Start counting calories. You have been a compulsive eater your entire life, sneaking oatmeal cream pies into your bedroom under your shirt. You are fourteen and in orbit.
Declare your own Ash Wednesday. Decide today that it is time to get physical. Do not doubt this logic. Always rely on your mother to compliment your outfits.
Declare your own Ash Wednesday. Decide today that it is time to get physical. Do not doubt this logic. Always rely on your mother to compliment your outfits.
Accept every friend request you receive on Facebook. A boy will add you as you are just about to “graduate” from middle school. Quickly approve him. Ask yourself why his profile picture was taken from such an absurd angle. “Like” it regardless.
Reacquaint yourself with the art of crawling and, when you meet him by the Build-A-Bear and Sunglass Hut of your local shopping mall, drop to your knees a bit too soon. Realize that when he asks what hand you use, he is not talking about writing. He is 17, after all. This is the day Michael Jackson dies.
After 8 days, briefly break up with him and approve more friend requests. Get yourself up to date on swag. Stop eating entirely for days at a time. Tell yourself you have more people to impress now than your oblivious mother.
Start high school. Meet a senior boy and ask him to open your locker. Do not pack a lunch. Say his number out loud in a booth at McDonald’s a few weeks later and do not be surprised when one of your friends calls him. Consider making new friends.
Meet said boy in a parking lot. Smile at the right times. Allow him to play as many show-tunes as he wants. Do not complain about missing 90210 either, because you will stop watching anyways.
Go back and forth a bit. You are graceful as a beached whale. Never date the second boy, but play hard to get with the first. Subconsciously take advantage of his daddy issues. You will understand later. Your weight drops dramatically.
Swear it’s over every time it’s over. The second boy will buy a new car. You will never sit in it. The first boy will text the second boy for a booty call. Laugh at this and open the fridge. Intend to delete his number.
Begin writing poetry. Double up on Math classes so you won’t have to senior year. Nearly delete the folders of novels you wrote in middle school but decide not to, one about a boy with exercise bulimia and another about two pregnant girls who develop an inappropriate friendship. Assure yourself that none of your friendships quite function this way, and not just because, though you may look it, you are not pregnant.
Meet a third boy at a party the beginning of your sophomore year. See him dancing across a room and say something to one of your friends about him being a big queer, but still smile when a girl comes over and tells you he wants your shit. Slowly weave toward him. Dance like an anachronism. Sweat everywhere. Give him your number. Be grateful you haven’t eaten all day. Approve his friend request.
Be surprised when he tells you a few days before the New Year that he cheated on you with two freshman from his school. Have an anxiety attack in your friend’s kitchen and spend an unnecessary amount of time looking at your reflection in the stove door. Do not break up with him. Call your mother and drive through McDonald’s.
Write angry songs on the ukulele and fail Geometry. Sit with your dog every day after school and cry about your incredible misfortune and the size of your thighs. Join an Internet army of malnourished girls and pretend this is making new friends. Break up with him.
Months pass. Sleep for no less than 10 hours every night. Go bowling with the first boy during a school vacation and finally question your motives, but not before watching every episode of Ellen in his bedroom and saying nothing when his body above yours is like a monster truck running over a toddler. Stop answering his text messages. Start seeing a therapist.
Visit Canada. Wander Niagara Falls with a boy it would be easier if you liked and ponder suicide, or buying a bong. Find a movie about dominatrices on television costarring Rosie O’Donnell and laugh so loud you pull a muscle in your neck. Sleep as far away from him as possible.
Reach your breaking point. When you get home, approve a friend request. Remember “meeting” this boy two years ago, not long after the first. Remember their connection. Realize every boy you ever meet will be connected to the first. Think that you may as well save yourself the trouble and willingly make your way to the kitchen. Tell yourself, 2 years later, to shut the fuck up.
Start dating this new boy in early July. Meet his mom. Take more trains than you can count. Stay in the bathroom for hours the night of his birthday party with one of his best friends, holding them upright as they vomit everything in their system. Finally begin to hold yourself upright, too. Tell your therapist about this. Kiss your mother goodnight for the first time in months.
Grow up. Write better poems. Start with breakfast and work your way to dinner. Pay attention. Scroll through the Internet blog “Lesbians Who Look Like Justin Bieber” every time you’re upset and be certain you do not belong there. Be happy about this.
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