Letter from an Ear to a Brain

Dearest Brain,

Hello. This is the left ear. I'm sure you remember me. I'm the one who consistently sends messages to you through the nervous system to say, "Ouch." You know. . . those messages you consistently ignore. Hence, I thought I would try a new form of communication. Let's see if we can't come to some sort of understanding. Okay? Okay.

Here's the deal. I've put up with a lot of shit from you. A lot of shit. And frankly, I'm tired of it.

Every time you need to exert control over "your" life (remember, there are a lot of other parts of the body, you selfish dipshit) you go shoving new metal through me. Granted, I am thankful that you restrict the injection of ink to the feet, but be careful; they're getting fed up too. From what I hear (and I hear it all) they're planning their own letter soon. Just a little f.y.i. . . .

Anyway, back on track, you keep shoving new metal through me, and it doesn't feel good. Seriously. I know you didn't have control over the first piercing; that was your mom, and you were only two years old. Fine. But come on.

Since then, you've added two more piercings to my lobe, another piercing in my cartilage, and to top it all off you had to go and add an industrial. And let me just say that I especially enjoy how you get mad at me for swelling and being inflamed because it doesn't "look good."

If someone shoved a metal rod through the skull and cut off your blood flow with a piece of metal to which you are allergic, I wouldn't make fun of you for swelling; I'd praise our immune system for the swift response time. The white blood cells have been working really hard to pull that together, and I think they deserve credit.

So next time you shove metal through me, expect swelling. If you insist on wearing metal to which you know I'm allergic, expect more swelling. And expect that swelling to stay. Understood? Good.

Now, on to my second point. I would appreciate it if you would refrain from irritating said pieces of metal that have been shoved through me. For instance, going to an amusement park and riding roller coasters that send the head flying toward a hard plastic headrest, where the head proceeds to crush me and my metal is not "amusing." It is painful. Hence, I sent you a message saying, yet again, "WTFuck? That hurt!"

Did you get that message? Apparently not. Because you kept riding roller coasters. And you didn't stop to clean me or do anything to reduce my pain.

I have had it with you. Enough is enough. No more metal. No more irritation.

If I go on strike, I'm taking the right ear with me, and you can't afford hearing aids.

Got it? Good.


Sincerely yours,

Left Ear

Get this.

Background: I work in a courthouse as an intern for a county prosecutor's office.

The other day, I was walking up the stairs, toward a courtroom, to go watch yet another endless stream of monotonous and unexciting arraignments, plea agreements, and sentencing hearings, when one of the local defense attorneys looked up from his not-so-confidential hallway conversation with his client and said, "Shh."

I stopped. I looked at him. And I said, "What?" Only I didn't say, "What?" I implied it with my facial expression and a not-so-subtle move of the head.

He again repeated himself. "Shh."

I again asked, "What?" without asking, "What?"

He pointed to my feet, said, "High heels," and then, feeling that he had sufficiently explained himself, returned to his conversation with the client who was no doubt about to plead out, because that's what clients of public defenders do.

I was about to lift a pant leg to reveal the ballet-slipper-style flats I was wearing, when I decided that it would be more fun to noisily click-clack my way to the courtroom -- which, by the way, was not in session.

No one fucking "Shh"s me in my courthouse.

Asshole.