
There was a long period of time, almost a year, during which I never looked in a mirror. It wasn’t easy, for I’d never suspected just how omnipresent are our own images.

This is my body. It is MINE. I am not ashamed of it. In fact, I love everything about it. Men find it attractive. Clothes look awesome on it. My brain rides around in it all day and comes up with funny jokes.

The perfectly rounded breass is to L.A. what big hair is to Dallas. Whether saline or silicone, ta-tas put the la-la in Los Angeles.

I remember her picture: somber, willowy, standing on a bathroom scale, her shoulder blades jutting out like wings. I looked at her and felt my whole being compress into a single strand of longing. I wanted that. Anorexia.