Inside My Head, There’s a Lobby

There’s a lobby in my head.

Like, an actual one. With couches. And ferns. And a receptionist named Janet who never makes eye contact but somehow knows everything about me, including what I ate for lunch in 2007.

This is where the Voices check in. They come and go. Some are regulars. Some are tourists. One showed up once, screamed about spaghetti, and exploded into confetti. We miss him.

I, technically, am the manager. But no one listens to me. Classic.

Gary lives in the vents. He’s a worm. Used to be in a peach, now he’s freelance. He narrates my every action like it’s a nature documentary:

“Here we observe the subject attempting to socialize—note the hesitation, the sudden burst of sweat, the internal screaming... magnificent.”

Carl wears a bathrobe and carries a clipboard. He says he’s here “for research,” but I’ve never seen him write anything down. I suspect he’s just nosy.

Grizly is… well… Grizly is a void. Like a living shadow made of worry and microwave static. He’s not evil, per se, just aggressively pessimistic. If I get a good idea, he’s already poked holes in it and filed a 12-page report titled Why This Will Probably End in Flames.

But here’s the thing: it’s never boring.

One moment I’m brushing my teeth, next thing I know, I’m on trial for brushing them too hard, and the jury is made of ducks in tiny suits. I win the case. Obviously. I have excellent dental hygiene.

Sometimes, I can’t tell what’s real. But that’s okay—reality is overrated. What is real, anyway? Half of reality is people pretending not to be weird. I just skipped the pretending.

Sure, my brain sometimes plays jazz when I want elevator music. Or reruns old arguments with new plot twists. Or shows me a spider with my therapist’s face, calmly telling me to breathe. But honestly? It keeps things spicy.

And laughter is my favorite side effect.

So, when someone says “you’re not normal,” I smile and say,
“Thank you. Normal doesn’t have a lobby.”