Remarks about ear wax, cotton swabs

I've spent a lot of time mastering the art of ear cleanliness. I'm no slouch where the cotton swabs are concerned, no, I wield them like a samurai's sword hacking away at the rich, creamy wax which daily accumulates in my ear canals. There are just no words to properly describe my skill. I used to trumpet the fact on my resume, bragging to the world, "behold, here is a man who knows a thing or two about proper ear hygiene." I often catch myself smiling at the thought of my inimitable ear-cleaning talents. I feel that all is right in the universe, that I've found my true calling. While my teeth may be caked in butter-yellow tartar, my nostrils overgrown with raggedy clots of hair, my nails frayed and caked with dirt and oils, I never worry about the state of my ears; they gleam and glisten like ceramic cylinders, at a certain angle the light which reflects from their sheer, unblemished surfaces can blind a person. Watch out ye who gapes at the angelic purity of my ears.

It's not just my severe standards which make me so great at ear cleaning but the style, the flick and twitch of my wrist which mark me as a true master of the form. Someone happening to watch the spectacle would be taken unawares, perceiving only a slight breeze as I deftly probed the folds and creases, spinning my swabbed spear like a cotton candy vendor at a carnival. Before they knew what had happened I would display the swab proudly, a large quantity of brown paste artfully gathered at its tip. "Can I try?" they would instinctively ask, and I would answer, "No! You fool, the harvesting of ear wax is for the seasoned veteran, not a wide-eyed fledgling like yourself. Give me your ear!" They would do so, the authority vested in my unique skills compelling them like a cobra hypnotized by the flitting notes of its charmer. Clasping their head in my hand, I would retrieve a fresh cotton swab from my holster and with not a moment's hesitation mount a frenzied attack on their wax-infested corridors. First one swab, then another, indeed a third I would employ to carry out the job, each collecting an equal share of moist, amber ear sap. The job done, the unexpecting patient would rush to pay me for this service, but would refrain after noticing my somber grimace, which states more clearly than words: "An artist scorns your filthy lucre."

In my dreams, cotton swabs march before me in a long procession. I can hear no music to keep them in time, yet they move in perfect order much like the walking hammers in a Pink Floyd video. Like scissors connected at a fulcrum they march along, one pair after another in a seemingly endless chain. I feel the emotion swelling up inside me, I stare in wonder at the profound functional beauty of these simple implements of ear upkeep. Suddenly I taste salt and I realize that I'm quietly sobbing, and for some reason this causes me to break into a terrible wail, the tears and snot flowing down my face like flooded rivers. Out of the depths of the dream silence my sobbing becomes increasingly audible, and as this happens I begin to wake. I am awake, and am sobbing, my pillow and blankets are soaked in tears and sinus mucous. Without a conscious thought I throw off the blankets and race to the bathroom. There, mounted as always on its special shelf is my home-made cotton swab box. I urgently but gently draw its lid open and look in rapturous joy at the abundant columns of neatly arranged cotton swabs. Carefully, I take one from its place, and though my vision is clouded by tears, I stare at it gratefully. I clutch the slender be-cottoned tool close to my chest and return to bed and there return to sleep, cradling my Q-tip like a child does a teddy bear.