You Say "Neurology", I say "Urology"

One of the pitfalls of being a urologist is the knowing, often serene looks that people sometimes give you when you tell them what you do.

“So, it must be very nice to be working on the brain.”

“No, I’m not a neurologist; I’m a urologist.” I say sweetly. And if I feel reasonably comfortable with the other person: “You know, the other brain.”

It’s certainly a conversation starter. Perhaps the age of my peer group precludes the novelty of my subject matter, but I must say that I’ve never held a party crowd in such rapt attention as when I’m telling my story about the broken penis. The self-mutilation (Lorena Bobbitt-style) while using a turkey carver is a close second.

My stories hold a surprisingly universal appeal, finding grateful audience with men and women alike, though a healthy bit of horror usually laces the fascination of the former demographic. But I’m certain that my being female (moreover a normally quiet, Asian type) injects my stories with a kind of titillating tension that wouldn’t be there if a man told a similar story.

Secretly, I love these opportunities, probably because my performances are part of my rebellion against a repressed Chinese upbringing. I have to admit that part of it also has to do with the reaction that I never fail to elicit from men as I broach my more graphic content. There’s the old saying, that if you kick one guy in the balls, the eight guys who watch will instinctively protect their family jewels. The same kind of phenomenon happens when I tell my stories.

I never understood the appeal of horror writing when I was a child, but all of a sudden, perhaps I do. Horror, at least, is a guaranteed emotional reaction. I guess that’s what I aspire to when I write. That it touch people or, at the very least, interest them.