Facebook says the kind of birth control I take will kill you.
Er, give you cancer.
Or mess up your kidneys.
For all intents and purposes, it can make you really, really sick.
Good! Bring it on, deathbed. I've already thought out a few choice monologues for those poor people in my life who would feel morally obligated to sit by my side for an uncomfortable hour.
I imagine it'd begin like this.
Scene: I am sitting propped up in a white hospital bed, nearing death. I am chic in the throes of the last hour, so I am wearing a silk white turban. The walls are covered in cards and inappropriate and hilarious drawings my friends and family. Any available counter space is flooded with dark pink and red peonies. There are also Christmas Lights. It I weren't dying, it'd be a cheerful place to take a nap.
Enter Ex Boyfriend Number One
ME: Hello, you.
EXBF1: Hello. You look beautiful.
ME: No I don't, but you have to say that.
EXBF1: Looks uncomfortable.
ME: Come, sit down. It's not like you will get this extremely advanced and painful cancer from the birth control I was taking so you didn't have to use a condom. God Forbid.
...fade to black...
I know, I am a terrible diva. But it is so self-gratifying and perversely satisfying: dreaming of a chance at martyrdom and full circle closure. Yes, it feels a little nuts to wish for emotional exploitation in order to deal with your current demons, but I think in coping with a feeling that is so affecting it's incomprehensible, indulging your inner Norma Desmond is just grand.
"All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up." --Sunset Blvd.