Joey and the Restless Leg

March 8, 2019

Joey couldn’t take his eyes off the guy’s leg. Why did that guy have to constantly shake his leg? Why do people do that? Nervous energy? Does it sooth them, like playing with a spiky ball might sooth a kid with a mental disorder? It was driving Joey crazy. He couldn’t say anything because then he’d sound like an asshole. He held his hand over the right side of his face, blocking his view of the leg. But it was awkward to keep his hand there. He’d have to leave and find another table to sit at. 

But that was the right table for him to write songs. The wood was a little lighter in color than the other tables at the café. He had to stay there. He switched hands covering his face so he could pick up his pen with his right hand. That was even worse, since now he had to pretend that he was just naturally leaning on his left hand which went up over his forehead and curved down to block his right eye. He glanced back at the leg, but it was still shaking, even faster now. Maybe the guy has restless leg syndrome, Joey thought. Maybe he could incorporate that into a song. He started writing:

Your legs shakin’ all the time
You’re like a spastic mime.
I can’t enjoy my cup o’ joe
Wish your leg would get up and go

It needed a chorus. Joey wrote:

Oh oh Restless Leg Syndrome!
Oh no Restless Leg Syndrome!
No no Restless Leg Syndrome!
Gotta go! Restless Leg Syndrome!

The leg was still there. It was vibrating more than shaking, which seemed even worse for some reason. Joey kept writing:

Your restless leg driving me insane
Your restless leg is killing my brain
Your so proud of your RLS
Your restless leg is the best!

Joey peered out from between his fingers. The leg was gone! So was the dude. He breathed a sigh of relief and got up to order another cup of coffee.


For those of you not living in my brain, that little story was an imagination of Joey Ramone who, like me, suffered from OCD. Click the flower to see some Ramones songs turned into Haiku:

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Thomas Hovering

August 29, 2017

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The GPS monitor dug into his ankle and it hurt, all day. Thomas figured out a way to fall asleep with it, but by morning the black metal box with its flashing red and green lights had twisted around and it felt like someone had spent the night quietly sawing off his foot while he slept. I’ll get used to it. Sometime in the next 4 1/2 years of my probation I’ll stop noticing it.

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I am the Creator of Worlds

May 6, 2017

PHL @ UPR Arecibo, ESA/Hubble, NASAI love creating worlds. I spend hours mapping out the details of the world my friends will explore after school. I am the Dungeon Master. I have control over everything that happens. My friends roll the dice, but I have already planned for all the possible outcomes.

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I Feel Threatened

May 4, 2017

Editor’s note: This is probably a work of fiction. In any case, none of us here at Daisybrain condone violence or look down upon people for their beliefs. We thought it import to publish this story because we found it in a capsule and it appears to be a work of historical fiction written in the future.

Ever since the Government mandated that all citizens carry guns, Eric enthusiastically complied. For as long as he could remember, at least the last 70 years, he had been a disciple of nonviolence. He had marched in countless peace demonstrations, protesting each generation’s pointless war, and was an active member of the Resistance. But, when the Lower House of Trump passed the mandatory carry law, something finally snapped.

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Reboot

March 14, 2017

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He’d been getting underground CRISPR treatments for years. Maybe his new friends didn’t suspect, but I knew Elray back in the 90s, when I was in high school and he was pushing 40. He should have been in his late 70s, but with a full head of jet black hair and athletic build, he looked younger than when I hung out with him. Plus he had to be eight inches taller. He was all brilliant white smiles as he walked up to me in his signature black tuxedo, through the crowd of retro-punks and retro-mods.

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Diner

March 25, 2015

There is a pair of delicate purple tulips, with just a few inches of stem, in a small glass tea cup with a handle. The cup is filled about one third with water, leaving no doubt as to the authenticity of the flowers. At least the flowers are real. The same can’t be said for the slice of Boston creme pie on my plate. The diner was honest enough to spell it as “creme” since it obviously has no real cream in it. It is quite a beautiful imitation of a dessert. I guess that’s why I got a slice, after seeing its radiant beauty in the display case. But I wouldn’t dare destroy this work of art with a fork. I know that it would taste like artificially sweetened coagulated grease. And besides, just look at it – it’s a perfect, idealized replica of a real Boston cream pie.

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The Great Superman Parachute Mystery

March 16, 2015

My house was filled with giant spiders, the size of horses. I was having the same dream again, about the house I lived in between the ages of five and eight. I figured that spiders represented decay, or death, and now that I was about to turn 30, perhaps my subconscious was mulling over the end of my youth. It was true, much as I tried to stretch out my adolescence, when you’re in your thirties, it’s harder to pass yourself off as a punk rock rebel kid.

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