Does Your Brain Ever Try to Kill You?

Oh, honeys, mine does, too! Some days it seems to be so disgusted with me that all it can think to do is plot ways to drive me insane.
Even in my sleep.
I woke up this morning from a dream about Cutie Pie, except it wasn’t, of course. In the dream, he’s dying, lying on the floor. I’m leaning over him, crying, and he says, “I’ll start feeling better and get up in just a little while.”
Which is what my mother said when we found her lying on the floor in her house.
I really don’t know why my brain hates me. I feed it well. I don’t abuse it. I do my best to keep it entertained.
Nevertheless, there are some days when we are just not the best of friends. Some days.
I should take out a personals ad for it, trying to find it a New Best Friend.
Except I just realized I don’t have any clue about how to write a personals ad. Huh. I think it would need someone more maternally-inclined than I am, someone who knew how to deal with its high-strung 4-year-old tantrum-prone self. Yeah, it’s Monkey Mind, of course; but I can’t really think of “monkey mind” without thinking of the feces-throwing, masturbating evil devil monkey of The EGE’s childhood (remember the story? Where his class went to the little local zoo when he was in second or third grade, and the monkey jacked off and threw a handful of It at the kids? The EGE loathes monkeys—and who can blame him?—and so of course I’ve come to loathe them, too. They’re like weenies and sauerkraut to me:  loved it before I met my husband and heard him talk about ground-up pig and cow parts and rotted cabbage, and it just kind of took all the goodness right out of it. Same with monkeys, minus the fermentation.)
No entertaining the brain today, though. Today I have to start calling for estimates on the roof and siding. The insurance inspector came out Thursday, as promised, and the check arrived in the mail on Saturday. Astounding. Now I just have to find someone to do the work, and in Midland, everyone is having their roof replaced after the Big Hail Storm, the one we managed to miss. I’m guessing it will be months before we can get it done.
I haven’t heard anything from Christy about Garfunkel. I don’t ask, because I’m afraid it would be bad news. So I just worry constantly, a pastime at which I am The World’s Champion, let me tell you. And since my brain is currently intent on killing me, the possible scenarios are varied and vivid and all pretty horrible.