Letter from Mr. Left

Dear Tanya,

Being the ever observant, helpful brain that I am, I've noticed that since the Bangkok floods have threatened our dry little world with fears of crocodiles rising from the sewers and cockroaches turning white walls black, you haven't had so much work. In fact you've had a bit too much time to meander.
 
So this morning while I was busy reminding you of some sad memories about your unfulfilled desires and filing them back in alphabetical order, it occurred to me that you're not living the life you should be. I only had this realisation because I was flicking through a magazine when that girl you know appeared. You remember the one, she's younger, more beautiful, looks like a doll - she hated you because you had the lead role in that shitty community play. Remember? Well she made something of herself. She's a somebody now. Very successful. And only 24 with a handful of supporting roles under the direction of some really impressive international directors. Everyone just loves her.

Anyway the moment I turned off the television, I thought about your 'arty' career that's crossed so many different mediums like ballet and fashion design and I thought to myself, how it's really quite pathetic. You never really made any money or much of an name for yourself and what's even more funny was that every time you'd get really good at doing whatever it was you were doing, you'd quit or change paths.

I suppose I was to blame in some ways. I had painted you all those glorious and famous scenes of your future success but let's face it after a certain amount of time nothing happened. Did it? Of course I had to burst your bubble and keep telling you it wasn't going to happen. I was worried... for the both of us.
I understand you may still be angry over that but I don't regret all those 'taunts', as you called it. You have to understand I didn't want you to be a loser your whole life, it would make me look bad. So that's why I'm imploring you to be a little more driven at making a career that will make money and to join the status quo because people will see your success and feel comfortable at the same time.

Look there's no point thinking about what I'm saying. Just do it. Let me be the one to make decisions. I know what's best.

And a few other things, which I've organised into point form so that it's easier for you:
1: Drink some more wine every day and stop controlling it at only one. It's not helping.
2: Forget trying to meditate. It just doesn't work. I don't know how many times I have to tell you.
3: Stop recording your dreams. I have no idea what the hell Mrs. Right is attempting to communicate.
4: And buy some more pineapple for the smoothies, for Gods sake.


I trust you will comply. It will just make everything the way it should be. Won't it?

Sincerely,

Mr. Left

Letter to a good brain.

Dear Mrs. Right,

Whether you are aware of it or not, which I believe you are, Mr. Left, has been overstepping his mark for quite some time with his obstreperous and unbearably controlling behaviour. He has been consistently causing trouble with a most despicable audacity, as though he was the only brain on the block.

I know that you don't really see him as a problem, probably because you're just one of those brains that never sees any problem, but I didn't know who else to turn to.

I've tried leaving post-it notes around and a sketch pad and pencil in the hope that after grokking one of the many pictorial or written messages I've left strewn about the house, he'll take a few more holiday's during the course of a day. But you know him, he's simply unyielding, claiming that he's got a tight ship to run and that there's no time to lose if we have to get 'there'.

I had no idea where 'there' was, and unfortunately before I even had time to articulate the question he was reminding me of a horrible memory and linking this memory's events to many more times that consequently followed the beginning, telling me how perturbed and burdened I must be by this pattern that was obviously emerging for a cataclysmic ending. And the worst thing all, was that he was also checking off the grocery checklist in the supermarket - as though the words he had said didn't mean anything more than; can of corn, check.

Naturally I couldn't handle it and when I wheeled towards the canned tuna section, three strides on, I started crying. Blubbering like some giant baby, actually. It was horrible, standing there for a good ten minutes or so I felt so alone, so completely alone. A rotund woman consoled me in a torso of bosoms, saying that she understood and not to cry because they have ordered the organic tuna for next week but I knew then after I shouted abuse at this strange woman holding me, that I had to write to you.

There's got to be something that we can devise together to oust this guy out. I've thought about it for a long time and I understand that it may be an ineffable experience for you because of the sheer nature of your indirect and flexible ways although I'm willing to take the risk and move all my things out of Mr. Left's house, if that's what it takes.

I wait patiently for your answer...

Your loyal friend,

Tanya