“Ten points isn’t really enough for highlights,” the inner voice says to me as I scroll through all of the day’s performers on Basketball-Reference. “Find somebody else.”
Then, before I can stop it, even before I realize what my own hands are doing, I’m gathering clips from the Heat-Bulls game. “What are you doing, man?” the voice asks. “Ten points? It’s not like anybody cares about Justin Hamilton. You’re doing this for nothing.”
I begin to sweat. I tell myself that I’m just getting these clips in case I want to make end-of-year Justin Hamilton compilations. But there’s a deeper part of me that has sniffed out that particular lie. That same part of me knows that I want to make an individual highlight video out of these clips.
“NOOO!” I yell out loud, but it’s too late; my hands are moving of their own accord, editing and combining the footage. As I stare in horror, my traitorous hands are autonomously making a highlight video! “Nobody’s going to watch it!” I shout sternly, trying to regain control of my limbs, but the anatomical mutiny continues without pause.
I sit in my chair and weep openly as the video finishes rendering, as the video thumbnail is created, as I open up the YouTube upload page. “Nobody’s going to watch Justin Hamilton score ten measly points,” I groan.
Suddenly, there is a blaring voice echoing in my head, a voice from deep within my subconscious. “HE MADE FIVE FIELD GOALS!!!!” shouts the voice, and I can see the boxscore flashing in blood-red before my eyes: “5 FGM 11 FGA 5 FGM 11 FGA” read the dripping numbers. I abruptly vomit all over my keyboard and desk, the force of the vision being too great. My ears ring, my mouth gapes, and still, my hands continue on their mission as if nothing was amiss.
The upload completes, and I can feel control of my hands being returned to my conscious brain. Exhausted, I slump forward into the puddle of my disgorged breakfast, unable to do anything other than close my eyes and fear for the next time my own body betrays me.