I have been diagnosed with a mental condition called Jabberwocky of the Frontal Lobe.
Sometime ago I was brought to a child psychologist to determine why I spoke with a British accent. Nobody could figure out how I assumed such behavior when I was born and raised in a small Colorado town high up in the mountains without so much as a proper cup of English tea within 500 miles.
Doctors, scientists and authorities alike were baffled when I was given an MRI revealing strange patterns on the frontal lobe of my brain. The patterns of my brain activity took on shapes that were determined to resemble mushrooms. Mushrooms of all things; can you imagine?
I was studied by experts and made to take many cognitive and behavioral tests. I was shown photos of cats, as I recall in one study. Scientists jotted down busily on yellow pads of paper when I questioned how the cats could not be grinning.
I was observed for hours on end trying to make my way through hallway mirrors.
I remember they once put me into a corridor with several doors varying in size. A panel of doctors stood and observed as I pulled and prodded myself; trying to squeeze through the smallest door without even looking at any of the others. I became trapped, and I scolded myself quite severely for being so careless as not to check the table for a shrinking potion before entering such a tiny door. There was no garden, as I had hoped, on the other side and I had to be cut from the miniature doorway by electric power tools. “Astounding,” said a wire haired gray man with coke bottle glasses, a lab coat and clipboard. He was flabbergasted and perplexed by my behavior. He wrote a very scientific paper about my condition and won a Nobel Prize.
After many months of professional observation it was determined I had developed a new sort of dementia and they named it Jabberwocky of the Frontal Lobe, since all my troubles rose out of a need to engage in the Wonderland described in the Lewis Carroll classic. However, it was made certain by the doctors, scientists, and authorities that my condition was harmless and I would probably grow out of it in my teenage years.
I tell you, dear reader, of my fairytale brain misfortunes, only to prepare you for the prevalent message of nonsense in my writings to come.
Please do not fret; I assure you I am quite well, and perfectly capable of functioning in society. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow but never jam today, as the saying goes.
To quote The White Queen, “It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backwards.”