So far my recent ‘ticcing fits’ haven’t produced many funny moments, with the possible exception of the persistent repetition of an early ’80s tennis star’s name. Today though, while I was writhing around having my sixth ‘fit’, this poem came out all in one go:
“My brain is made of flour,
My brain is made of dust,
My brain is made of cotton buds and
Horticultural fuss.”
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villafane55 says:
I am "only" 58, but my brain often feels like mush. This little poem resonates with me. 😀