I think I have some synapse function left but I can’t quite be sure

I wrote a thesis.

It was a little one.

It hurt my brain.

I think I may have a hernia in my frontal lobe.

I can’t stop thinking in footnotes.

No this is not a fucking poem.

You see I’m limiting myself to short sentences because as soon as I begin to go over  one line I then find myself using terms such as ‘not only… but also’, and words like ‘juxtaposition’, ‘praxis’ and ‘discourse’. Yes, not only does this mean I have turned in to a wanker, but also I will soon have a piece of paper proving that I am one.

It’s dangerous this research thing. It pushes out some of the ability your brain has to do normal things like… oh, I don’t know… wash dishes… perhaps feed the cat (oh yeah – that’s why she's meaowing), or even feed the child. People with doctorates must have personal assistants and nappy-changers because I’m sure I’d forget to pee if I was doing a doctorate.

I would like to now leave you with a thought.

Something witty, something pithy, something intelligent, but I don’t think I have any smart left.

what about a picture?
yes.
one showing all the bits that have been irreversibly damaged through research.