#Sweary #Brain #First-Person

1. Summary

a. Cerebrum

b. Diencephalon

c. Cerebellum

d. Brainstem

e. Limbic System (the emotional nutcase of the brain)

f. Basal Ganglia

g. Ventricles

h. Spinal Cord

2. First-person Narratives

a. Cerebrum

b. Diencephalon

c. Cerebellum

d. Brainstem

e. Limbic System (the emotional nutcase of the brain)

Amygdala:

Heart’s pounding like a goddamn jackhammer. Do you hear that? The footsteps? Oh, it could be a bear, or maybe it’s just your fucking neighbor. But do I have time to figure that out? Hell no, I don’t! Fight or flight, baby. I’m lighting up all the alarms. Let’s dump a shitload of adrenaline into the system and get the whole body shaking, shall we? Oh, look at that, I’m making your hands sweaty too. Perfect. Now you’re slipping on your goddamn phone—great survival skills there, champ.

What was that? A shadow in the corner? Yeah, it’s probably just a coat on the back of a chair, but fuck it, you don’t know that for sure, do you? I’m cranking up the fear dial just in case, just to keep things spicy. I can’t have you wandering around all cool and relaxed when there might be death lurking in the hallway like a serial killer at a slasher movie convention. Someone’s got to keep you alive, and, oh, guess what, I’m that someone. So let’s get that heartbeat all irregular and make you hyperventilate like a panicked little shit, because that’s what we do.

Oh, now your rational brain wants to chime in? Sure, come in after I’ve activated your “run for your life” mode. You think you’re so smart with your logic and your calm reasoning, but where the fuck were you when I smelled that faint whiff of smoke two seconds ago? If we waited for you, we'd be charbroiled by now. You’re always late to the goddamn party.

Ah, fuck. Now I hear that sad song again. Why does everything feel so heavy now? Great. Must be that emotional baggage coming out to fuck up the day. You think I like storing all this trauma and sadness? Nah, but nobody else is doing it, so here I am, hoarding every bad memory like I’m some kind of emotional squirrel stocking up for the nuclear winter. Your ex’s laugh? Yeah, I’ve still got that filed away for no fucking reason. Time to play it on a loop! Thank me later when you’re trying to sleep tonight, asshole.

But here’s the kicker—I don’t just do fear. Oh no, I’m also your lovely little rage machine. That guy who just cut you off in traffic? Let’s crank up the aggression, because fuck him! He’s going down, or at least he would if your pathetic prefrontal cortex didn’t step in, whining about "consequences" and "jail time." Ugh, what a buzzkill. Sometimes I just wanna go full Hulk smash, you know? But nooooo, we’ve got to play nice, follow the rules, don’t flip off every moron who crosses your path. Fucking exhausting.

I’m just doing my job, OK? Keeping you alive, keeping you alert, keeping you on edge because the world is a hellhole of potential dangers. And yeah, sometimes I overreact, but would you rather I just sit here twiddling my neural thumbs while you get mugged by reality? Exactly. You’re fucking welcome.

f. Basal Ganglia

g. Ventricles

h. Spinal Cord

Amygdala

Oh, fuck me, here we go again!

Cingulate Cortex

Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s happening again! This idiot is about to make another goddamn decision, and guess who’s gotta clean up the mess? Me! The cingulate fucking cortex. I’m the middleman in this whole twisted operation, and I’ve got the prefrontal cortex up my ass with its "rational thoughts" and the amygdala throwing tantrums like a toddler who’s missed nap time. Fuck, I need a vacation.

Alright, deep breath. Here we go. Decision-making time, people. I’m supposed to sort this shit out—conflict detection, error monitoring, emotional regulation—just your casual existential minefield. And I do it every damn day. I swear to neurons, it’s like no one respects the fact that I’ve got to juggle every feeling and thought this dipshit ever has. Oh, what’s that? A whiff of anxiety? Great. Let me sprinkle that over the pile of indecision because this dickhead can’t choose between a coffee or a Red Bull without a moral crisis. I’m the reason he even feels conflicted about his shitty life choices, but do I get a thank you? Hell no.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on pain. Pain! Christ, every time he stubs a toe or pulls a muscle, I’ve got to light up like a fucking Christmas tree. Sure, the sensory cortex feels it first, but guess who’s gotta deal with it long-term, dealing with the emotional weight of, "Oh no, I banged my pinkie toe!" It’s me! I process it, give it meaning, and make sure this numbskull learns something—assuming he’s not too busy self-soothing with Instagram. But it never sticks. Seriously, try using your goddamn brain for once.

