This is my brain on Sam
Estragon: I can't go on like this.
Vladimir: That's what you think.
Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot
Did you know that today, a Friday the 13th, is the 101st birthday of Samuel Beckett? All in all, a most fitting day upon which to contemplate that the roof still leaks.
After the $1,300 patch job by the seemingly thorough, intelligent roofers yesterday.
After the $900 patch job by the hasty, dopey roofers a year ago.
Before the nor'easter the day after tomorrow.
Thanks to Beckett, however, I now have a cognitive model for the implacable drip through the ceiling of the laundry room. Happy century-plus-one, Samwise! (With thanks to Kora in Hell for an excellent tribute and links.)
Decidedly it will never have been given to me to finish anything, except perhaps breathing. One must not be greedy…
The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? From time to time. There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
--Malone Dies (1951)
Brenda from Brooklyn
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This is how I read it:
Estrogen: I can't go on like this.
...
Perhaps it is liquefied brain.
(explanation for those who haven't been there: Losing your estrogen carries with it the risk of ending up with what appears to be a totally liquified brain; it also carries with it the risk of having the people you love wanting to liquify or generally pulverize your brain when it's subjected to hormonally induced mood swings.)