CRS Syndrome

An old guy, about my age, walks into a bar and sits down between two women. He is out for a good time, so pops his question with the hopes of a much younger man. "Do I come here often?" Well that is the status of the state of this writer's mental nation. My brain has gone south, packed its bags, moved to the tip of Tierra del Fuego and left me here holding the bag of appointments that I can't seem to open or make sense of. I wake up to a new day with no idea what went on in the old day and don't have any idea how to sort out what isn't there on the big blank slate that is my memory of a long and complicated to-do list. I need a personal, or even an impersonal, assistant. I need a seeing eye dog to guide me through these days of fog and gray indistinctness. This condition, Can't Remember S@*t Syndrome, will be my undoing, my Waterloo, my swan song. Every day presents a new list of things to be left undone, a pile of cans to kick down the road, a tall glass of oblivion to sip at my leisure.