she looks down at herself, at her lovely body through the filter of her own mind, and sneers in disgust. she wants to break down and wallow in her own self-pity, mourning all her flaws; they stand out in such sharp relief. 'let's start at the bottom and work our way up,' she tells herself.

fat feet. ew.

dry, skinny calves. ew.

thunderous thighs, pink stretch marks turning neon to her. ew.

wide, fleshy hips. ew.

the layers of fat on her stomach. ew.

skinny, gangly arms. ew.

manly shoulders. ew.

scarred face, spotted with blemishes. ew.

so much that is wrong with her; she feels almost deformed. and she has just returned from the doctor, so she knows there is more wrong with her. she has the gene "HLA B-27," or whatever. 10% of the population has it. it may be active in her and causing arthritic issues. 1% of the population has this.

why is she so abnormal?

she looks at the purple tree on the back of her hand. its branches creep outward, like the tendrils of her depression. she was doing just fine. great, in fact. then something happened. what? she doesn't know. and suddenly, she hasn't though a single postive thing about herself in months. why? she doesn't know.