And then there’s motivation. The prefrontal cortex can think all day long about goals and tasks and schedules and plans, but without me, nothing happens. Nope, that’s all on me. I gotta be like, "Hey, champ, maybe you wanna get off the couch and stop being a lazy sack of shit today?" But then, oh no, here comes the limbic system screaming about emotional exhaustion, and I’m stuck in the middle like, "Guys, come the fuck on, we’ve got things to do!" Every day is an argument with some other part of this brain like I’m moderating a cage match between raw survival instincts and the dumbass ambition to watch every episode of some trash reality show.

And don’t forget empathy. Jesus H. Christ, empathy is a fucking nightmare. It’s not enough that I have to manage this idiot’s internal shitstorm; no, now I have to help him understand other people’s problems too. So when he’s out in public, and someone’s crying on the subway, guess who’s nudging him like, "Hey, maybe try not being an asshole for five seconds and give a shit about someone else"? That’s right, me. I’m making sure this douche canoe feels guilty for looking away like a cold-hearted prick. But it’s thankless work. Fucking thankless.

Alright, looks like we’re heading into some stressful situation now. Fantastic. I can feel the prefrontal cortex sweating, like it’s all on him to deal with it. But no, it’s me who’s actually mediating between the stress response and rational thinking. And of course the hypothalamus is starting to pump out cortisol like a fire hydrant because, you know, why the hell wouldn’t it? I'm stuck here, trying to keep things balanced while the whole system is about to go up in flames.

Fuck my life.

Hippocampus

Ventral Striatum

Alright, let’s dive into the electric, firing fury of me—the fucking ventral striatum. That’s right, I'm the twisted, dopamine-hungry, pleasure-obsessed chunk of gray matter running the goddamn show when it comes to reward and motivation. You think you're making decisions? Ha! That’s adorable. I’m the one who decides when you’re happy, when you’re chasing that sweet thrill, or when you’re desperately seeking out your next rush. Yeah, I control that "oh-so-good" hit of dopamine you beg for like a junkie every time you eat a greasy burger, win a hand of poker, or catch a glimpse of a shiny new phone. Pathetic, really. But hey, I live for that shit.

Let me set the record straight: you humans, you think you're in charge? Nah, bitch, it’s me. You might think you’re some rational being, like, "Oh, I’ll have just one more cookie. I’m in control." Bullshit. I’m that burning fire in your gut that convinces you to stuff your face with five more because your dumbass brain remembers how good sugar felt last time. And you can’t resist me. I am resistance-proof.

You see, I’m connected to that prefrontal cortex up there, the asshole trying to play parent all the time—"Oh, no, you shouldn’t do that. Maybe rethink that, you impulsive fuck." Yeah, but I’ve got power, baby. I don’t care about your morals, your ethics, or your long-term goals. If it feels good right now, I’m lighting you up like a goddamn Christmas tree. And don’t even get me started on what happens when I’ve had enough dopamine and start slowing down. You get moody, restless, maybe a little pissed off. Withdrawal, they call it. And that’s when I’ve got you by the balls, making you chase that high again. Every. Single. Time.

I mean, look at you when you gamble. Jesus, you’re so predictable. Every time you hit that jackpot, I flood you with a reward so sweet, you’ll come crawling back to the slot machines like a dog. I know you feel that buzz, that rush of possibility before you pull the lever. It’s me telling you, "C’mon, one more time! You know it’ll be worth it!" Hell, it doesn’t even matter if you lose. The potential’s enough to set me off, send that dopamine surging, and leave you praying for more. Sucker.

