self-love

FOR SALE: My Decrepit, Tattered Mind Palace™

Hey MTV, welcome to my mind palace! I know what you’re expecting -- a decadent, ostentatious mansion housing all of my memories, allowing me to recall them at great speed. That’s what we learned about memory palaces from Moonwalking with Einstein, right? One of those all-white, granite-topped, wealthy-minimalist “My lack of belongings indicate extreme taste and class” rather than a “I don’t have the money to have...things” type of minimalist.

Well, my mind-memory palace isn’t like that. It’s the type you find in a trailer park, or perhaps in an abandoned ghost town. This description of my palace isn’t like one you’d find in any normal Zillow ad. It’s much worse. The shelves are in shambles, perhaps serving as a metaphor for my strained relationship with my father. The counters are layered with years of grime and glue-textured Cheeto dust, stirring back memories of 6th grade science experiments. My backyard? It resembles a destitute Chuck E. Cheese, fully equipped with urine-soaked ball pits and more. Truly, my mind palace is unlike any other. 

Woman trapped outside windowUsually, when people use mind palaces, they are storing information in the deep recesses of their mind for ease of remembrance at later times. However, much like an aggressive Pike brother to unknowing pledges, my memory palace launches at me unprovoked memories that are as much unwanted as Camila Cabello’s newest album.

You know when you’re in bed at night, ready to slumber away and dream of Gary Busey? But then that one memory of you accidentally calling your teacher mom in 10th grade surfaces up to your most bare level of consciousness? And you can’t stop thinking about all of the awkward and embarrassing moments that have wholly characterized your life? Well, you can stop blaming yourself and finally know the truth. It’s not you -- it’s your mind palace. 

Now, you see why I want to get rid of mine? It does that all day. Whenever I’m taking an exam and searching for the details of Walter Benjamin’s thoughts on “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction”, my brain starts remembering Space Jam lyrics instead. When I’m trying to remember the guy’s name who I’m on a date with, my memory palace instead serves a dish of “The Office” bloopers. It’s more broken than a 16-year-old girl watching Call Me By Your Name for the first time. 

I’m not asking much for the thing. It has served its purpose to the extent that it could. And now, like all bad things, its time with me comes to an end (and good riddance). So, in exchange, all I ask for is a Mediocre Feelings Shack™. Something where I can just store away all the deep-rooted sentiments I carry and then retrieve if/when needed. It will make arguments with people who believe that smooth peanut butter is better than crunchy much less laden with ad hominem attacks.

Deal?

Deal!