"If you don't eat meat you are going to die."
I stare down at my plate and begin to cry. I'm going to die. That's all there is to it. I'm going to die.
"Go to your room."
I sit on the floor of my room, crying, making my barbies cheat on each other (my family let me watch far too many sitcoms).
Hours and hours and hours pass. (okay, maybe only like 15 minutes.) My mom opens the door.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing," I say, pushing my barbies underneath the bed quickly.
"Are you going to come finish your dinner?"
"No," I'm going to die. "Can I have ice cream now?"
"No!" She yells, telling me to keep thinking about finishing my food.
15 minutes pass and there's a bowl of ice cream in front of me.
Years Later.
"I'll be surprised if you even live to be 16."
They laugh around the table and I sink down in to my chair.
I'm going to die.
No. I'm not going to die. I refuse to die. I don't care if I eat like crap. I want to live.
Just till I'm 16. I need to prove them wrong.
I can keep myself alive that long, right?
Right?
Thus, beginning a whole series of memories that involve eating.
I know, without fail, every time I read one of your posts, that I am going to be gaining insight to you as a person. You're great at the whole "between the lines" thing whether you mean to do it or not. I feel like this one, believe it or not, provided more insight to you than almost anything else I've read of yours. And it made me smile.:)
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