This, of course, was predominantly because of my physical state: my messy, unwashed hair, the bags under my eyes, and the loose, flannel pyjamas I couldn’t be bothered to climb out of for weeks at a time. But it also had to do with this one persistent little spot on my forehead whose presence irked me constantly. It was a zit, or so I thought, until I realized that no matter how much I restrained myself from picking at it, nor how much gusto with which I did pick at it , it wouldn’t go away. I poked, I prodded, and I did everything in my power to keep from panicking when Google did that thing that Google does best and told me that yeah, girl, you’ve got cancer.