Tonight I had my bi-annual mental breakdown. Michelle found me in the fetal position on my bedroom floor. Emerald tears stained my pink cheeks.
"I'm dying." I didn't know how I felt. I really didn't.
Michelle sat beside me and held my hand. She said, baby, baby. I gazed at where the blue sky wall met the shadows of my ceiling.
"Do you want to go to Cook Out to get a milkshake?" She asked me.
"I can't. I'm too fat!" I climaxed into another fit of tears.
"Are you laughing or crying?" Michelle asked, giggling.
"My dad thinks I'm fat." I sobbed.
After another fifteen minutes of rolling around on the floor, we snatched Hannah from her bedroom and drove to Cook Out. I couldn't finish the milkshake, but I ate the cheese fries. I am still unable to accept the snow, so I wore boxer shorts and Uggs with striped knee-high socks.
And then I was okay.
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