My Brain is a Strange Drug Dealer

So I want certain emotions, happiness and such yeah? Gotta get the right neurons firing, the right hormones flowing, etc. Less cortisol, more dopamine or whatever (I’m not a neuroscientist if you can’t tell). Mr. Brain controls all that, decides when to make with the good feelings and such.

The brain doles out happiness. Little packets of joy, sometimes big deep hits of peace or tranquility, sharp short hits of excitement and pleasure.

The metaphor isn’t perfect. Unlike most plugs, the brain doesn’t accept cash. Imagine if the local weed guy (does that age me now in the age of legal? Not yet I guess. How quickly that guy feels like the past though) made you run a few miles before he gave you an eighth? Consider unhinged Wall Street guys who could only acquire coke if they first proved to their dealer they were in therapy. Picture a world where the price of a bottle of vodka was adequate vitamin D levels.

The metaphor falls apart further: dealers usually can’t willy nilly decide to inject you with bad time chemicals either, whereas the lump of miracle behind my eyes gets to do as it pleases. The dick.

It’s an odd relationship, you and your brain. Cuz it’s also sorta you. I guess it’s not exactly original to suggest that people have complicated relationships with themselves. Strange to be your own drug dealer.