He told me that size didn’t matter. He said that your appearance had no affect on how you act or who you are. For a while I believed it and I was fine. I had no care in the world about my looks, whatever. But it’s so hard when you’re surrounded by people who can eat and do whatever they want and still look good. Then I do those things and it’s just not okay because of the size of my thighs. When everyone around me won’t talk to me because there is someone cuter, someone thinner. Someone better. And so food begins to repulse me. I stay away. I rid myself of every calorie because I want to be cuter and thinner. Better. And so the razor becomes very appealing. But it’s not like scars every made anyone better looking. Just dangerous to the people around me. At least that’s what they say. And so I make wishes on shooting stars to erase the day I was born, but it seems as if I’ve been mistaken because I am still here. So I take hold of that gun as my fingers brush the trigger and quickly yank it back. Society forced me to die for beauty and now I’m even uglier.