I suppose it the 22nd now, since it's 2:09 in the morning..

Anyway, last night (or, technically, the night before) I had a sleep over with a bunch of my girlie friends. It was good. We all massaged each other and listened to music and giggled and did girlie stuff but...

Gawd. I'm normal. Apparently, I am, like, the esscence of normal (except for maybe Chelsea, but from what I've been hearing about other people I thought were normal, I don't know). I am completely emotionally stable. I...I...

Well, I'll put it this way. I just found out that one of my friends (who's got a beeeoootiful curvitious figure, with full cleavage and face and hair to match) is bolemic, but hardly anybody knows. She doesn't throw up after every meal, only after those that are particularly fattening.

I *don't* throw up purposefully after I've eaten two litres of chocolate ice cream by myself. That would...like...ruin the taste of the ice cream! And that's not good. Because ice cream is good. Especially chocolate ice cream...speaking of which...

*drool* Ice cream...

Anyway. On to the next...Secondly, one of my other friends allows her parents to supress her. That's not *terribly* bad but she's scared of them guilt-tripping her, especially her mother. I'd very much like to send them an anonymous letter. But I can't, because the mother will use it to guilt trip my friend.

Third, two of my friends have been going to councelling for years because of sexual assault from their boyfriends. And they were both fifteen at the time (maybe one was fourteen).

Fourth, another of my friend cuts herself across her arms with knives and razorblades. She said the sight of her own blood running down her arm is a stress relief for her.

After all this, my friends turn to me (by this time I'm sitting curled up, eyes wide, silent) and ask me what I do for stress relief. I tell them I play computer. And eat ice cream. And pet my cat. And read a book. And make up delightful witchy spells to make people happy. And write books. And stuff like that.

And they say, "No, no. Do you do anything purposefully destructive to yourself ever?"

And I thought. And thought.

And thought.

And I asked whether plucking stray hairs on my eyebrows and occasionally waxing my legs when I feel like it counted.

They said no, if it wasn't with malicious intent.

And it isn't. Removing access body hair is a stress relief for me, I suppose. Spend a little time on yourself. That's my motto.

And so I though some more.

And more.

And they said there had to be something.

I can't think of anything. Anything! Why would I do something to harm my own body? I suppose getting drunk is bad for me, especially with my one kidney and all. But it's not like I do it regularely at all. Maybe once every four, five, six months or so. I don't like getting really drunk. Then I get too much sleep and I feel weird. So I don't ever get really drunk.

And by this time the rest of my friends are staring, amazed, at me...

Sure, I've thought about purposefully cutting myself but, well, y'know, I've never really had a high tolerance for pain. Especially if I know it's coming. So that idea didn't really appeal.

I thought about trying to make myself skinnier by throwing up. But I don't like the feeling or the taste of bile in my throat. Ruins a perfectly good meal, I say. That idea didn't take.

I thought about taking up smoking but...well...that's just plain stupid. I have nothing against people who smoke, and I'll kiss a person who smokes (I don't mind the taste from them all that much), but I'd rather not do it myself.

I could become a raging alacaholic because I hate myself. But I don't. And I can't, because otherwise my kidney will be overworked and fail twenty years earlier than it should.

So I've got no stomach, no reason, no patience to be malicious towards myself...

I feel normal in this strange twisted world. But wouldn't that make me abnormal?

Think about it.

Rosie.

Before&After