Death of Mr. Bigglesworth the Cat

We offered him the choice of his last meal. He chose a chicken and turkey packet of Whiskas -- which he ate. He licked his paws clean. We called his name. He looked up at us questionably.

Then we shot him in the head.

It is a rare moment when my brain has nothing to say to me. Usually it has its fists clenched and its mouth wide open; screaming at me like it’s trying to tell off a naughty deaf person. Now everything’s ghostly quiet up there. I can’t even see the standard bundle of tumbleweed blowing past, bouncing up and down to the whistle of music from a typical spaghetti western.

In the three months since my brain went off the radar, I’ve only managed to come up with two likely reasons for it doing so.

The first of these being that it’s pulling some disturbing prank on me. I can picture it hiding in a dark corner, with its hand over its mouth masking a giggle, waiting for me to edge a little bit closer so it can pounce out of the shadows and give me the biggest fright I’ve had since I found out Santa Claus was really my mother (it may come as a surprise to you, but I had no idea my mother had a secret life as a fat bearded man, who could stomach millions of cookies and glasses of milk in the space of a single night).

While the second of these reasons is simply that my brain packed its bags one day and went on vacation. Which is fair enough, because the amount of overtime it’s worked and time in loo it’s earned over the past eighteen years must be extraordinary. There are Tibetan slave children who aren’t worked as hard -- or abused as much -- as my brain has been.

I wonder where my brain would its holiday; Venice? Paris? Morocco?

I’d imagine that right now it’s surrounded by foreign woman, being fed grapes and utilising years worth of charisma it deliberately suppressed.

I wonder how many of its cells I knowingly obliterated.

I wonder if I even want to know the answer to that.

It has occurred to me that I have become a zombie. I’d imagine this is what they feel like: numb -- unable to hold onto tangible thought long enough to do anything constructive besides terrorising humanity and trying to replace their missing brains.

Because my brain’s gone quiet, it means I’ve lost creative thought. I’ve gone into some sort of creative limbo. I can’t work at school (I can’t bring myself to attend a single class at the moment – not even art) and because I’m in this creative limbo I can’t think of anything to draw, or paint, or write about. I’m lucky if I manage to scrape together a paragraph of worthy writing every three hours.

Why isn’t everything fitting together like it used to? What changed?

I feel like a kid trying to decipher why his parents broke up. Or a dumfounded teenage girl after her boyfriend leaves her for the girl next door.

“What did I do wrong?” I plead with him.

“Did I get too fat?”

“Was I too clingy?”

I’m on my hands and knees begging for an answer – for some enlightenment as to why I’ve been left alone. I ask and ask and ask and ask. But he’s too busy sticking his tongue down the slut’s throat to reply.

“Where have you gone brain?”

I’m reminded of a song by Daniel Johnston (whom I consider to be one of the greatest artists/musicians alive) called ‘I Had Lost My Mind’.

You see I had this tiny crack inside my head
And my brains oozed out
With blood, on the sidewalk

If your brain did ooze out of your head, should it be put on ice? Or would that only damage it further? How would you go about transporting a brain from one place to another without destroying thousands-upon-thousands of brain cells?

Where are you brain? I have a thousand questions that need answering.