So I’m sitting there with my ears completely blocked, right? And I’m thinking – this is it, this is how I die. Not from some noble cause or even a decent disease with a respectable name, but from ear blockage. I mean, what kind of epitaph is that? “Here lies a man who couldn’t handle basic auditory maintenance.” My mother would plotz.

The sensation is like being trapped inside my own head – which, let’s face it, is already a pretty crowded and neurotic place to begin with. It’s like my brain is hosting a very exclusive, very boring cocktail party where all the guests are my own anxious thoughts, and now they’re all talking at once in muffled whispers. I keep doing this pathetic head-tilt thing, like some demented cocker spaniel, thinking maybe Newton’s laws will succeed where modern medicine has failed me.

Of course, how did I get this way? Through what my analyst would call “compulsive self-sabotage with small objects.” I started innocently enough with a Q-tip – just basic grooming, very civilized. But then I became obsessed, like Ahab with his whale, except my white whale was a piece of earwax the size of a grain of rice. I escalated to bobby pins, tiny screwdrivers – basically anything that could fit in an ear canal became a potential archaeological tool in my desperate quest for acoustic clarity.

And what treasures did I unearth from these cranial excavations? A museum of personal failure: ancient Cheerios that probably predated my last relationship, dust colonies that had apparently formed their own socialist government, mystery seeds that made me question my entire dietary history, and – I’m not making this up – what appeared to be a miniature sock. How does a sock end up in your ear? This is the kind of existential question that keeps me up at night.

The coup de grâce was finding a fortune cookie slip that read “Help will come from unexpected places.” Even my blocked ears were being passive-aggressive. I mean, what’s next – my sinuses start leaving me Post-it notes about my commitment issues?