An Open Letter to My Penis

Dear My Penis, a.k.a. Staff Sgt. Max Fightmaster, a.k.a. the Master That Knows No Mercy, a.k.a. the Ender of Things, a.k.a. the Flaming Chinchilla,

We've had a good long run. Wound up in some interesting places because of you. Wound up in some unfortunate places because of you. Was embarrassed at the podium in 7th grade because of you. And again in 9th grade. For exact same reasons, was made quite proud because of you in 11th grade.

But, it is official. You are a sandbagging son of a bitch, and I just don't have to take this any more, constantly overextending us into positions that are thoroughly untenable. You have finally crossed the line. Her dad is in the Queen's Household Guard. He threatened to gut us with the regimental sabre. You saw it. You were there.

I will tolerate no more of this. As a result, I am officially, and for the first time, transferring governance of my body, life, and personal effects, away from you, and to my brain.

Best Regards,
You