I know technically I’m not fat. I’m not even overweight. I’m probably just right, in fact. I know that technically. Doesn’t stop me from thinking it.

I don’t blame media. I don’t hate pretty girls. When I look at photos of models, I don’t think “they’re so plastic, and fake, and they probably don’t eat ever.” I just like looking at their long lines. And their bones. I love bones. One of my habits is rubbing my wrists and collarbones. I think they’re so beautiful.

But even though I’m somewhat thin, I’m not that thin, and even though I’m probably a good weight, I doesn’t stop me from wanting to be that thin.

I don’t throw up. I don’t just not eat – I mean, I go through phases of eating as little as possible. But I’m pretty sure I don’t have an eating disorder. But goddamn. Sometimes I just stare at myself in the mirror so I can critique my flabby stomach and generous ass.

The first time I ever got naked with my boyfriend I cried, even though we were in the dark and couldn’t see a goddamned thing. I know he thinks I’m beautiful. He tells me. And I know I’m not ugly. But it doesn’t stop me from criticizing myself. And it doesn’t stop me from wanting those bones.