A Meditation on The Body

I hate my lungs. They ache when I feel like this. I fantasize about mad doctors, about non-human human biologists, about cannibals and sadists unconcerned with ethics. I daydream of them making a practiced, careful incision down the middle of my chest, peeling back the skin and pinning it away with straight-pins. In my mind, they take everything out of my ribcage, turning each dripping, pulsating, fresh organ over and over again in their hand, before doing what they will with it. I hate the way my lungs feel inside my body. I want them removed and crushed like grapes by someone who loves me.

I think my feet could stand to be removed as well. Hacked off at the ankles, used as stock for a soup or fertilizer for a garden. Of course, all the little bones in there would make them a chore to eat. If I need mobility at all it should come at the hands of someone else. But, ah, that is all a lie. I would be far worse off without feet, without the ability to move, to run. Maybe in the future.

Other useless body parts include the Pancreas and Liver, which I think would look divine on a little metal tray, freshly strewn from my carcass. My hands I need to write, and my eyes I need to read. I could lose parts of my brain. Hardly any of it is doing anything useful. It's just a heavy lump of electrified meat that decides it wants to feel sad four separate times a day. I don't need it.

I could lose my nose, if someone wanted to remove it. The external and internal ears I'd like to keep, however, as they're useful and I can decorate them. I'd also like to keep my lips, tongue, and teeth, even if I have nothing worthwhile to say. Maybe my teeth could be changed, if we're allowing fantasy technology here. I'd make a great vampire.

I'm sure there are more useless internal organs I'm forgetting, but that seems to be all for now. I'm alright again. Thank you for listening to me.