I'm obese. My mother has told me I have gained weight, and I am tired of arguing. I am too tired to change. Rings of fat rim my stomach like thickened hula hoops on a stick. My legs are chopstick-like, with a tree-trunk thick base, my feet are large and veiny. My knees are knobbly, I have seven unevenly shaped freckles spread across my right arm. My left breast is far larger than my right, and I feel unbalanced. My face is long yet round, my neck too long to make me look normal. Car tire rings of fat circle my neck as well. They're choking me, I don't want to breathe. My mind feel broken. I am adolescent, I am sixteen, I do not know what I am. I am lost, I am finding me, I am looking in the darkest corners of my room, I am finding the elusive Rachel. The Rachel who is confident and self-assured, who is sixteen and knows it and acts it, the Rachel who is smart without being spastically stressed at the slightest mention of work. The Rachel who does not look for excuses. Rachel is not depressed, Rachel does not suffer from personality disorders. Rachel is a wannabe, a hack, pathetic, small. Rachel feels gay and wants to tell the world.

Rachel is lost. Who is Rachel? Rachel can't be her name; it belongs to someone beautiful, tall, sociable. She is short and ugly and perpetually moody. Rachel does not want to die. She does not want to die; she is scared. She hates it. She doesn't want to be scared. She can't find the purpose to her life. She can't find meaning; every day is the same, a rewind and repeat spiralling down and down until the VCR is broken. She can't find the magic, she doesn't believe. She used to believe. She wants magic. She's searching and cannot find it. She wants the imagination; she wants her fake utopia. Incense burns in her face and she chokes on the smoke. She feels dizzy. She thinks she'll sleep.

She wants to write a story.