I'm certain that I had something particular to say today, but I can't remember what it was. My memory isn't what it used to be, but I chalk that up to the accumulation of so much data. Or as I tell my friends, "The processor still works at full speed, but the hard drive's been full for a while now."
Most people who complain about memory difficulties are significantly older than I, but I figure that it just took them longer to notice. Also, they seem more upset about it than I am, even though it doesn't seem to affect their daily lives any more than it does mine. It's not like I forget that I have children or mistake b&c for a hat. It's just that I'm no longer the sort of person who would dominate on Jeopardy. And nowadays I usually make grocery lists.
I don't believe that most information is ever lost: it just becomes more difficult to retrieve. I'm very good with Google, so retrieval is not a problem for items of a factual nature. It's more of a problem with words. I used to be a walking thesaurus, and while I am still the go-to guy on matters of word choice, I sometimes find myself consulting an actual thesaurus. I know that if I see the list of words, I'll be able to pick out the best one, but the list itself sometimes eludes me. Still, I figure if the worst thing that happens to you on a day is that you have to look at a list of synonyms, then you're still having a good day.
Ideas, alas, are the most elusive things of all. I keep telling myself that I should carry around note cards so that I can write down all my good ideas, but then I forget to buy note cards. But, like I said, I don't think anything's lost. I reckon that if I have a good idea once, it'll float around the crowded file rooms of my mind and pop up again, eventually. I sure hope that I'm right about that.
Anyway, of late, maybe my memory's been lacking because everything else is crowded out by thoughts about sex. Most readers realize that I think about sex a lot, and I don't make any apologies for that, but over the last few weeks, I've been mildly obsessed. I attribute the increase to b&c's being home and the accompanying sexual exclusivity. (On my part, that is. He's home all day with nothing to do but cruise the Internet for cock. Yes, I'm jealous.) It's kind of like being on a diet: you want what you can't eat. I mean, you've decided to go easy on the fat and sugar for a couple of weeks, and then you see Paula Deen making deep fried butter on TV. Deep fried butter is the sort of revolting concept that you'd never consider making under normal circumstances, but you're on a diet, so now that deep fried butter looks so good that it just kills you that you can't make and eat it. And you don't even own a deep fryer. (Do you? I would love to have a deep fryer, but I don't think I'd ever use one, so I can't justify buying one. I'd ask for one for Christmas, but b&c would go nuts about my wanting another appliance, even though when I asked him what he wants for Christmas, he piped right up with wanting not one but two stove-top espresso makers [different sizes] and a big clunky corkscrew. Whenever anyone asks me what I want, I can never think of anything, so it's great that he knows what he wants and that he wants things I can easily order -- and have already ordered -- online, but pot, kettle, black, you know? I think that not being able to think of appropriate presents for myself was what I was originally going to write about. I'm pretty sure I can't ask my kids to give me gift cards for The Leather Rack.)
So it's been like that. I'm having a perfectly reasonable amount of perfectly fine sex with my partner, but it's kind of like sitting down to yet another perfectly seasoned skinless boneless chicken breast. Only instead of staring at the extra crispy dark meat chicken at KFC and saying "I want!" (and drooling) I'm staring at the cute Latin guy -- dark and perhaps chicken, but not extra crispy -- taking the orders and saying the same thing (and drooling). And, really, you know that when anything in a KFC, or in a KFC uniform, looks good, you've got it bad.
(I'll leave it to y'all to decide what sort of sexual fantasy is analogous to a sudden craving for deep fried butter. I'm pretty sure that your imagination in this area is not as fertile as my own, but have to.)