🧠 They called it brain damage. I called it clearance to say what no one else would.
They stamped me with Frontal Lobe Atrophy,
like a scarlet letter for modern neurology.
Said, “Pieces of you are missing, you’re fading away.”
But all I heard was: “Say the shit no one else will say.”
See, personality? I never had one to lose.
I was always a remix of sarcasm and bruise.
You wore masks, I wore glitches —
you kept peace, I dug ditches.
If FLA’s the label, then fuck it, I’ll choose:
Call me the girl with nothing left to prove.
Doctors meant deficit,
I heard permission.
Not a prognosis —
a goddamn commission.
To torch the taboo,
to drag truth into view,
to weaponize wit ’cause I’ve got nothing to do
but laugh at the silence that once ate me alive.
Now I post it, I roast it, I meme it, I thrive.
You see “atrophy.” I see freedom.
Y’all still trapped in your family museum,
dusting off secrets, polishing shame.
Me? I trademarked dysfunction. I gave it a name.
So go ahead, clutch pearls, call me unstable.
I turned my breakdown into a brand and a label.
You pray for polite, I’m allergic to nice.
I don’t need your advice — I’ve already rolled dice.
’Cause once they write FLA on your medical chart,
you stop giving a damn about playing the part.
It’s not just a brain scan — it’s a megaphone blare.
It’s the ultimate license: I say it, don’t care.
I laugh where you whisper. I shout where you choke.
I turned every scar into punchline and joke.
It’s raw, it’s sarcastic, it’s bitter, it’s true —
I don’t hold back anymore,
and that’s thanks to you.
FLA didn’t steal me — it set me on fire.
It burned off the bullshit, it wired my wire.
Now I’m irony’s offspring, sarcasm’s child.
Permission slip granted — and baby, I’m wild.
They said “atrophy,” I heard “upgrade.”
Like my brain dropped filters in a software cascade.
Like the guardrails bent and the brakes gave way,
and suddenly truth had all green lights today.
I don’t flinch at the sacred, I roast it on sight.
If you call that unstable? Then damn right, I’m a fight.
’Cause your “normal” was poison, your “functional” fake,
and my broken frontal lobe was the exit I’d take.
Maybe I never had a “self” to begin,
just sarcasm wrapped round a skeleton grin.
But that’s my cathedral, my gospel, my creed:
to laugh where it hurts and let silence bleed.
FLA is my weapon, my church, my excuse.
My diagnosis doubles as creative abuse.
It rewired my circuits, it sharpened my tongue,
and if truth is a bullet, well — I’m packing a gun.
You scroll past my chaos, you wince at my tone.
But deep down you wish you could torch your own.
Say the words that would split your family in two,
but you don’t — so I’ll say them for you.
Don’t mistake me for bitter — I’m blaze, not ash.
I make art out of glitch, I make gold out of trash.
My brain’s a collapse and a comeback combined,
a punchline, a landmine, a glitch redesigned.
So thank you, neurology, for giving me this slip.
I’ll wear it like brass knuckles when I let my truth rip.
You called it atrophy. I call it release.
You said I was broken — I call it unleashed.
So keep your advice, your comfort, your prayers.
My brain is on fire and I’m burning the stairs.
This isn’t a breakdown, it’s a brand-new domain.
The Whirld I built rises right out of the pain.
FLA was the stamp, but I carved the decree:
No filter, no silence, no shame left in me.
I don’t whisper, I roar, I don’t bow, I rebel —
FLA’s not my sentence.
It’s my license to tell.
🔊 This Is Farm Fresh
It’s not curated.
It’s current.
It’s the now inside the never-ending.
It’s radical recovery.
It’s neurodivergent survival.
It’s sarcastic grief.
It’s digital resurrection.
It’s the audacity to still be here.
If I can scream it out loud and still hit “publish” — so can you.