Chase Me With Pitchforks

I do not do well with physical ailments. A whiner by nature, I am only borderline able to deal with papercuts without the people around me wanting to slice out my tongue (which I am sure they would if they didnt think that it might just make me bitch even louder). Along with an unnaturally loud aversion to pain, I also hate physical abnormalities, particularly on my own pretty face. So when Dr. Death yanked out the wiser parts of my molars and left me looking like the cheek equivalent of the elephant man, I had no choice...

I officially became a recluse. I skulked around my apartment, sucking down Go!gurts and Trader Joe's applesauce like its going out of style. I watched Fried Green Tomatoes 3 times in the last three days. I also stared at myself in the mirror for the more solid part of 24 hours. Not because Im vain (ok, I am) but more so to get a better idea of what I would look like if only my face gained 80 pounds.

I realized the true extent of both my vanity and similarity in plot line to Frankenstein when I peered out into the sunlight to check my mail in between doses of vicodin. Shielding my eyes from the brightness, ( I resisted the urge to hobble for a more dramatic effect) I got half way before I saw my cute new neighbor and made a mad dash (also devoid of hobbling) back into my cave...er apartment.

Because this is what happens when you trap a narcissistic english major alone in her apartment.