I watched the movie, Lucy, the other night.

Storyline: Girl gets pumped full of nootropic, cognitive enhancers, only a million times stronger, and her brain capacity goes through the roof.

Soon, she’s a kung-fu master catching bullets with her teeth while memorizing encyclopedias in different languages.

Lucy hits her cerebral “peak” and, as motivational speakers say, starts “firing on all cylinders.” At one point, Lucy says, “I’ve accessed 28% of my cerebral capacity. I can feel every living thing.”

Ugh… I don’t want to be like Lucy. I want to use less of my brain.

In the film, they talk about how we only use about 10% of our brain. Other articles claim this isn’t true, and that people use 90% of the brain’s capacity.

It doesn’t matter to me. 10% or 90%, it’s still too much.

I want to think less and notice more.

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Everyone knew what she had done and that she’d be fired. This is a true story so I won’t use her name. She was the top sales rep on the team, but she got greedy.

She found a loophole in a sales contest and gained a huge lead by cheating. This wasn’t even necessary. She had the most talent and would have won on her own, but unfortunately, she couldn’t resist.

Another employee found out and word spread like wildfire. She was the best agents I had and I was sure my boss would make me fire her.

But then my boss told me something I’ll never forget.

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After two hours, the rhythm of my foot releasing the brake to inch forward has become automatic. We roll past a line of children waving bags of candy and old women carrying pottery, but the US Border crossing remains a blurry mirage up the road. The children parade up and down the aisles of idle cars, shouting, “Tamarindo! Chamoy! En Venta!” They throw toys high into the air that spin and float while their mothers follow behind pushing carts of churros. The smell of hot dust and cinnamon seep into the driver side window and I glance into the cup holder to see how many pesos are left.

Our tires lurch in time with the cars ahead and we can hear the sound of men whistling and signaling to the children from the shade of pop-up tiendas. They garnish signs for last-minute souvenirs, each with a lower price than the one before, proving that, here in Mexico, there’s always a better deal down the road.

The border comes into the focus and we hand our passports to the agent. He looks into our sunburned eyes, glowing with exhaustion and relief, and asks, “What were you two doing in Mexico?”

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