If it's one thing I hate about school, it's the girls. We have tall girls, short girls, fat girls, muscular girls, girls with glasses, girls with freakish dark blue contacts, girls with freckles, girls with pimples. We have girls of every kind, as if the whorehouse down the street turned into a school. Give us your money and take your pick. Those perves don't pick any others. Just those size zero, pin-thin girls. These are the skinny girls. I used to be a skinny girl weighing 110 pounds. My jeans read SIZE THREE. My shirts were a size small, but they still hung off of me. The first day of school, I catwalked down the hallway. My thick, brown hair cascaded down to the small of my back. My pink and black converse were spotless and my cotton candy blue nails were flawless. I wasn't the prettiest thang, but people liked me anyway because I was the SKINNY ONE. This was before I was forced to swallow prednisone to fix my screwed up liver. I gained 24 pounds. My skinny title ws ripped away from my paws instantly. I decided to join basketball, hoping the weight would just fall off my ass. Nope. Instead, a thick wall of muscle now protected my blubber. My jeans stretched tightly over my troll-like legs as my shirts strained over my muffin top. My whole world fell apart. I stopped caring about my appearance. My nails chipped and my converse looked like a lawn mower decided to eat them. Even my hair turned stringy. Having no choice, I turned to my super-sharp scissors and beloved metal music. My main two words were "Fuck" and "You." I didn't say much else since everyone was a little terrified of me. I was a raging female pitbull ready to rip someone's throat out at any moment. I wasn't the skinny girl; I was now the fat girl. Things have been looking up since then. I cut my hair, got contacts, and even lost ten pounds. Hoorah. But, I was not skinny. I was not fat. If you're not skinny, you're fat. And, at this exact moment in time, I couldn't have felt more fat staring at my group of freinds during lunch. Of course, it was always Haily to speak up. "Amber, you just eat it. You're not fat." Meet Haily. Skinny. ADHD. Size 1. CW:112. Eats two skittles max. Damn her. I stared at the evil corndog infront of me. "Seriously, Amber," Marissa agreed, chomping down on a Reece's cup. "Usually I don't go along with Haily 'cause she's a retard, but, you have lost a bunch of weight." Marissa's pretty much the oppisite of Haily. Loud, perverted, obnoxious, and obviously fat. Meet the rest of the gang: Diana, ballet dancer, size 7, doesn't talk much; Kylie, slut, skinny. Hate that bitch; Ciara, likes to eat, quiet, loveable. Lasty but not leasty, there's Rachel. Annoying. Size ten. Annoyng. When Raging Female Pitbull Amber is unleashed, she'll be the puny yorkie whom I kill. Muah ha ha ha ha. I exhaled and picked at a tator tot with a neon orange nail. "I dunno," I started. "My...dad...is taking me to...McDonalds." WHAT?? My dad would NEVER take me to McDonalds. Somehow, they bought it. "I uh, don't want to spoil my appetite," I continued. Marissa scowled. Diana stared off with her huge brown deer-eyes. Everyone else continued to eat their slop and stare at me. It was pretty obvious everybody knew that I had barely eaten anything that morning. This was always the worst part. "I have to go to the bathroom, " I mumbled and stood up. The cafeteria swallowed me. I went to the trashcans. Threw it away. I meant to walk to the facility. Try to get rid of the poptart I had devoured that day. Dammit. Damn my appetite. I didn't need it. I could have skipped. I could have lied. "Yes, mom. I have eaten breakfast. And, I've also took my meds...trust me. I did." I failed. One less pound lost. One more day until get skinnier. Dammit. Dammit. Shit. Fuck. It's a problem. No, this is the way to be. To get skinnier. No one cares. Not my parents. Not the school counselor. Not Haily. Nobody really cares. Or understands. Not until I am deathly skinny. Only I know that I deserve a first-class all exspense paid trip to the... ...library? Yep. I was in the fucking school library. All of the cafeteria sounds dissapeared. Obnoxious freshman laughing with their friends was replaced by the hum of flickering computer moniters. Trays and trays of evil food were now rows and rows of speechless books. It was actually kind of nice. I hadn't had that much time alone to my self for a while. The only other person here was a nerdy little Jesse Hardway browsing through the sci-fi section. Faster than I could even think about joining my freinds back at the lunchroom, Mrs. Murdoff, the librarian, whipped out of her teeny office. "Amber, what on EARTH are you doing here?" she asked. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH BEING IN A LIBRARY?? SHE SHOULD BE HAPPY A STUDNT EVEN DECIDED TO ENTER YOUR GALORE OF DUMBASS POINTLESS SHIT!!! NOW LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE, YOU CRUSTY OLD FIRECROTCH!!! This is what Raging Female Pitbull Amber wanted to say. In reality, I just stood there, gruddy converse glued to the multi-colored carpet. My eyes were opened so wide, I could feel my contacts drying up. Mrs. Murdoff tapped her foot. "Lunch. It's lunchtime. You're supposed to be in the cafeteria." She narrowed her squinty green eyes. "Eating lunch." No shit, you crusty old firecrotch. "I know," my voice shook. "I do have permission to be here." "By whom?" "Mr. Lewis." To do what?" "To return a book." I glanced at my left hand, only to find that no book. Crusty Old Firecrotch raised her tatooed-eyebrows. "I'm assuming you already turned it into the bin." I nodded. That sounded okay. I slowly turned towards the complicated book-return system of a white laundry basket. Please have it be filled with books. Empty. Damn. I slowly lifted one converse lowtop and placed it towards a bookcase. Followed by the next. And the next. After what seemed like hours, I was infront of the magazine section. "Guess I'll just check out something. My old book must be in my locker." I smiled my best perfect-student smile as I lied through my teeth. I don't even have a book checked out. I'm reading New Moon. Mrs. Murdoff stomped off to go help Jesse. I picked up a random issue of Seventeen. It was so old, a thick layer of clear scotch tape was the only thing between the magazine and the paper shredder. 100 NEW LOOKS TO TRY! FASHIONS UNDER $70! ARE YOU BEING STALKED??? GET RICH IN UNDER AN HOUR! FEEL BETTER ABOUT YOURSELF INSTANTLY! As if. | 
