Dear Brain

I'm not sure why I'm even writing this. It's not like you don't know what I'm going to say, but you just make me so frustrated that I'm going to write it anyway.

Don't give me that thought. Oh, like you're so logical all the time. Need I reference dreams. But that is only the beginning.

Why is it you tell me that I have to pee real bad when I go outside in the winter (even though I just peed...we both know that I don't really need to go again already)?

Or why is it that you make it so hard for me to concentrate just because there is a pretty girl in the room-must you be so shallow, Brain, as to desire that all my attention go towards someone merely because of her appearance?

Or why is it that you tell me I will really enjoy that 10th chocolate chip pancake while simultaneously telling my internal organs to start acting up right after I've finished eating my 10th chocolaty, carb-filled, syrup indulgence?

Or why is it that you tell me I really need those new jeans, but at the same time make me feel guilty by reminding me that the money could be going towards providing fresh water for orphans in third world countries?

I mean, give me a break. You can't have your enzymes and be the catalyst too! Yes, Brain, I know that was a terrible attempt at corporal humor. Don't judge me like that-you thought of it.

You are simply impossible for me to live with, and the very worst thing about you is that you are also impossible for me to live without.

The End

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