Letters To My Organs
07.22.2005

Dear Feet,

I know you have a difficult job. I know you're cranky from having to lug around mumblemumblerhubarb pounds every day, all day, 24/7. While I know it takes a lot out of you, do you think perhaps you could take a little more care with your appearance? You've let yourself go, and I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you're starting to appear distinctly mutant-like. There's no way you'll be getting any action from anyone looking like that. Nobody will even want to clip your nails, let alone massage you. After all, you look contagious. And what's with the no nail thing going on with the pinky toes? Sure, they're slightly deformed and have one less joint than most toes, but do you have to punish them by making them walk around naked? It's quite disconcerting. The peeling has also got to stop. You really have to quit changing your mind and just pick an outfit, for fuck's sake.

Dear Skin,

Yes, I just started taking the pill a month ago. Yes, it does silly, strange things to me and makes you feel all oogy. No, you don't have to erupt in some kind of throwback to pubescence, which leads onlookers to suspect I never bathe myself. I'm 35 fucking years old. I do not break out. Get it straight.

Oh, and sorry about the stretchmarks everywhere. Yes, I know you've ended up looking like a deranged roadmap, but it really wasn't my doing. Talk to Brain. Brain's the one that requires the steroids, and the steroids cause the sudden weight gain, and the sudden weight gain causes the stretchmarks. Sure, you may look like you were once pregnant with a 13-month-old baby who managed to roam around my entire body before being delivered, but which would you prefer to become: a stretchmark-riddled wrapping around a monstrous gut and buttocks, or a svelte, attractive, clingy package around a rotting corpse?

Dear Bronchial Passages,

I think you and Esophagus have to get together and work out your differences. You both have very clear, delineated tasks - you take in the air, Esophagus takes in the food - and it's really not good for my health when the two of you lose your sense of boundaries and start trying to do each other's job. There's only so much endless burping after a meal and choking on a tuna sandwich a girl can take, after all.

Dear Stomach,

You can't possibly still be hungry, so shut the fuck up. I also don't appreciate your constant complaints when I finally do give you what you want. If you want food, want it. Don't spend the next 2 hours grumbling about presentation. What's more, is it really necessary to produce enough stomach acids to fill an outdoor swimming pool, and do you really have to keep vomiting them up into my esophagus if I even put a little too much pepper on my eggs? They're digestive fluids - they are not designed to eat through concrete.

Dear Bowel,

I really only need to say one thing to you - what the fuck?!? You seriously need some therapy, bucko. First of all, no one likes you. No one likes talking about you. Certainly nobody likes talking about your job. But you don't do your job, now do you? And is there any reason you don't do your job? Nooooo. The doctors have all checked. You have no basis for your constant tantrums. You are not being attacked, you are not sick or injured - you're perfectly, completely healthy. So what's with the periodic bouts of dysentary, huh? What the hell is the problem with tomatoes, onions, garlic, spices, coffee, chocolate, bananas, and, frankly, any food you haven't had to deal with for a few months? Do you know how annoying it is to try and have a nice romantic dinner out when I always have to explain to my date not to worry either about my sudden doubling over in pain 15 minutes after our meal or my need to sit so damn close to the public washrooms? There is no romance in spontaneous colonic spasming and sudden loss of bowel control. Trust me, you'll have a hard time even finding a fetishist who's into that. I could have bought a house with the money I've spent on Immodium over the years.

Dear Joints,

Please take note of the transparent overlay enclosed. Pay particular attention to your original mechanical design. That's right - you're not actually supposed to bend that way. It would be much appreciated if you worked on getting the logistics straight, particularly in my ankles and knees while I'm casually walking down the street. Pratfalls in the middle of busy intersections are not healthy for any of us. And if you don't like being snapped roughly back into shape, then stop slipping out of it, for fuck's sake. Just because I'm resting my bent arm on the desk for a few hours doesn't mean you have impunity to completely relax and just let my elbow go whatever damn direction it pleases. It's important for me to actually be able to unbend my arm when the time comes without grabbing my wrist in my other hand and wrenching my arm straight. While you and I both know it doesn't hurt, houseguests do not, and they tend to react rather dramatically to the sight and sound of someone manually relocating their own right elbow.

