Fantz
Fantz

My brain's a mess, but I'm trying to compartmentalize. I sometimes turn to Siri, but that usually ends up with me daydreaming about her mangled robot body smashed in traffic. She's an asshole.

I'm a busy broad. My brain gets so overstuffed with creative visions and solid-gold ideas that it winds up booting pertinent information — like remembering to pay the mortgage, changing my tampon, etc.

What's today?

My brain looks like a junk drawer — full of Taco Bell sauce, ketchup and fortune cookies. Thus, it has to purge to keep my recent brilliant book idea fresh.

I yell at Siri to take notes of floating thoughts and million-dollar ideas. But then I forget about my conversation with Siri and fail to recall my point of the conversation months later.

My creativity burst comes in the shower and in the car, my only alone times. The inspiration lives in my Denver-Boulder commute and the corner of my shower. It's my Sylvia Plath in the bath. There's no gas oven in my shitter but sometimes a live blow dryer and standing water. (Hang on to that life hack, brain.)

Hey, Siri, write a note.

What would you like the note to say, Christy?

"A baptism of hot sauce. Hazy mountain backdrop. Cheesy Miami Vice shit. Mockumentary about a personality at KOSI 101 who drinks herself to sleep from the trauma of too much Steve Winwood and KC and the Sunshine Band."

(Siri wrote "80's," so I threw my phone into traffic then edited out the apostrophe.)


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I blow dry my hair atop the (closed) toilet with my head upside-down. That's another place I lose my mind — inside the cheaply flipped bathroom tile. It becomes a maze of graphic novels, screenplays, headlines, columns, books, poems, memoirs and brilliant marketing campaigns.

And of course, deep thoughts. Hey, Siri, write a note.

What would you like the note to say, Christy?

"Someday you will look like I ache. I wish you could hear my head right now. My teeth didn't hurt for almost 48 hours last week. The ripple of the aspen leaves are soothing. What a fucking hippie."

OK, Christy, here's what your note says ...

I wasn't done, Siri. Jesus. Hey, Siri, write a note.

What would you like the note to say, Christy?

"I asked my calendar last night if I'm crazy. Paper airplanes, medicine, nightmare. I can't stop grinding my teeth, I can taste their powder in my mouth. I am going to hang a 'Certificate of Authenticity' in my cubicle like Michael Scott. I forgot what I was going to say because you're an asshole, Siri, and you don't work, so let me think for a second. Hold on; don't go away. Keep typing, Siri."

(I wasn't stoned. Your mom was.)

OK, Christy, here's what your note says ...

Cuss. Hey, Siri, write a note.

What would you like the note to say, Christy?

"What the fart. Fuck a whatever. Gibberish."

OK, Christy, here's what your note says ...

I'm open to brain organization ideas, people. Call me.

Read more Fantz: coloradodaily.com/columnists. Stalk her: twitter.com/fantzypants.