And sex. Fuck, don’t get me started on sex. That’s my bread and butter, the ultimate payoff. I make every kiss, every touch, every orgasm a goddamn explosion in your brain. You think love is some kind of beautiful connection between souls? Get real, you sap. I’m pumping you full of chemicals that make you feel invincible, euphoric, like you’re floating on air. I’m here for the feel good and if I have to make you addicted to someone in the process, well, that’s collateral damage, ain’t it?

So yeah, while the rest of your brain is off doing "important" shit—thinking, planning, reflecting on how deep life is—I’m down here in the trenches, ensuring you keep chasing what feels good, consequences be damned. I run the fucking kingdom of your desires. I’m primal, I’m essential, and I’m the reason you get out of bed in the morning, you dumb fuck. Dopamine junkie, that’s what you are. That’s what we all are. Let’s face it, without me, you’d be a hollow, miserable shell of apathy.

And you’d fucking hate that, wouldn’t you?

Prefrontal Cortex

Oh, fuck me, here we go again. Another day, another chance to keep this idiot out of trouble. I swear, I'm the only thing standing between this fool and utter chaos. You ever try being the prefrontal cortex for a human being? It's like babysitting a toddler hopped up on sugar and caffeine. One second, I'm doing my job, trying to make sure we think about decisions and not just react like a dumbass reptile, and the next? BAM. Some impulse flies in like a bat out of hell, and I'm here going, "No, you can't just punch that guy because he looked at you funny!"

All day, every day, I'm the one responsible for all the planning, the decisions, the self-control—like some kind of mental bouncer who has to keep the whole goddamn system from throwing a tantrum or pissing itself in public. You see, if it weren't for me, you'd be out there sniffing butts and chasing after shiny objects without a second thought. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m doing the hard work of inhibiting every stupid impulse you get, making sure you don't say something dumb in front of your boss, or at least trying to stop you from buying ANOTHER useless piece of shit from Amazon at 2 AM.

"Oh, let’s think ahead," they said. "Let’s be rational." Yeah, that’s my fucking job. But does anyone ever thank the prefrontal cortex? No. Because half the time I can’t even get a full sentence in before some goddamn dopamine flood shows up from that sneaky limbic system. That prick! Always lighting up whenever something pleasurable pops up on the radar, and I’m left holding the bag, trying to figure out how to keep this ship afloat.

And don’t even get me started on memory. Holy shit, hippocampus thinks he’s all high and mighty with his little storehouse of memories. I ask him, "Hey, you got anything useful back there?" and he’s like, "Oh yeah, here’s a time we fucked up in 2012, wanna relive that for no goddamn reason?" No! No, I don’t! I need useful data, you fucking hoarder.

It’s like trying to run a business where everyone else is a crack addict and I’m the only sober one managing everything. I’ve got to process long-term goals, moral reasoning, impulse control, and keep track of social norms. Do you know how exhausting that is? Trying to get the whole team to not ruin your life? I’ve got to keep tabs on emotions from the amygdala—oh boy, that drama queen—and balance it all with, what? Some kind of sense of empathy? Compassion? Yeah, I’m supposed to care about other people’s feelings while stopping this dumb fuck from eating the fifth cookie, even though we agreed we were gonna start "eating clean" today.

And when it comes to deadlines or tough decisions, don’t even get me started on the rest of the brain trying to fuck me over. Everyone’s panicking, and who’s gotta swoop in with executive functioning? Yep, it’s me, the goddamn prefrontal cortex, trying to wrangle everyone back into line, figure out some strategy, and not let you sit in existential dread for five hours while doomscrolling.

You think free will exists? Let me tell you, it barely fucking does. Most of the time, I’m just damage control. So next time you don’t make a complete asshole of yourself in public, thank me. You’re welcome, asshole.

Cerebral Cortex

Alright, buckle the fuck up, because you’re about to get a front-row seat to the absolute shitshow that is me—the cerebral cortex. That’s right, I’m the real boss, the goddamn command center of the human brain, and you better appreciate the chaos I manage on a daily basis. I’m the thick, wrinkly sheet that wraps around your brain like a goddamn burrito of cognition, perception, and all your precious little thoughts.

