I fear I cannot hear, my dear

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Revision as of 14:49, 22 July 2005 by Morbus Iff (Talk | contribs)
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Have you ever wished something away?
Decided that facing the facts were just too much?
Does your husband recall not a word of what you just said?
If so and you need a friend, come to Rin-tin-tinynomous!
--HANDBAG advertisement on local bulletin board.

Have you ever looked at something long enough and realized that it is both getting simpler and more complicated at the same time? This instrument with which I write: upon closer inspection, it is just a wooden cyclinder with graphite inside. Just that, but as I look closer, I can see the grain of the wood, a few indents from my most recent Worrying, and a splinter hoping for a gouging of my sweet, sweet flesh. Just a wooden cyclinder, indeed.

It is with this complicated simplicity that one can explain rin-rin-tinitus or, more commonly, I fear I cannot hear, my dear. Quite simply, it causes hearing loss at seemingly random times, while also covering the sufferer in colored bumps. This malignia lasts upwards of a lifetime, though often disappears along with the loss of a loved one or longtime companion. Besides enforced vacations from everything you claim to love, there is no known cure. Neither are there any more real facts. On its face, a simple disease with simple symptoms and simple (often desired) solutions.

But, the closer you examine its symptoms when related to the world around us, some interesting correlations can be held. The idea that a Bump of the Night transfers the disease through mere touch, and that said Bump is entwined in the Conflict That Is Not Happening, correlates the hearing loss to the same ignorance that has made the Conflict what it is today. And, though it is claimed "popular", how many fake the illness solely to escape the daily chores or the lavishing of gifts onto their wives? Enough certainly, to cause HANDBAG to expand their feminine support groups from not only blindness, but also to hearing loss, fumbly fingers, wandering eyes, and cleanliness.

Perhaps oddest, however, is the selective qualities of the disease: suggest something negative and it'll be all 'eh, what's that now?'. Something positive however, such as delicious lemming pie, and the illness seems nothing more than a figment of the bearer's imagination pushed brusquely aside. Mention the dishes, however, and wham, bam, 'what's that ma'am?'

Citations: HANDBAG, Lemming pie, Worrying.

--Morbus Iff 14:49, 22 Jul 2005 (EDT)

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