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My ADHD is making it impossible to list comic books to sell. Imagine a billion bumblebees on an island made entirely of candy, while swarms of buzzing drones with TV screens flashing auto-tuned music videos and cryptic messages every two seconds. Meanwhile, this same island erupts molten lava 25,000 feet into the sky every four seconds, and rains down goofball-sized hail in a torrential, percussion-like downpour. Microscopic, buzzing nanobites swarm through my veins, emitting subsonic warbles that echo from my toenails to the tips of my eyelashes.
Every time I try to focus, it’s like the world’s strongest magnet yanks my whole body and flickering attention toward something else—anything else—pulling me in with adamant, unrelenting force. These distractions last anywhere from a few minutes to whole afternoons, like stepping out of a dark theater into blinding sun—confused, raw, and newly born.
And just like a newborn, I cry. I flail. Eyes scrunched shut, body slick with unnameable fluids, swatted on the butt by the universe, but still too dazed to recognize where I am or how to crawl back to wherever I came from.
Inside my head, it’s as if every letter of the alphabet had its own alphabet, and all of them are singing at once—from a googolplex of multiverses multiplying into quantum microverses, all breeding infinite strings of 00000s and 11111s, endlessly tangled with ellipses and etceteras.
On repeat.
With the volume all the way up.
And you’re broke.
And need to smoke a cigarette every 57 minutes.
Hi.
