Dear Becky: An Open Letter From the Mass In Your Left Breast

May 14, 2010
In Response to Your Letter: To the Trespasser Inside My Left Breast


Dear Becky,

First, we'd like thank you for your hospitality.  Your temperate 98.6 degree environment has suited us perfectly, as has the nourishment provided by your steady diet of sugar, caffeine and alcohol.  (Some members of our faction would have you know that they prefer Malbec to Merlot, but we digress.)  Furthermore, the days you go braless provide us much amusement.  It's like a fun park ride in here.  (Some members of our faction would like to make you aware of their tendency toward motion sickness.  They recommend La Perla Intimates [available at Nordstrom] or the Spanx Bra-llelujah.)


Secondly, we'd like to inform you that we are of peace, always.  (That's right.  We can hear everything in here.  That V show on TV is awesome!  Tell us, do you think the lizard baby birth scene will be as good as the 1980's version?)  (Some members of our faction kindly ask that you stop Tivo-ing True Blood.  We hate those fake southern accents.)  (Also, we really enjoy Grey's Anatomy.  When the brave doctors discover a Hail Mary miracle cure for some kid with cancer your resulting crying-provoked estrogen rush is positively exhilarating.  We're STILL talking about the one where the mother AND the baby die in childbirth.)


Our point is, we mean you no harm.  We don't even know how we got here, nor do we fully understand this biological imperative to reproduce uncontrollably.  (We're kind of like teenagers that way.  Really, we just want to crash on your couch for a little bit.  All this reproduction is EXHAUSTING.)  And like teenagers, we really don't fully understand who we are quite yet.  Remember when we watched The Matrix on USA a couple weeks back?  We might perceive, like you, that we're an invasive, uncontrollable mass of ever-replicating cells with an undeniable compulsion to invade adjacent tissues, wreak havoc on all your organ systems and, ultimately, eradicate you.  (No offense.  We kind of like you.)   But the reality might very well be that we've been duped by a race of all-powerful, artificially intelligent machines (i.e., the WebMD symptom checker) and that we're actually just a hormone-provoked cyst that will dissipate of its own volition in about two weeks.  (Yes, we heard you doctor's explanation.  She's a regular Morpheus, isn't she?)   


Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself in your upcoming mammogram.  (Which, by the way, we are REALLY not looking forward to.  We hear they're even more constricting than your sports bra.)


Until then, good hostess, we suggest avoiding caffeine, your husband, lying on your stomach, and running up and down the stairs with your usual vigor. 


Also, we have requests from several among us that you start watching Glee.  We hear it's freakin' HILARIOUS. 


Affectionately and Indefinitely Yours,
The Goodwill Ambassadors of the Breast Mass of Questionable Significance