God, I offer myself to Thee to build with me and do with me as Thou wilt.  Relieve me of the bondage of self, so that I may better do Thy will always. May victory over my difficulties bear witness to those I would help of Thy power, Thy love and Thy way of life.

In exchange, I humbly ask that you give me a lobotomy in my sleep.

The human ability to retain memories for an indefinite amount of time is the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve ever played victim to. Sure, it’s nice to know every now and then the general vicinity in which my car is parked. But the bigger things can go. I’d much prefer to be challenged to recall my life experiences, like items on a grocery list. Retaining only a few top of mind bullet points, just as the words “bread-milk-Funions-bread-milk-Funions” run on a mental hamster wheel while I navigate the aisles.

I’d gladly give up the torture that comes with the association of a feeling with a song. The mention of a name; that faint sweatshirt smell of smoke and Snuggle. An evening drive over the Triboro Bridge just as the sky is undressing to reveal pink-purple hues that trick you into thinking things will always be this good.

I remember one particular night on the Upper East Side, stumbling out of a sports bar to share my last cigarette with a friend. My buzz was killed as she burst into tears at the sight of a hot dog cart parked across the street. See, she’d just ended a relationship, and her ex loved hamburgers, which were “sort of like hot dogs.”

I didn’t get it at the time. I labeled her dramatic and pulled her around the corner where we could finish our smoke in peace, safe from any interruption of street meat.

But I’ve thought about that instance so many times over the last ten years. I get it now. It’s an understanding that only comes once your heart cracks straight through the middle and loses the desire to mend itself.

And here’s the kicker that no one tells you about while you’re out creating good times:

The happiest memories always turn out to be the saddest.