My wife believes she has a pathological inability to remember faces. I try and comfort her by suggesting it would require extensive brain trauma to produce an actual case for disability, and that facial recognition is in some ways situational, though most of the time, unfortunately, not.
What I am at a loss to explain is why I sometimes catch myself trying to stow a half gallon of milk in the shelf with the dishes. There has to be a genetic component: Even the members of my family who did not ultimately perish from brain rot exhibited these symptoms. They were blase about it, and were dismissive of people who would spend good money on yogurt and cottage cheese.
I long believed my brain was in pretty good shape until I joined the wrestling team in junior high, and it was so routinely slammed against its bony confines I began to think it would be better if someone just bored a few holes in my skull to coax it back to equilibrium.
This proved unnecessary, as my first experiences with alcohol and pot proved every bit as therapeutic, and much less painful than trepanation.

Maybe therapeutic is the wrong word-“dissociative” is probably what I was looking for.

A lot of the new brain research shows my fears to be unfounded- that the brain is a kind of “I’m not made of glass. You can touch me. Harder. Yes that’s right.” date, as opposed to the shy creature from Council Christian Academy who declines the carbonated drinks early in the same evening you wind up prying an ATM machine open with an old Ford axle, together in Christian love.

Or maybe they’re the same.

All I can tell you is after years of memorizing names and addresses, I’ve completely lost the ability to even register names. It could well be that when I’m anywhere someone is providing their name, I’m either busy, or hopelessly drunk, but new brain research demonstrates both of those excuses are shallow at best.
New brain research, like the critical reappraisal of Pink Floyd, seems to hew comfortably toward my entire philosophy of life. I love being right, and I don’t mind being a bastard about it.

This is precisely why I’m sceptical of new brain research.