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How rude of me, right? Whoops, I offer you my sincerest apologies. I’ll be brisk about it this time: It seems
Imagen-animada-Cerebro-21
that I’ve gone and, well, hopped right into your brain.

Isn’t it crazy? I certainly think so, what with all of your… uh, peculiarities. Do I even have to go into detail about the things that you are oddly obsessed with, but you hide from everybody else? I swear, if I can’t get this confounded device to work soon, and I have to stay in this madhouse any longer, I think I’ll go mad myself.

To be perfectly honest, I think I’m going to stay a long distance away from you once I’m out of here. Seriously. You have the mind of a psychopath - and that’s saying something, since I’ve been in the brain of Jeffrey Dahmer, and your brain isn’t a far cry from his.

That’s not to say that you’re completely out there. Not at all, not at all. The only point that I’m trying to drive home is that you are one odd f*cker. What on God’s green Earth happened in your childhood to forever be deeply terrified by the word “frisbee”? Never mind, don’t answer that. I already know. Don’t get me wrong, I honestly wish that I didn’t know.

Makes me shudder, for Christ’s sake.

Confound it. So close to getting this damned machine to work again. I want out of here now.

Well, while I’m stuck here, I may as well semi-politely criticize your strangest emotional aspects. For starters, why in the hell does the smell of pumpernickel bread sexually arouse you?! Nowhere, in any one person’s brain, have I encountered such a bizarre fetish. Don’t even get me started on that foot fetish of yours.

That, though, I can understand. Going into detail about that, though, I feel would put you in the advantageous position in this, uh, situation.

Your life’s goal is to be a shark tamer in the Indian Ocean. Do I even need to talk about that? … Yes, actually, I do. From what unholy bowels of Hell does such a dream stem? Quite frankly, that’s even worse than the time I was stuck in Kim Jong-Un’s brain. Do you know what kind of things a mad dictator is afraid of?

By now you must be wondering why I keep getting stuck in peoples’ brains. Well? Why do you think that is? I’m an inventor, not miracle whip. That’s the saying, right? I’m torn between that and miracle operative. That doesn’t really have a nice ring to it like miracle whip does.

Anywho, my little machine that put me in your brain does have a bit of a bite to it. Sometimes literally, but that’s a story for another brain, on another day. It’s on the fritz again, unfortunately. At least your brain won’t be exploding. I think.

You know, maybe I shouldn’t worry you with the inevita- I mean, the future. Damn, no. I meant the past. The past is definitely what I was going for, there. Your brain won’t explode or melt, or anything like that. Your intestines, though, I can’t guarantee. And if you’re wondering how your intestines are relevant to my invasion of your brain, I haven’t a clue. All I know is that a poor fellow in Bangkok had his large intestine detach from the small intestine and just kind of flop out of the poor guy’s stomach.

Don’t ask me how it happened.

Oh, it’s about damned time this thing started working again. I’m sure that flashing red light besides the “Critical Overload” label isn’t anything to worry about. Trust me. Trust me, goddammit. Well, I’m out of here. Hopefully you won’t be too bothered by the after effects, which, by law, I must list to you before departing:

After effects may include vertigo, dysentery, chronic migraines, vomiting, hallucinations of my cousin Barry (thrice removed), moderate to extreme lust for the elderly, hypothermia (don’t ask how, it just happens), stroke, heart attack, seizure, pulmonary embolism (I don’t even remember what that means anymore. Do remind me to tell Scotty to Google that for me when he gets a chance), aneurysm, or instant death.

Don’t worry about any of those either. Except the dysentery. That will definitely happen. Make sure to stock up on some toilet paper. Or maybe it was hallucinations. You know, let me just tell you right now that I’m not liable for whatever might happen. If you just take a look at this simple, short, easy-to-read 73-page-long agreement and sign in all these places…

No, don’t bother reading, especially not the section that reads, “IN CASE OF TERMINAL

AFTER EFFECT…” It’s nothing. Trust me on that one.

Well, I really am leaving now. Good luck with the, uh, rapid… discharges. And my cousin Barry. If he asks for cigarettes, don’t let him have any. We’ve been trying to get him to quit for months.

Farewell!

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