I sit down at the lunch table with a pruning saw and a smile. “Well, boys, I finally did it. I self-lobotomized.” Everyone’s staring at me, no doubt sizing me up and realizing the new me is so much cooler and better to hang out with. 

I don’t know if it’s my lighter and more efficient brain, but I have the most perceptive thought of my life: The boys don’t love this as much as I thought they would. I shake my head. They want more. I do a cool trick where I toss a quarter up and catch it in my lobotomy scar but I mess up and hit my head on every ceiling fan instead.

So after that everyone’s freaking out and asking me why I did this oh God is that real blood. “Uhh,” I say coolly, “I needed a lobotomy like I needed a hole in my head.” No one laughs so I say it again and they tell me this is the fifth time I’ve said this. No worries, I’ve got the perfect comeback:  “I needed a lobotomy like I needed a hole in my head.”

Then: naptime! I wake up and look at blocks for fifteen hours. 

Long story short the boys quit eating with me immediately but it’s fine because I get fed everything by Boy Scouts now so who’s the real winner here. Having another spoonful of soup, I think about how good it was that I did the lobotomy on me. Was it painful? 100%. Do I regret a goddamn thing? I wouldn’t know how to feel regret anyway.