I am looking to sell my brain. It works okay, but I am looking for a change. Message if interested.


  • Built-in stereo system. The only functioning track is the Stanley Steemer commercial jingle on repeat.
  • Slightly outdated frontal lobe. Renovations stopped around 2009. As a consequence, there is an ungodly amount of Dark Knight posters and Livestrong bracelets piled on the floor. There is an air hockey table where there should be fiscal responsibility, and instead of a personality, there is a party-sized bag of Hint of Lime Tostitos. I’ve named this lobe “Toby,” and I imagine it spends the better parts of its days watching Avatar: The Last Airbender, listening to Green Day, and telling everyone who coughs that they have swine flu.
  • Synaptic cleft. If you look closely inside it, you can see the little neurotransmitters neuro-transmitting. They are very cute and not at all damaged. Sometimes I will read just one single sentence from a Subaru ad and my serotonin receptors will refuse to properly function for several weeks. Eventually, cobwebs will form on them, and I will question my existence because of that sentence from a Subaru ad.
  • An overactive amygdala. I have tried to suppress leaks with duct tape, but it is still very sensitive. The amygdala smells like mothballs and a lingering fart, like your grandma left the room 30 minutes ago but she definitely had a burrito for lunch. The amygdala wears a fedora, and talks a lot about Ernest Hemingway and the death of romance. The amygdala is the kid in your 5th-grade class who reminded your teacher that there was homework to turn in. The amygdala is the map on your phone directing you how to get out of your neighborhood while you’re trying to listen to your favorite part of the song on the radio. The amygdala is Elizabeth Warren’s Twitter account. We understand that these things are necessary but, please, shut the fuck up. However, the amygdala is VERY IMPORTANT! It reminds me not to step in front of moving cars and that snakes are bad. (It is just incredibly stupid, and gets confused easily, and has begun to give me adrenaline shots as though I am being chased by a jaguar in a sub-Saharan jungle, when in fact I am performing other such life-threatening acts as answering a phone call from a friend, ordering at the Taco Bell drive-through, and, yes, thinking about this very sentence. Totally fixable!)
  • Temporal lobe. Houses my processing for speech, sense of smell, and memory. Located in a warm and cozy family den, with exposed brick, a fireplace, and one of those old TVs from the ’70s with an antenna and wooden stand. The TV comes fully stocked with a VHS video collection of such classic home films as The Choreography to Every High School Musical Dance and That Stupid Thing I Said to My Bus Driver 11 Years Ago and, of course, The Time I Saw My Dad Just, Like, Fully Naked In My Parent’s Bathroom and That’s Just Going to Be Playing in My Mind For Maybe the Rest of My Life.
  • Fear landscape. Smells like burnt quesadillas, and looks inexplicably like the living room from Full House. But instead of the Tanners, it’s the Easter Bunny with blood dripping down his fangs, and a shadowy, cloaked figure drinking tea, and, well, honestly, John Stamos is there as well. He is scary; I don’t care if you disagree. The words “have mercy” haunt my nightmares. I think Uncle Joey is there too, except he is a puppet, and a chipmunk is his puppetmaster. And the Olson twins are there. Actually, yes, okay, the entire cast of Full House is in my fear landscape. Including Steve.

(included with purchase)

  • Mr. Cerebellum. A middle-aged and beat-up football coach, who sits on his stoop in 1947 Brooklyn and hasn’t put the bottle down since the Great War. He wears a navy blue tracksuit and aftershave, and he’s probably Italian-Catholic or something. He means well, he honestly does, but he is so very drunk all the time, and as I result, I often trip on air, and I don’t drive so well, and sometimes my muscles hurt for no reason. And I ask him to sober-up, please, so that I do not trip and stumble like a female protagonist in a vampire romance novel, but he ignores me, and curses the Germans, and drunkenly screams that Henry Ford did nothing but ruin this country.
  • Mr. Super Ego. This man is my 8th-grade gym teacher, Mr. Mignano, who is short and bald and who was rejected from the Navy SEALS, presumably for being too short and too bald. In my brain, he always wears a whistle, which always makes me wonder. Did he wear this whistle at home, and what did his wife think of it? And whether it got in the way of their lovemaking, or their marriage, and whether the whistle in fact aided their lovemaking and their marriage. And if he had a young child, did this child think that the whistle was somehow a part of their father, like some young children believe glasses are just an extension of their parents’ faces? And was this whistle just a symbol, a memento of his rejection from the Navy SEALS, or of everything he has ever failed, and he keeps it to remind him of these failures. And he keeps it to fill a void in his life that is ultimately the void in every human life, an unfillable, possibly inherent void. And then Mr. Mignano slaps me, and screams, “I wear a whistle because I’m a gym teacher. And why are you spending so much time thinking about me, who you haven’t seen for nearly a decade?” And I say, “Yes, sir, you’re right, Mr. Mignano. This is why I’m selling my brain, sir.”


Minimum $3. Barters negotiable for 1 (one) Razor Scooter. Bored billionaires looking to expand their collections of eccentric decorations for their remote mansions need not respond.