Friday morning, driving Levi to a coffee shop before heading off to walk a bunch of dogs, I told him my head didn't feel quite right, that I thought maybe my body wasn't ready to be doing anything. Yet there we were, driving around doing things, getting ready to do more things. It seemed likely to me that my brain was still a post-coital nebula, which I imagine to be a sort of purple fog with a few hunks of glitter suspended here and there as inadequate stars. Or maybe something like this:
When your brain looks like that, it's not to be rushed. It's a state that must exit as it pleases, choosing when your puddle of a thinker may retain a cortex of taut, gray bundles. Those pappy auroras, those wisps of pure sense, must melt softly, like a mold of warm Jell-O, off the plate and onto the floor where they can harden once again. After we've diagnosed my problem, Levi turns to me and says, with the austerity of a well-seasoned physician, "You have Hump Head."
I encourage you to practice using this new term at holiday gatherings around close friends and family.
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