In Celebration of NOT Growing Up to Be An Easily-Offended, Small-Minded Prude
Brain, I love you. No, really. We've had our battles: you're really good at sabotaging my sleep and really bad at navigating writer's block. And I know that you and my heart can only communicate through a neutral mediator. But--since the subject of movie scores came up yesterday--if I could dedicate a song to you right now, it would be the Superman theme. Just because you're such a superior model to the majority of others I encounter day after day after night after day, I'm half-convinced you're some kind of mutation. If so, I worship the gamma rays or toxic waste that came in contact with you.