Since Christmas break pretty much starts tomorrow, I should be able to update this story much more often. About time too.

America waited patiently at the conference table as he watched the other nations socialize among themselves. It was quite a bore for the American, but he knew there was no way he could bring his comrades together to start the meeting any time soon. He didn't even understand why the other nations had insisted on hosting a meeting when there was clearly nothing to discuss. America scowled at the inconvenience, It's probably just for the sake of satisfying our boss's. I just know that this meeting's going to be nothing more than a blow off.

There was once a time when the America preferred pointless meetings much more than the dull, serious ones. That was the past, and with the new expectations America had set for himself, he made it essential to remain earnest at all times, and during any possible situation thrown at him. Unless of course, there was that one emergency situation when a fake smile was required. That was the only exception. Otherwise, it would always be work before fun, and America always managed to find work. Fun, humor, excitement. I never needed any of those things. America mentally scoffed, The very idea of wasting time.

America turned his head to glance at something else other than nations enjoying themselves. Then, something caught his eyes. There, lined up neatly on a tray were a bunch of macaroons. They were the greatest, most bodacious pastries America had ever laid his eyes on in quite a while. He began to feel his mouth water, just staring upon their near irresistible beauty. The only thing America had eaten that morning was a muffin, and it had been nearly three hours since he ingested any food. America inaudibly groaned with annoyance, How come everyone felt the need to bring food to the meeting? Now of all times when I'm on this diet. It's just so unfair. I just wish this food wasn't up for grabs.

Eventually, the temptation became too much for America to handle. Mindlessly, he began to reach for a macaroon. However, the moment his hand was approximately one inch away from the pastries, he immediately backed off. If compunction could be personified, America knew that it would've punched him right then and there, but it didn't need to physically beat him to make him feel as terrible as he already felt. Turning away from the macaroons, America curled up in his seat. No longer did he feel comfortable in his own skin. He cringed as he felt non existent eyes pierce into him, and it didn't take too long before he ended up in a fetal position on his chair.

America snapped out of his nervous breakdown when he felt someone lightly shake his shoulder. Flinching, America saw the one face he dreaded the most, France. He failed to see the concern in the nation's face, but it was still present as the older nation inquired, "What's wrong Amérique? Aren't you hungry, at all?"

"No." America shook his head violently, the very thought of food was beginning to make him queasy. France examined America before finally stating, "You're acting so weird today. At first you looked as if you wanted to eat all of those macaroons, but then you retreated from them as if they had caught on fire. Now you're cradling yourself as if you'd just been traumatized, and you've refrained from speaking to anyone. Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm fine, I really am." America mumbled, suddenly finding an interest in the floor, "I'm just feeling a little sick in the stomach, that's all."

"You do look a little pale today," France seemed to agree for a moment, but then countered, "However, that doesn't explain the fact that you looked rather hungry for a moment, or why you had a break down."

Ugh, why does this pervert suddenly have such an interest in me? Shouldn't he be warning me about my constant weight gain? America glared at France, the icy blue color only making them more piercing as he retorted, "Come on, my 'break down' couldn't have been that bad."

"You were almost hyperventilating mon cher, and there's no doubt you were panicked." France sat down next to America, and wrapped an arm around him in an attempt to be comforting, "Please tell me what wrong."

America pushed the other nation off, and snapped, "Why do you care so much? It's not like you've never mocked my culture, or my appearance!"

Shocked, France tried to explain, "Amérique-"

America stood up quivering with rage, "No France, I don't want to hear it! Aside from Russia, you're the last nation I ever want to see! Don't speak to me ever again!"

With that said, America stormed off. France continued to stare at the door the younger nation slammed during his fit when he walked out of the room. That had been the second time a nation had told him to never speak to them again, and it hadn't even been three months. France snapped back into reality when he heard Poland say, "Like oh my god, he needs to loosen up. I mean, how often do we have a meeting without Germany? Pfft, like almost never."

France glared at the Pole, "I think you misunderstand the situation. Why don't you go hang out with someone else?"

"Uh, rude." Poland crossed his arms, clearly offended, "You're like being so stuck up now, and a moment ago you were actually having fun. Like what the-"

France waved his hands as if he was trying to rid of a pest, "Partir. Go. Leave."

"Whatever." Poland said before turning away from France.

Meanwhile, America had locked himself in the bathroom. He just needed some time to himself. Of course, the time was intended to help him settle down, but he just couldn't help looking in the mirror. A habit that didn't help lighten the mood at all. The first thing he thought when he saw himself in the mirror was, Am I really that pale? Upon studying his appearance further, he decided, My body's just overreacting. twenty pounds in two months isn't going to kill anyone.

Then America looked down at his stomach. When he poked it, he felt a thin layer of squishy fat. The same went for his arms, legs, and cheeks. Then frustrated tears threatened escape his eyes It's never good enough, is it?

Retrieving a knife from one of the pockets of his bomber jacket. It wasn't easy for the nation to smuggle, but he thought the hassle was worth it. After drawing a few red lines with the knife into his arms, America glanced down at his stomach, and whispered, "Should I? Or should I not?"

Then the American began to giggle as he cut a huge FAT into the skin on his stomach. Eventually, his laughter became so intense to the point where he dropped his knife, and slid against the wall until he was on the floor. Tears finally splashed from his eyes, but they didn't come from his laughter. Instead, they came from the endless void of pain that always seemed to torment America's spirit. During, his fit of laughter, he managed to say aloud, "What's wrong with me!? What have I become!? Why is it so painful, yet so funny!?"

Once America was finally over his laughter, he picked up his knife, and began stroking it. All while smiling gleefully, "Oh my precious knife, you never fail to make me feel better."