As I left my third fruitless job interview in two weeks, I cursed my ugly ears. The interviewer kept checking her watch to let me know I was wasting her time. Then, pulling her dyed hair back with her manicured fingers, as if with casual boredom, to reveal the clean, professional stubs that were the vestiges of her ears, she’d said, “You’re just not who we’re looking for.”

Instead of going straight home to mope, I moped around downtown. There was slushy old snow everywhere, a gray slurry of traffic effluvia. People were walking around holding bloody bandages to the sides of their heads. On the sidewalk in front of a bar, birds were eating pieces of frozen puke.

Entering the bar, I was immediately confronted by an improbable number of TVs. On each screen, the smiling mouth of the famous Dr. Gogol of Johns Hopkins formed vowels and consonants:

“…relied on emotional appeals and misinformation to discourage rational people. People who understand that only the dead weight of old habits stands between them and a new life of popularity and success.”

“And isn’t it the case,” said Katie Couric, also smiling, “that by keeping their ears they’re putting others at risk, public health-wise?”

“Yes. The fleshy, protruding outer ears are prolific breeders of bacteria. And when these people touch their ears, you know, when they put their fingers in their ears, and then they shake your hand, well you can see how it impacts you.”

I was beginning to attract the attention of several customers. Someone hissed, drunkenly, “Hey flesh-head.” I decided to hurry on my way.

Walking by Walgreen’s a few blocks later, I noticed a window display for their At Home Ear-Removal Kits. They were on sale, so I went in and got one. The cashier encouraged me, saying she’d used one on herself and it was easy.

I read the instructions carefully before I did it. It only took a few minutes, and there was only a little blood.

A week later, I went to another interview, and I was hired on the spot. And everything’s been going great for me ever since, especially now that the dreams don’t come as often as they used to. Success aside, being chased night after night through dark streets by a gang of bloody four-foot-tall Q-Tips has been hard to get used to. But I’ve always been the adaptable type.