I’ve been told — by a handful of my closest souls — that they’ve often wondered how my brain is wired. How it works.

“It’s not normal,” they say.

I’ve wondered the same thing. I’ve always known I’m different, though. Wired differently.

So here it is — my attempt to explain what I suspect is the beautifully chaotic ecosystem inside my skull.

I may be wrong. I’ve been misled before. That guy in the mirror, as it turns out, is a covert operative for my Core Brain Monkeys.

So here goes.

Inside my head is a three-story, open-concept warehouse called Headquarters — a 24/7 operation fueled by espresso, nostalgia, mariachi brass, unfinished to-do lists, and the faint scent of dry-erase marker.

It is not calm.
It is not minimalist.
It is not a mindfulness studio.

It is a corporation run by over-caffeinated neurodivergent monkeys who absolutely refuse to clock out.

From the outside: Deadlines met. Meetings led. Lessons structured. Mariachi on cue. Driving smooth. Stories written. Trash mostly taken out.

From the inside? It’s a documentary narrated by caffeine.

The Superintendent of Overthinking runs simulations on conversations that haven’t happened and drafts fourteen alternate responses to emails I haven’t sent.

The Creative Director of Nostalgia interrupts traffic with, “Remember mulberries? Remember trompos? Write that down,” archiving childhood like sacred footage from 1980s Calexico.

The Mariachi Director scores minor inconveniences with full horn sections and believes every crisis deserves background music.

The Logistics Monkey carries three clipboards and remembers the dentist, the meeting, the form, and the thing I said I’d do three days ago — usually at 11:48 p.m. when I’m horizontal.

The Highway Analyst narrates merging traffic like it’s a playoff game and occasionally solves world problems between stoplights.

Hovering above them all is the Executive Director of Big Ideas, who begins every sentence with, “What if we…” He has started forty-seven projects, finished forty-three, and labeled the remaining four “in development.”

When the Hyperfocus Foreman locks in, the building hums.

Then there’s the swarm of interns. 

Dozens. Maybe hundreds. 

Not that they’re expendable, but the turnover rate for these is insanely high. It’s not burn-out, rather it’s like changing tires, at some point they lose their grip.

These lovelies do all the dirty work.

Opening mental tabs.
Ringing a bell labeled “NEW IDEA.”
Researching something unnecessary for forty-seven minutes.
Deciding 9:47 p.m. is the ideal time to reorganize everything.

One rewrites a sentence that was already fine.
Another replays a meeting from 2009.
A few are building projects no one approved and will likely abandon.

None of them are allowed near the main breaker. 

EVER.

Internally, it sounds like:“WE ARE ALL ON FIRE.”

Externally: “Good morning, everyone.”

I walk into rooms composed. Measured. Organized.
I pivot smoothly. Deliver clarity.

No one sees the monkey committee drafting five alternate responses in real time.
No one hears the internal horn section warming up.

Here’s the twist:

It’s not malfunction.

It’s parallel processing.

While one monkey panics, another builds.
While one rewrites, another anticipates.
While interns chase tangents, someone extracts gold.

The lesson lands.
The meeting moves.
The story connects.
The family feels loved.
The music swells right on cue.

The monkeys are loud because they care.
About getting it right.
About honoring memory.
About showing up — at school, at home, at a red light with a melody forming.

I’ve learned which monkeys to listen to.
And when to close the door on the interns.

I’ve built structures sturdy enough to hold the noise.

It isn’t calm.

It’s orchestration.

It’s caffeinated jazz.

It looks like chaos, but feels like momentum.

This isn’t disorder.

It’s neurodivergent architecture.
A high-velocity idea ecosystem.

My brain sees connections others miss.
Runs parallel tracks.
Stores sensory details like museum exhibits.
Feels deeply.
Thinks quickly.
Creates constantly.

Yes, the monkeys are loud.

But they collaborate.

It is not linear.

It is orchestral.

It is caffeinated jazz.

And there is absolutely no caffeine moderation.

There’s more waiting at https://xinkblotz.com. Telling stories, sharing thoughts, and drinking coffee. A blend of fiction, reflection, and whatever’s brewing – one post at a time.