A great while ago I came to the conclusion that I shared the passages, tunnels and corridors of existence with a lonely and sometimes embittered object. I pictured it with eyes and teeth, but I could never see it, I could only ever feel it or hear it. For a while I was able to think of it as traveling through my veins and arteries, and when it became particularly anxious it would lodge itself in my wing, or my knee, or my heel, or up and down my back and along one or other of my thighs, or in the more elegant of my two wrists. And there was little doubt in my mind that somewhere just to the south of my ears this object was attempting to reproduce. I chose to think this because it certainly spent a great many of it's waking hours on that particular street corner, loitering around the base of my skull, where I could hear it croon and catcall, gnash its teeth and I imagine it winked at passersby.
Then, - (and this was many years ago, in the last century when a medical professional would shake your hand, say hello, and at least give off the impression that you were something other than a minor flow in the game of wits between themselves and the insurance industry) - I fell to a dizziness that suggested I might have a brain aneurism, which, it was explained to me, was like a hemorrhoid in the head. Or, the medical professional continued in that excited way, it was possible I could have very expensive brain tumor developing, and this, it was explained to me, might be better understood by a lay person as a whole lot of stuff growing uncontrollably inside someone's head. Or, the medical professional sighed, it could turn out to be nothing more than something a layman would call 'not worth the paper work.' Back then of course I was innocent and rather sweet, and prone to suggestion, much moved by peer pressure and the interpretation of others. Now days I prefer to speak "me." And over the years, my friend, the embittered object, has clearly had many spritely children, one of whom now resides happily in my right shin.