Every time my brain shows any kind of intelligence or independence, whether by dreaming, or a mathematical or coding renaissance, or even just growing gravid with simple snatches of song and poetry, I duly get a couple of liters of vodka and pummel it into submission. Bludgeoned into inactivity with several casual shots, it gives up on fancy creative ideas and—after a morning’s disoriented nausea—settles into sullen drudgery again, keeping me breathing, walking and functioning at work—and even smiling and happy, or at least providing a veneer of happiness to fool even itself. I do not require alcohol or any other kind of distraction for several days. Then it rebels again. Poor thing, it is obviously not that comfortable with its role as an automaton whose job consists in keeping this body coordinated enough to pay the rent and assure its continued survival and supply of further tranquilizers.

Do I really hate myself and everything I have to say that much? Occasionally I even get angry at myself; but then I get angry at my own anger, and that leads to another episode of imaginative attempt at independence, another uprising which my imagination loses with due repercussions. and so in the circle again. If I had a tail, I’d be chasing it quite properly and even with a pretense of joy. Brain vasectomy: efficient if only ever temporary.