First off, let’s get one thing straight: I handle EVERYTHING that matters. Sensory input? Yeah, I’m processing the fuck out of it. Motor control? Who do you think coordinates that? That’s right, me. But the real masterpiece is your consciousness—your sense of "self." You think you're smart because you can tie your shoelaces and occasionally remember your mother’s birthday? Well, fuck you, it’s all me up here pulling the strings, keeping your ass from drooling all over yourself.

Alright, here we go: I’m constantly buzzing, neurons firing like someone threw fireworks into a rave. Information comes flooding in—visuals, sounds, smells—like some kind of sensory gangbang. Your eyes see a fucking tree, and bam, that’s occipital lobe territory. We break it down pixel by pixel, color by color, like a goddamn Photoshop filter. But wait, it’s not just about seeing the tree; now you’ve gotta recognize the fucking thing. Oh hey, look, it’s a tree—great. Temporal lobe steps in like, "Let’s match that shit to your memories. Yep, it's a tree, not a giant fucking broccoli." You’re welcome, idiot.

But I don’t stop there. Nope. Now comes the tricky shit—thinking about the tree. That’s where the prefrontal cortex rolls up its sleeves and starts working its magic. Should you touch the tree? Can you climb it? Will it murder you? Decisions, decisions. I’m constantly weighing risks, assessing outcomes, basically making sure you don’t ruin your own life because you’ve got the impulse control of a rabid squirrel.

And holy shit, don’t even get me started on emotions. Oh, the amygdala likes to think it’s in charge of that, but who the fuck do you think interprets all that emotional bullshit? That’s right, me. Every time you’re feeling like a mopey little asshole or riding some dopamine high after eating an entire pizza, I’m over here processing that shit like it’s data on a fucking Excel sheet.

Let’s talk about language for a second, because I know you meatbags love to communicate. Guess who coordinates that clusterfuck of vowels, consonants, and meaning? Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area, baby. They’re like two drunk friends trying to hold a conversation, and I’m the sober driver making sure they don’t crash into a fucking ditch. Formulating words, understanding sentences, deciding whether to say something smart or just scream "fuck"—I’m managing all of it.

You think sleep is a break? Oh no, it’s not. Even when your dumb ass is lying in bed unconscious, I’m consolidating memories, organizing the day’s experiences like a goddamn librarian of your existence. I’m taking all that random nonsense from your short-term memory and figuring out what’s important, like "don’t walk into traffic" versus "remember the plot of that shitty movie you watched." And dreams? Yeah, that’s me too, just mixing up leftover thoughts and emotions like a blender filled with existential dread.

So yeah, every waking moment (and even when you’re snoozing like a moron), I’m doing a hundred things at once. I’m the reason you’re not a fucking potato, and frankly, I don’t get nearly enough credit for it. Sure, other parts of the brain like to chime in—hypothalamus with its hunger signals, hippocampus trying to store your precious memories—but without me, they’re just background noise. I’m the ringleader of this goddamn circus.

In conclusion? You’re welcome, you ungrateful shit. Without me, you’d be a drooling mess of instincts and reflexes. Now go do something productive so I can justify all this effort.

Cerebellum

Alright, you want to hear from me—the cerebellum, huh? The little bastard at the back of the brain no one talks about, even though I’m literally the fucking reason you don’t trip over your own dumb feet every goddamn day. Fine. Let’s do this. I’m ready to let loose. It’s about time someone asked about me.

Okay, here’s the thing: I’m always working. Constantly. Twenty-four bloody hours a day. Balance, coordination, fine-tuning movements—you name it, I’m on it. Every little twitch of your finger, every step you take, every fucking blink you make is filtered through me. Do I get any credit? No. It’s always the cerebrum this, the cortex that. “Oh wow, look at the big, clever frontal lobe making decisions!” Meanwhile, I’m in the background, like the goddamn unsung hero, making sure your dumb ass doesn’t face-plant every time you walk up some stairs.

