For two millennia and change, you have been subjected to unsolicited opinions about your body type—weird or ideal or distorted or stylized or Mommy, they didn’t really look like that, did they? or, more recently, body positivity icon or thicc queen with a thigh gap but no hip dip—and you listen day after day to people debating whether you’re a fertility figurine or a funerary object (as if you have anything in common with a fucking urn) while you gaze back at them from your glass case in a museum named partly for a man but primarily for a street named for a second man, and the only version of you that can ever return home is a picture postcard for sale in the gift shop: your anonymous, two-dimensional self, your smile a crescent moon tipped over onto its back.