I had noticed a bee tattoo on her that first time she walked into the store through the kitchen. But, I was not sure that it was a tattoo of a bee or a sticker or something; until now. She was quiet. Refreshing,


“My mom,” I reply curtly.


What she did next surprised me, usually girls try and scramble to find the sexiest thing they can best say in reply to that statement. I walked into the kitchen to do something.


This is what happens if a bee starts living inside right at the turn from leaves to snow fall and the homo sapiens suddenly stop opening up the windows. The poor bee starts to live inside right at the turn from leaves and little flowers and snowfall, suddenly the bee escapes the glass… This bee thinks she has escaped, when really she/he/it has just hit her head hard enough to think she was flying back home. So hard and so fast that each movement makes it seem like she is getting farther along the journey home.


“Keep talking,” I try to keep her talking. She stops whenever people walk into the store.


“That is ok, I’ll wait.”


Now she is controlling the music I have set to play in the front of the house. She turns it down real low to let me know when someone walks in or not.


“Is this your music?”


“Ya,” she made a shrug. For some reason she refused to believe it was my music. My younger sister had introduced me to some of it…, but… I liked it.


“No one wants to hear all of my bullshit while they are ordering, and that is why I am quiet.”


“They love you, Debra loves you.”


“I know,” she sighed loudly as if to shrug it off. “You know what?”




“You know how you said, “Debra loves you.’ That sentence, how you said it, reminded me of how in Forest Gump the principal, or teacher, comes out of the house after fucking the shit out of Forests’ Mom and he says, “Your mom sure does care about your education boy.”

I still think the way I did; if a thing is one with enough talent/beauty over and over again, that is what makes it art.


I was not adopted, and my motherhas black hair like my brother. You are empress/goddess/Queen or whatever you want of your ESTATE. So, I knowthat anything it is that you may be starting your business wrong. If I think I know anything it is how to start a business. BusMan101 and Psy101 you can thank. OH and also that first semester I ha at Dutchess I also had proffesser Norton ;talk about mind blown. Three of the best decisions that my little traumatically injured brain has mad yet, I’d say so anyway. Psy and Bus go hand in hand. Try to fuck with me now; I see right through your actions. While they were what you chose to see as unseen attacks, I see them as direct insults to my fragile psyche. I know a lot of useless bits of info, but I may, or may not, know a couple of things for a cucking fact; 1. Debra has only ever hired people with dark hair to work the front of her fucking estate, and 2. The cute boy that she has gotten to work the front of the house most recently; he will be a ‘Joe’ for all intents and purposes.


That first year I, naturally, was quiet. I kept to myself. Only involving myself with those closest to me circumference wise, primarily the teachers. I never had too many black friends seeing as how I went to Red Hook High School, and RHHS was full of white rednecks, or citiots. My first day doing the bridge program at DCC I had my first or second encounter with a beautiful black Jamaican man.


Jason Jamaica is the name that I used in my phone for the number of that Jamaican that I met that first semester walking up from the bus to my business management class in Conklin Hall. His voice is what attracted me first; I have a thing for accents.


Why was it so hard for you to see/tell things my way? What the hell were you thinking to begin with? Maye you were thinking nothing, maybe something. That just isn’t going to happen.


Maybe I have just joined the 21st century, and I feel very, very lonely… The “man” can hopefully always keep sucking my figurative dick. Which seems to be an off thing for me to say. I made history this weekend, maybe not. I do not usually swear in my writing so much as this, makes it necessary for me to swear to get the importance of my point across.


Next, or next or next can never fully understand what I am thinking. Un prof de Norton c’est truthful/vrai.


Close your eyes everyone. You can do that if you have forgotten. It is a short trip to the bottom, but a long climb to the top.

            There are four parts, or lobes, in the brain: frontal lobe, parietal lobe, occipital lobe, and the temporal lobe.

            Your personality lives in the frontal lobes. Higher level thinking is supported by these frontal lobes. Without fully functioning frontal lobes one might have intelligence, but be unable to put it to use. The frontal lobes also control your voluntary movements such as walking or running or make other conscious movements. The frontal lobes also allow the body to determine spatial orientation, or your ability to determine the position of your body in space.

            Sensations of touch, pain, and other similar perceptions are integrated through the parietal lobe. The parietal lobe is responsible for language processing. Parts of the parietal lobe are responsible for visuospatial processing.

            The occipital lobe is the main center for visual processing, this lobe is responsible for color recognition and visual perception

The temporal lobe is essential in processing sensory stimuli received from both the eyes, and ears. It assists in coordinating speech and spatial navigation and contains the brain structures responsible for long-term memory.

Based on the information I have gathered the area that I believe to have been most affected by my traumatic brain injury would probably be my frontal lobe. My personality has changed a lot since after the accident. I also had this major realization/snap back moment; I was walking through the kitchen to get a glass of water late at night. A journey that, yes, I would have made despite the difficulties I faced making it. There is this stare. It is a single step and I always seem to miss it, or make it so swimmingly that I bang into a chair because I get momentarily delighted in my minor accomplishment. This time I had made it to the sink and back to my room with not even the usual slam into some inanimate object, and I was petrified at first. I thought that maybe it was magic or witchcraft, or a rapist was watching me from the shadows of the darkness waiting for me to reach for the wall to sturdy myself and taking that opportunity to pounce. My ability to determine spatial orientation, and my ability to determine the position of my body in space had returned and it happened to come to my attention in that moment, and so abruptly that it was kind of creepy.


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