Ill-Fated

Alas, all of the doctors' diagnoses and recommendations and prescriptions came to a head this week. Being but eleven years old and having a man with cold hands prod your neck, take some blood, and conclude that you would be taking a pill every morning for the rest of your life to make up for your body's insuffiency is perhaps overwhelming, but manageable. Being nineteen and having a very obese but particularly intelligent man tell you that one pill a day is going to become closer to six... It's a bit frustrating. I hate it, but I can deal with it.

Here's me dealing with it:



And here is my lovely doctor: