You know you’re a little off your kilter when you’re talking to your cats (as one does) and they sit up tall and alert like meerkats, looking at you like, “What the flook, dude?!”

To be fair, when you talk to your cats as much as I do, that’s bound to happen every once in a while. Like when you hang out with a doctor long enough, the subject of boofing cats is bound to come up at least once, right?

Or like if you frequently (throughout your lifetime) ask the person in the stall next to you to “spare a square,” there’s a decent chance that at least one of the times, the person hands you a laced doobie instead of a square. 

See? Those are just some of the mild thoughts that have my cats debating whether they should eat the bird or send it off with an SOS note.

I can’t be the only one who wonders how much time strippers spend waxing and/or bleaching their buttholes. (I don’t know how it works – I just go in there blindly with my month-old razor. I can only imagine what that would look like spinning around a stripper pole… the horror…)

And I certainly can’t be the only one who thinks there should be strip clubs for foot fetishes. If so, then patent pending.

(Hear more about my thoughts on foot fetish strip clubs in the video below. You know, if you’re bored.)

For a while, I never understood why everyone always recommends journaling. Like, “I already know what I’m thinking… why the hell would I want to relive it again on paper?”

But I get it now. Reading those thoughts outside of my head exposes the blunt absurdity of my “logic.”

For example: You know those questions from school (yes, we even covered this in homeschooling) that are like, “Everyone in the bathroom is pooping. Johnny is in the bathroom. What is Johnny doing?” (Pooping. The answer is pooping.)

Well, my brain works something like this:

“I haven’t vacuumed the living room in two days. I am sitting in the living room. Hence, I was a boring child.”

Or:

“I didn’t get any laughs at the open mic. There were people at the open mic. Hence, they’re texting each other… that I was probably a boring child.”

Writing that out helps me realize just how insane my thoughts are. Which is oddly comforting. And, you know… not.

It is a relief to know that the mysterious smell coming from my kitchen sink does not dictate whether or not I will ever be a millionaire.

Only my personality can do that.

Today’s takeaways:

• I will never be a millionaire
• My scarred butthole would not look good on a stripper pole
• I probably was a boring child

👉 For more floofy brain fluff (and the occasional toenail voodoo spell), watch the video below.