On 23 December 1888, Vincent van Gogh cut off his left ear while he was visiting a local brothel. He wrapped the severed ear in newspaper and handed it to a prostitute named Rachel, asking her to "keep this object carefully." Had Rachel been a modern-day hooker, she could have made a killing on ebay and the horisontal tango could have become just a hobby.
When I first heard that story, as a kid, I couldn't figure out why anyone would do such a thing. Now I think I have a pretty good idea. Itchy ears. A couple of weeks ago, I went to see the doctor because my right ear was itching so much, it was as if a small worm was trying to dig its way into my brain. The doctor gave me medicine to be dripped into my ear three times a day for one week and every once in a while, I was also supposed to rinse my ear with a small, red rubber balloon.
Don't even get me started on the bloody balloon.
Mister Chooch graciously agreed to help me with the dripping, since I kept getting medicine everywhere BUT in my ear. It's harder than it looks, you know. It's not as if you can actually see that little hole. It would have been easier if I'd been a seal or something. After a few days of that, the itch decided to creep through my brain while I was sleeping (that's my theory) and settle in my OTHER ear. Isn't that just wonderful? Now both my ears are full of meds and cotton, and I'm as deaf as a post.
Another week of this, and I'll just go ahead and van Gogh myself.