Where Did Our Love Gogh?

In college, I used to sign e-mails "Hieronymous Bosch," after the Dutch painter. I was only somewhat familiar with his work, but his name was catchy, and the reference fit nicely with my arty self-image. Sure, my "art" consisted mostly of a campus humor column that regularly included the words "my butt," but the rules were different at 19. I was a bohemian-in-training, an artist looking for residence, and I knew the perfect Valentine's Day act would be to cut off my ear.

Unfortunately, I wasn't truly tortured -- damn that happy childhood! -- and Reservoir Dogs had left me a little queasy. So I got some craft-savvy friends to help me build an acceptable facsimile out of Fimo, which I presented to my girlfriend.

To me, the ear was a symbolic re-creation of the art world's most blisteringly sincere romantic outpouring, the quintessential summation of my love and devotion. My girlfriend said it was cute. That should have been my signal that we were on different wavelengths . . . and that my artistic posturing was a lot of bullshit. Later that week, I changed my e-mail name to Professor Cookie Monster and never looked back.