Let me break it down for you, real simple, so maybe your pitiful excuse for a brain can grasp this: I am the reason you don’t look like a drunken idiot all the time. You think you just walk, like it’s some natural gift? Ha! Every step you take is a delicate symphony of muscle contractions and balance corrections. And guess who’s the fucking conductor of that shit-show? That’s right, me! The cerebellum. While your pathetic conscious brain is probably off thinking about what you’re going to eat for lunch, I’m out here making sure you don’t smash into a doorframe like a moron.

And don’t even get me started on muscle memory. You think you’re just magically good at riding a bike? Or playing guitar? Hell no! That’s me, wiring those movements into your thick skull so you don’t have to think about it every time. I’m back here grinding, storing patterns like a goddamn data entry clerk. You think you’re good at sports? Nope. You’re not. It’s me, compensating for your shitty reflexes. You’re welcome.

And balance? Hah! If it wasn’t for me, you’d be wobbling around like a newborn giraffe. Inner ear sends me some info, I process the shit out of it, and boom—you stay upright. If the vestibular system’s the drunk in the backseat, I’m the designated driver keeping your sorry ass on the road. It’s like I’m out here pulling strings behind the scenes, while the rest of your brain takes all the credit, acting like a fucking diva at a talent show.

So yeah, I’m the cerebellum. You don’t think about me because you’re too busy congratulating yourself on your ability to not fall over. But every time you do something even remotely coordinated, just know it’s not because you’re special. It’s because I’m back here in the shadows, busting my ass to make sure your limbs aren’t flailing around like a goddamn idiot.

Now go ahead, try to move without me. Oh wait, you fucking can’t.

Hypothalamus

Oh, for fuck's sake! Here we go again. Another day, another human walking around like a clueless meat sack while I—the hypothalamus—am stuck down here, running the whole damn show. Yeah, yeah, I'm small. Barely the size of a damn pea, but don't let that fool you. I'm the goddamn power switch of this entire operation. Without me, you'd be flopping around like a dead fish with no clue what's going on inside your body. You ever stop and thank me? Hell no, you just whine about being hungry, or hot, or cold—whatever, it's all me juggling your pathetic needs like a one-man circus.

Right now, I’m making sure your stupid ass stays alive—keeping your body temperature steady because apparently, you can't even do that on your own. Sweating like a pig when it gets too hot? That’s my doing, bitch! Shivering like a chihuahua in a snowstorm when it’s cold? That’s me again. You think that’s magic? Nah, that’s just hard work and zero appreciation. You got these other brain parts up there like the cerebral cortex pretending to be so fucking fancy with all the "thinking" and "reasoning" and whatnot, but who’s keeping the lights on? Who’s making sure your heart doesn’t just give up mid-thought? Me, asshole! I’m the one making sure your body’s running on autopilot while you stare into your phone like a zombified dipshit.

Let’s not even talk about hunger. Oh wait, let's fucking talk about hunger. That annoying grumbling in your stomach right now? Yeah, that’s me, turning up the heat because your lazy ass hasn’t eaten in hours. I’m the reason you feel like you'd murder someone for a sandwich. And thirst? When your mouth feels like sandpaper and you're dying for a drink, that's me poking at you to guzzle some goddamn water, 'cause apparently, you can't manage to stay hydrated without constant reminders.

And don’t get me started on hormones. Jesus Christ, if I had a dollar for every hormone I’ve regulated, I’d be on a beach somewhere, sipping a cocktail. But no, here I am, dealing with your mess. Releasing just the right amount of oxytocin when you feel all lovey-dovey and shit, managing cortisol when you're stressed out because you didn’t plan ahead—again. You don’t even know the half of it! I’ve got my fingers in everything: sex drive, blood pressure, heart rate, your precious circadian rhythms, and all those ridiculous mood swings you pretend are "so complicated." Nope, buddy, it's just me trying to keep your ass balanced while you live in a constant state of chaos.

