“Attention-deficit” is a bit of an understatement. It implies that a person is merely lacking in their attention-span. But what if “lacking in attention-span" doesn’t quite describe you? What if simply being "distracted" just doesn’t cover it? What if basic action of taking another breath is enough to divert your focus? What if you essentially have no attention-span whatsoever? Then you’d be me.

I’m constantly on my own little planet. I like it here. You might imagine it’s all sub-arctic temperatures and barren rock, or maybe ultra-dense atmospheres of noble-gases, but it’s nothing like that. Astronomers have lied to you.

Picture yourself at any given moment. Eating ice-cream; driving a car; fighting off a pack of wolverines. Now, imagine your thoughts while performing that activity. If your thoughts and actions are remotely related, you’re doing it wrong. However, if you find yourself thinking about eating Rocky-Road while battling the wolverines, then Howdy, welcome to my world.

They say a joke is never as funny the second time you hear it, unless you’re me. Because I don’t remember the first time; I wasn’t paying attention. I’m a great audience for listening to your corny old jokes, because each time it’s just like new. Tabula Rosa. I'll laugh and laugh the eleventh time I hear about the twelve-inch pianist just like I did the first.... Man, I’d love to repeat that joke to someone, if only I could remember it.

By and large I’ve learned to roll with punches. After enough years of being spacey, you get used to it. There are times, however, when I’ll get caught off guard, and I end up in some embarrassing spots, saying things that make me cringe a little, that I’d rather not admit. For example:

I once went to pick up my Chevrolet from a mechanic. I’d had some brake troubles, in that when I went to step on the brake, and the car didn’t stop, I knew I was in trouble. They performed...

“Attention-deficit” is a bit of an understatement. It implies that a person is merely lacking in their attention-span. But what if “lacking in attention-span" doesn’t quite describe you? What if simply being "distracted" just doesn’t cover it? What if basic action of taking another breath is enough to divert your focus? What if you essentially have no attention-span whatsoever? Then you’d be me.

I’m constantly on my own little planet. I like it here. You might imagine it’s all sub-arctic temperatures and barren rock, or maybe ultra-dense atmospheres of noble-gases, but it’s nothing like that. Astronomers have lied to you.

Picture yourself at any given moment. Eating ice-cream; driving a car; fighting off a pack of wolverines. Now, imagine your thoughts while performing that activity. If your thoughts and actions are remotely related, you’re doing it wrong. However, if you find yourself thinking about eating Rocky-Road while battling the wolverines, then Howdy, welcome to my world.

They say a joke is never as funny the second time you hear it, unless you’re me. Because I don’t remember the first time; I wasn’t paying attention. I’m a great audience for listening to your corny old jokes, because each time it’s just like new. Tabula Rosa. I'll laugh and laugh the eleventh time I hear about the twelve-inch pianist just like I did the first.... Man, I’d love to repeat that joke to someone, if only I could remember it.

By and large I’ve learned to roll with punches. After enough years of being spacey, you get used to it. There are times, however, when I’ll get caught off guard, and I end up in some embarrassing spots, saying things that make me cringe a little, that I’d rather not admit. For example:

I once went to pick up my Chevrolet from a mechanic. I’d had some brake troubles, in that when I went to step on the brake, and the car didn’t stop, I knew I was in trouble. They performed their high-priced wizardry, and the car was no longer a hazard to other drivers; merely a hazard to the poor soul driving it.

I’m filling out the pertinent paperwork to pay the mechanic, distracted by the din of my perpetual inner monologue:
Why doesn’t the ink in a ball-point pen seep out all over the place when you aren’t writing with it? ...And what the hell is that ink made of, anyway? It's not just water, it's way too thick for that. They've had ink for centuries; what on earth was India ink made out of? It comes from trees! No, dammit, that’s rubber. Where the hell does it come from and w-
“Don’t you have a sister?” A voice interrupts. The mechanic has been standing in front of me the entire time. I mean, he’s the one who handed me the goddamn pen. But I’m still startled.
“Don’t you have a sister?” He asks.
My face may look calm, but it’s Code Red in the Cerebral Department: Who the hell is this guy? What’d he ask me? What’s going on? Quick! Just say something before you look like an ass!
“No.” And then the message clears the circuits: A sister! He asked about your sister! Shit! But it’s too late. The damage is done; I look like an ass.
“You don’t have a sister? But I went to highschool with a girl who has the same last name as yours….”
“Sorry, buddy. No sister.” That’s it! Keep digging the hole deeper!
“But I’m sure she even lived over there on your street!”
“I’m an only child, man.” ...And I think you just struck a buried gas main!

Both of us know I’m lying at this point. But what the hell do I say?

“Oh, I’m sorry. I misunderstood the question that even a mentally-enfeebled drunk would have been able to answer correctly. My mistake. I do have a sister.” I can’t back-peddle, because I’m not even peddling in the first place: I’m flying down a 45 degree grade on a rusty old 10-speed with bald tires and no brakes. And there’s an intersection ahead.

So, with my face a bright crimson, I adroitly avoid eye-contact as I take my car-keys and scuttle out of the garage.

It’s a lot like the time I went to order a pizza. I pick up the phone, and confidently dial the number from memory, being the pizza-aficionado that I am.
“Howdy, I’d like to place an order for pickup,” my mouth says. My brain however, is looking at the refrigerator.
“What would you like, sir?”
What the hell is that drawing that someone stuck up there? It’s a sort of a drawing of a man- “I’d like a large pepperoni pizza.” –but those are some weird pants. And what’d someone write on there? ‘Why is there a man with a penis on the refrigerator?’ That does look sorta like a dick-
“Anything else with that pizza, sir?”
“No, that’ll be all.” –but what a weird question to ask. Why is there a man with a penis on the
refrigerator? Because eunuchs aren’t allowed on the fridge!
“May I have your phone number, sir?”
Wait, what? “My phone number?”
“Yes, sir.” Shit! What’re you doing? You’re ordering pizza. He needs the phone number! But he’s never needed the number before! Just give him your phone number, idiot!
“Uh, 703-” Stop! That’s your Virginia phone number! You’re in New Jersey!
“I mean. 978-” Attaboy! That’s the number! “-0452.”
Something’s wrong.
There is something wrong with that phone number.
Why is that phone number wrong?
Because that is not your phone number.... That is the phone number you just dialed!
You just gave the pizza place their own phone number! Run!

Thankfully, this isn’t the whole story of my life, and these incidents aren’t every day occurrences. Besides, they end up being funny to tell. And I’ll re-read this a year from now after I’ve forgotten the whole thing, and it'll be brand new and funny again, and I'll laugh, and laugh....