Jenny
"Are those skins on those almonds? Fix it now, or else you'll all be dressing as the Real Housewives of New Jersey for Halloween," I barked.
Could the new Mean Girls really be so insipid as to bring me almonds with skin on them? Can they even comprehend how many grams of fat are in each serving? They can't even count that high, probably. I'll have to teach them a thing or two. After all, Carmen and Celeste both say they're a size two, although I saw the tags on Carmen's dress, and - let's face it - she's a size four. I don't know which she has fewer of, brain cells or diet pills.
I sat on my bed, legs bare. The stark contrast between the midnight blue silk of my sheets and the paleness of my legs only exaggerated every inch of my thighs. I traced the outline of my thigh with one finger, feeling myself curve outward from my knee to my hip. Under the ray of bright daylight streaming in from the window, every lump, every imperfection was illuminated.
Utter disgust. Nothing else could possibly describe the feeling of inches of fat dripping off each thigh, rolls of stomach fat pinched between each finger, jiggling limbs. Fighting back a wave of hunger, I sat up and strode to my closet. I needed to erase my shaky insecurities, the stinging pain at every negative comment, the rolling nausea at the thought of exactly how many pounds clung to my bones. Time for the mask to come back on.
I slid open my closet door. Pops of neon pink tulle and preppy plaid caught my eye. I pushed them aside. That section of the closet represented the old me. Little J. I was so done with that. Now, I was the one dictating who sat where on the steps of the Met. I was queen. Little J was gone now.
Who would I morph into now, if Little J was done for? I wasn't sure. I needed to be queen; commanding, in charge, composed. I needed to be a bitch. I needed to be thin.