I just finished reporting to my branch at the 9am all-staff news briefing, and it was hell. Usually I am a confident, capable reporter: head up, shoulders back, eye contact, projecting my voice, making jokes. Today I wore oversized black clothing to work, shuffled in head down, read straight from the paper at high speed, making all sorts of verbal blunders, and left the meeting as soon as possible. Why? Because.

All I can focus on is the fact that I look like some twisted, uglified version of Angelina Jolie. I have a terrible cold sore on my upper lip. They make me look horrific, and right now I’m shy and embarassed and excruciatingly self-conscious. It’s vain and petty and shallow, but just I can’t help myself. I hate them. I’ve been getting them on and off ever since I was a little girl, and there’s nothing you can do except wait them out. They come out of the blue, and they stay for as long as they like, and for the duration of their stay I regress back into my most vulnerable teen self.

This isn’t something can cure with orange juice. It’s just one of those stupid things I have to deal with on my own. Except I’m supposed to go out and do something fun tonight with Justin, but really all I want to do is stay in and hide my repulsive face from the world. I don’t want to cancel, but I also don’t want anyone to see me like this. Sigh.

Must. Conquer. Vanity.

Anyone got a functional pair of lips they’re not using that I could borrow for a couple of days? Maybe could put that on her list of cybernetic prostheses we’re going to build to make ourselves better, stronger, faster. Amy gets a bionic ankle, and get bionic stomachs, I get bionic lips, and all’s well with the world.