I guess they started doing it when I was eleven or so and first locked them up in little cloth cells. I didn't really notice at first, because they were small and not terribly loud, not to mention begrudgingly happy to have the support, but the first time I ever wore an underwire, I heard about it.
"So we're stuck here, in this totally illogical and pointlessly chaotic existence, and you want us to spend all of our time with this metal under us?" said the left one.
"Why do you always have to call existence meaningless?" the right one demanded. "Live and let God. What would Jesus do? Don't sweat the little things. It's a trial put before us to--"
"Oh, shut up!" the left one snapped, and they started bickering in loud, high-pitched voices.
I didn't really understand all this, and it seemed rather interesting at first, having these two little philosophers living on my chest. Quickly, the novelty wore off. They would keep me awake at night, alternately arguing and whining. They were complaining about their size and their bra color, and then they would start in on me about the lack of men in their life, and they also went through this weird phase where they wanted me to go to public showers so they could talk to all the other breasts. Once I realized that one of them was a manic depressive existentialist, and the other was a cheerleader-perky born-again Christian, I saw no end to my torment.
The left one is always quoting Nietzche and suddenly slumping down and sobbing about the meaninglessness of suffering in life. The right one is always quoting the Bible and telling me cloyingly cute stories straight out of those hellish Chicken Soup books. I've often wondered where this knowledge was coming from-- I tested them one day, to see if they were literate, by putting Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul in front of the left one and A Treatise on Atheism in front of the right one, but they just stared blankly for a while before going to back to whatever it was they happened to be bickering about at that moment-- so I really don't know. I've learned to tune them out most of the time, but I'm still looking for some sort of support group for girls with overly vocal breasts.
Meanwhile, my ovaries and uterus seem to be staging monthly rebellions, which are always terribly bloody in the end. They seem to be socialists, and they're tired of the capitalism going on in the rest of my body. They feel like various organs get more pay for less work, or something like that, I don't really understand it because they, on the other hand, never talk to me, and all I hear about them is hearsay from my liver. All they do is go into terrible fits and cause me excruciating pain before subsiding for another few precious weeks of strained peace. Last time my pancreas attempted to draw up some sort of peace treaty, but one of the ovaries, I'm not sure which, opened fire in the middle of the conference and killed the whole thing. Personally, I think they're bored with their own jobs, which, I must admit, aren't terribly interesting. Still, I just wonder if I shouldn't be a little more in control of this whole body thing?