Struck down by the hand of fate...

Yesterday, while I was shaving, I first noticed that I had a disgusting growth on my face. It sat perhaps four inches east-south-east of my chin and was roughly the size of a pea. After appraising it carefully, checking out several internet sites, and consulting the opinions of a few health professionals, it was diagnosed as an ingrown hair, which–given time--would go away on its own. This soothed my worry that it might grow to the size of a grapefruit and necessitate hours of intensive surgical removal, but it did not clear up my self-consciousness. How could it? Today I again will shuffle through my life with a throbbing, pus-filled beacon dangling from my face, an unsightly mass of tissue and fluid that screams out to all passer-by “Look at me! Look at my hideousness! Aren’t you horrified! Aren’t you glad you aren’t this guy, forced to go through his everyday routine bearing this unsightly boil?”

There are few options left to me if I want to have a normal Saturday. I think go against strict medical advice and pop it. It might hurt a bit, and maybe even bleed some, but it’ll be worth it just for the relief of finally rejoining the ranks of the non-deformed.

Does that sound vain?