I've come to the conclusion that myhead is a scary place to be, mainly because I think my brain is out to get me.I'm pretty sure of this, too. I'm sure those of you reading this know exactlywhat I'm talking about. Those moments when you think about something and youcan't let it go or you're writing a scene to your short story or novel andyou're so far into it that you feel as though you're the one it's actuallyhappening to. It seems to happen most when I'm writing a particularly horriblescene---like a death, an argument that spirals out of control, physicalviolence, that sort of thing. And when I finally remember to breathe and pushaway from the computer, I realize that I'm still stuck in some dark place and I can't get out. I float around in adaze, brain-numb and off-kilter, as if I'm caught in some weirdhalf-awake/half-asleep limbo. It makes me wonder if that's why there's such aheavy association between writers and booze. I mean, writers can either usebooze as a shield or a catalyst for that dark place. Me, personally, I've triedwriting while drinking (or drinking whilewriting) and I can't concentrate. At all.Buteven when I'm not writing or drinking, my brain is still lying in wait for me. Casein point:          My mom and I were bridal-shower-shoppingat the mall. We made the decision to split up---she went to Boscov's and I wentto JCPenney's. We actually do this a lot; it makes the chore of shopping alittle less like a torture device. The sooner it's over, the better off we are.          So as we went our separate ways, we agreedto meet back at Boscov's in an hour, by the downstairs escalators.           An hour of painful shopping ensueduntil finally, finally , the hour tomeet up was near. I arrived at our rendezvous. I didn't see my mom anywhere soI waited, thinking that she probably got hung up in the purse department, whichshe has a habit of doing. (Truthfully,those purses are as bad as my brain when it comes to ensnaring.)          Minutes ticked by. Then more minutesas I waited and waited.          And waited some more. Thirtyminutes went by before I called her cell phone.           "Where are you?" I demanded withbarely restrained annoyance.           "Where do you think? I'm by the escalators,"Mom said, indignantly. "Where are you?"          "I'm at the escalators too!"          "No, you're not!"          "Ma, I'm at the escalators in Boscov'sand I don't see you anywhere."          "Dear," she said pointedly, her tonematching mine. "If we're in the same place how could we not be seeing eachother?"          "I have no freaking idea," I began tosnap as I looked up.Mybrain short-circuited out.           The signs hanging above my head…          The bags that the shoppers carried asthey jostled around me…They all had a big red star onthem.Myjaw dropped to my feet. "Oh my God," I murmured.          "What?"          "I'm in Macy's."          "Macy's? How the hell did you end upthere?"Islapped a hand to my forehead. "I thought I was in Boscov's."Iwalked out of the Macy's with my mother's hysterical laughter ringing in myears.          Oh yes.          My brain?          Has a target on my back.

Hahaha! You are hilarious Melissa. While I'm no drinker I am sometimes absent minded and easily distracted when invested my brain isn't tethered. Thank you so much for having the gumption to share that.