Dear Heart and Lungs,

I offer my sincere apologies for starting to smoke again, and my deepest shame at not quite being able to quit again. It's bad enough you have to distribute enough energy to the rest of my organs to support my massive weight, but then I go and tar and feather you. You don't deserve it, and I will do everything in my power to make it up to you.

Right after I finish this cigarette.

Dear Spine,

It's not my fault that when surgeons were trying to fix you, they introduced a staph infection that required further surgery and the removal of some muscle tissue that gives you support. Sometimes we have to learn to live with new support systems. Stop fucking complaining and get over it. So you're an inch shorter than you used to be. I'm several inches wider because you laid me up in bed for almost a year. Tell it to someone who cares.

Dear Peripheral Nervous System,

Those nerves down my left leg may be damaged (attached is a copy of my letter to Spine for your information), and this may make you feel incomplete and starved for attention, but you're not fooling anyone by sending urgent messages to my brain that my foot is on fire. I mean, really. If you're going to fuck around, don't you think you could pick something that's not quite so easy to disprove? The foot's right there. I just have to look down to realize that there is no smoke, there are no flames, that there isn't even a smoldering ember anywhere in the vicinity. Hey, what about the sensation of insects crawling up my back? Now that would be a great way to get attention. Just cut it out with the excruciating burning foot routine, OK? I'm not Moses, you're not the Almighty, and those toes ain't the ten commandments. Just give it up.

Actually, I'm not finished with you yet. There's one other big issue I have with you. It's possibly not all your doing - Genes could have something to do with it, and they'll be getting a letter from me next. After all, it isn't just me - it's my mother, her mother, my older brother and sister - so obviously there's a pattern developing. However, restless leg syndrome is not funny. Oh yeah, I can hear you giggling. I'm sure it looks just hilarious to watch me go to bed at night and 5 minutes later start frantically shaking and throwing my legs around, up in the air, side to side, sometimes for hours on end. Hey, I'm sure you think it's just a gas to make it so bad I'm doomed to pace around the apartment at 3 am feeling as if a colony of spiders has made a nest in my ass, got together for a wee spiderlike housewarming party, ended up a little sloshed, and are now doing the funky chicken all the way down my legs. I'm not laughing. Cut it out.

Dear Genes,

I agree - my parents must be related to each other. There's no other way to explain the mess you're in. That is, unless I grew up in a home situated atop an abandoned toxic waste dump. Just try to hold it together until I die, OK? I promise I won't be passing you on to some other unsuspecting human.

Dear Ovaries,

It's over. I'm sorry. I tried to make it work with you, but all you do is take up space and bitch a lot. Those gene packets you've been toting around and sneakily releasing into my uterus every month - that's completely uncalled for. I've applied for the necessary permits, and construction workers should be coming by in the next few months to wall you in. I'm sorry it has come to this, but it's the only way we can live in the same home together.

Dear Clitoris and Vagina,

We've always had a mutually loving relationship. You're two of my favourite bits, and I have never taken issue with the amount of attention with which you've needed to be lavished. However, if you ask me one more time, "Are we there yet?" while jumping up and down excitedly, we're going straight home with no ice cream. Understood? Yes, my lover is coming - pun intended - in less than 2 weeks, and I realise you're full of anticipation and all, but I'm developing carpal tunnel syndrome from the repetitive stress on my right hand. You try explaining that one to my family physician.

Dear Brain,

There is nothing I can do for you. You need professional help. Even then, it doesn't look good. My condolences.

Yours sincerely,

Smoog


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Last 5 entries:
01.14.2007:Finally, a support group we can all get behind
01.09.2007:The City That Ever Reeks
01.08.2007:Waiter, there's a uterus in my soup
01.03.2007:Long Lost Mummy of Nefertiti Found in Smoog's Apartment
12.30.2006:New Year's resolutions we can actually keep



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