I go in for my annual labs and my blood sugar is so high the doctor sends a note outlined in red through the online portal. Over the next few years, rock candy will form in my arteries and in the chambers of my heart. At a showing of Steel Magnolias at the vintage theater, my eyelashes will glue to my cheeks, my tears turned to maple syrup. In middle age, friends will complain of their menopause symptoms and plummeting libido, but my labia will gleam, slicked with a buttercream glaze; I’ll flirt relentlessly with bag-, ball-, and bellboys. Instead of growing in gray, my hair grows out pink, a candy floss I will pile high and sticky on my head, a Kate Pierson, B-52s beehive. My husband will be delighted, tasting my marzipan skin when we kiss, reaping the benefits of my persistent buzz. Other people with the sugar disease will have kidneys that slow and decline, blurred vision, tingly feet, but I will wear platform heels and drink Shirley Temples by the pool, waving away the flies that circle lazily overhead. On my hundredth birthday, I’ll express frozen custard from my high, firm breasts, to the delight of my party guests. I’ll appear on the fourth hour of the Today Show where my thousand-watt Chicklet smile will beam into households across America, bringing hope to an ailing nation.