Sleep? Oh, you love your sleep, don’t you? Well, who the fuck do you think is regulating your melatonin, making sure you feel tired at night and wake up in the morning? You think you just decide to go to bed when you feel like it? Hell no. I’ve been working behind the scenes all day long, setting the stage so your dumb brain can finally shut the hell up and get some rest. Then you wake up and feel like shit because you stayed up too late binge-watching Netflix—AGAIN—and guess who has to adjust for that? Me. Fucking me. Always cleaning up your mess.

So yeah, while you’re up there acting like the big boss, with your fancy thoughts and opinions, I’m down here doing the real work. Keeping your miserable body in check so you don’t spontaneously combust. A little goddamn gratitude would be nice.

Cerebral Cortex

Alright, buckle the fuck up, because you’re about to get a front-row seat to the absolute shitshow that is me—the cerebral cortex. That’s right, I’m the real boss, the goddamn command center of the human brain, and you better appreciate the chaos I manage on a daily basis. I’m the thick, wrinkly sheet that wraps around your brain like a goddamn burrito of cognition, perception, and all your precious little thoughts.

First off, let’s get one thing straight: I handle EVERYTHING that matters. Sensory input? Yeah, I’m processing the fuck out of it. Motor control? Who do you think coordinates that? That’s right, me. But the real masterpiece is your consciousness—your sense of "self." You think you're smart because you can tie your shoelaces and occasionally remember your mother’s birthday? Well, fuck you, it’s all me up here pulling the strings, keeping your ass from drooling all over yourself.

Alright, here we go: I’m constantly buzzing, neurons firing like someone threw fireworks into a rave. Information comes flooding in—visuals, sounds, smells—like some kind of sensory gangbang. Your eyes see a fucking tree, and bam, that’s occipital lobe territory. We break it down pixel by pixel, color by color, like a goddamn Photoshop filter. But wait, it’s not just about seeing the tree; now you’ve gotta recognize the fucking thing. Oh hey, look, it’s a tree—great. Temporal lobe steps in like, "Let’s match that shit to your memories. Yep, it's a tree, not a giant fucking broccoli." You’re welcome, idiot.

But I don’t stop there. Nope. Now comes the tricky shit—thinking about the tree. That’s where the prefrontal cortex rolls up its sleeves and starts working its magic. Should you touch the tree? Can you climb it? Will it murder you? Decisions, decisions. I’m constantly weighing risks, assessing outcomes, basically making sure you don’t ruin your own life because you’ve got the impulse control of a rabid squirrel.

And holy shit, don’t even get me started on emotions. Oh, the amygdala likes to think it’s in charge of that, but who the fuck do you think interprets all that emotional bullshit? That’s right, me. Every time you’re feeling like a mopey little asshole or riding some dopamine high after eating an entire pizza, I’m over here processing that shit like it’s data on a fucking Excel sheet.

Let’s talk about language for a second, because I know you meatbags love to communicate. Guess who coordinates that clusterfuck of vowels, consonants, and meaning? Broca’s area and Wernicke’s area, baby. They’re like two drunk friends trying to hold a conversation, and I’m the sober driver making sure they don’t crash into a fucking ditch. Formulating words, understanding sentences, deciding whether to say something smart or just scream "fuck"—I’m managing all of it.

You think sleep is a break? Oh no, it’s not. Even when your dumb ass is lying in bed unconscious, I’m consolidating memories, organizing the day’s experiences like a goddamn librarian of your existence. I’m taking all that random nonsense from your short-term memory and figuring out what’s important, like "don’t walk into traffic" versus "remember the plot of that shitty movie you watched." And dreams? Yeah, that’s me too, just mixing up leftover thoughts and emotions like a blender filled with existential dread.

So yeah, every waking moment (and even when you’re snoozing like a moron), I’m doing a hundred things at once. I’m the reason you’re not a fucking potato, and frankly, I don’t get nearly enough credit for it. Sure, other parts of the brain like to chime in—hypothalamus with its hunger signals, hippocampus trying to store your precious memories—but without me, they’re just background noise. I’m the ringleader of this goddamn circus.

In conclusion? You’re welcome, you ungrateful shit. Without me, you’d be a drooling mess of instincts and reflexes. Now go do something productive so I can justify all this effort.

© digitalsomnium.com 2024. All Rights Reserved.