Fourteen days ago, I signed away my life to the power of antibiotics. I haven’t been this sick since childhood, when I would miss a month of school and flounder in bed, caught in the haze of fever and the stench of ear drops, worrying that I’d have to see the special doctor and be subjected to his special instruments of death (i.e., the ear vacuum). And the doctors always lied to me. They always promised they would stop if it hurt. And I would cry and sqeal when the pain became too much, but they wouldn't stop the machine. And I would squeeze my eyes shut, and tears would roll across my face and onto the paper sheet. And Mom would sit there blank-faced, staring straight into a wall.

Walking into a doctor's office two weeks ago for the first time in forever (aside from the yearly girl visits), I was so angry at having been betrayed by my own body. I thought I had made some unconscious agreement with my humors. I thought it was binding. I wanted so much to walk out of there, to let my nose fall off if it wanted to- I didn't care. But I succumbed to the pain and to common sense and even persuaded myself to fill the stupid prescription. And I loathe taking pills, especially when they make my body all sketchy and angry.

But my lover is sweet and forgiving, and honorably tolerates the state of the bedroom and its chaos. I have made a deathbed for myself and I'm lying in it, and I refuse to budge.

I have also realized that I have vanity *issues*. When my nose and cheeks swelled up and I looked like Elephant Girl, I cried. I still don't look right. I just want to go back to looking plain and unassuming, when no one turned around to get a better look at what was wrong with my face. I don't want to be looked at anymore, really. And all the people on the bus can stick it. I just want to be ignored, like before. And if it makes me vain to sulk about it, then I guess I'm vain. And I never understood how easy I had it.