I love you like the dickens, but you really have to shut up at night. I mean, you're like a kid who chugged an entire bottle of Mountain Dew and chased it with those paper tubes filled with flavored sugar. Yes, I know... they're called Pixie Sticks... hush, Brain, I'm talking here.
Despite your insistence, I do not need to revisit minor events in college, rename all the dogs at the shelter, hash over a phone call gone wrong ten years ago, wonder whatever happened to my high school friends or that kid that ate paste in Kindergarten... Yes, Brain, his name was Kevin, and that's a lovely picture of him, but I don't care right now. Hush.
Neither do I need to plan a garden, rewrite a scene in this book or figure out scenes for the next, organize my cupboards, or go over that hand I lost in poker. I don't need to plan for tomorrow or next week or next month at 10pm.
Stop showing me videos of past events, people, pets, vacations, and tragedies. Stop playing songs I haven't heard in years. Stop trotting out the photo albums. I don't want to look at them when I'm trying to sleep.
If this doesn't cease, I will be forced to medicate you into silence. And no one will be happy about that.
If you love me half as much as I love you, you'll just knock it off already. Please.
Too Tired to Function