Tell me about your body.

You can tell me what you love/hate about it. You can tell me your best/worst feature. You can tell me what you would/wouldn't change. You can tell about the insides/outsides. You can tell me about a scar you earned, or an operation, about your first kiss (and how it felt on your lips) about your first time. You can tell me what it feels like to be inside you. You can tell me whatever.

My stomach is named Billy Bob, and �he� has been �affectionately� named that for the past two years at least. He�s round and jiggly and just hangs around. I hate him so much. He�s been my �friend� ever since I was in kindergarten, even before. �Tis such a lovely thought on being fat that long. He�s not the only thing I hate about my body.

If you were to ask me �Norm, what do you love about your body?�, I would tell you nothing. But I�m mostly self-critical like that. You get used to it after a while. After a while, everything just becomes numb and not worth a damn. By now, I could even care less about my boobs. It wasn�t until my sophomore year of high school when I finally discovered my boobs weren�t the same size. My left one�s bigger than my right. It�s kind of strange, but nothing I really care about any longer. I figure, �who in the hell would care, anyway? I sure in the hell don�t.�

But then again, I don�t really care about anything any longer. My body is my body, and that�s just about all it is. I�ve got a few scars, though they�re barely noticeable. For example, take the small, tiny scar just above my lip and below the center of my nose. My brother gave it to me when I was four. He threw a toy down the stairs at me and nailed me right there. And one just cannot forget the mental scars. They are the scars of a life without much happiness at all. And how can I mention scars without making note about the one on the outside of my right thumb? There�s a nice little story behind that one, and it�s virtually short. When I was born, I had six fingers on my right hand. Yes, two thumbs. One was attached to the other. I lived with it for about a year or so of my life, but according to my mom, I kept trying to bang it off on things. So, needless to say, I had surgery to remove it. Of course, I still have baby pictures of me with my two thumbs. I rather like them.

But often, I cry. My body is my own worst enemy and Billy Bob is the leader. Not once have I ever been told I looked �nice�, or that I was pretty. More often than not it�s taunts of �nice tent you�re wearing�, �hey fatso�, �I didn�t think that chair could support that much weight� and other such lovely things. It just never stops. My body is my prison, my own undoing. It is something that holds me back and binds me to an existence that makes me miserable.

I�ll tell you this. To be in my body would mean to stand approximately 5�6� tall, but carry around a burden of 291 lbs. Yes, I divulged my weight to anyone/everyone who�ll read this. But I couldn�t care less any more. Of my 291 lbs, most of it is centered on my stomach. The huge �spare tire� that is forever in my way, the object of 99.9% of my hatred towards my body.

But what do I like? I like my feet. But, especially, I like my little toe. It�s not in proportion with the rest of my toes. It�s just this little thing there on the end of my foot. I think it�s rather cute with it�s teeny tiny toenail and all, but sometimes it�s a bitch to try to put nail polish on without nailing my skin. But that�s only a small price to pay. Then there are my blue eyes. I rather like them as well. Perhaps you could even consider them �new� eyes, seeing I can now see through them without needing a pair of glasses. I like to consider it a trade in so to say, or perhaps even an upgrade.

The naturally curly blonde hair that sits upon my head is my pride. I love my hair and it�s natural curl. Then there are those things known as my hands and wrists. I have no qualms with my hands and wrists. Sure, they�re not small and I wear a size nine ring and usually can�t wear a ladies� watch without it being tight, but I like my hands and wrists. They�re strong and steady. Good for lending a helping hand or being the reassuring pressure upon a shoulder of someone who�s sad.

There are many things I would love to change, my weight being the number one thing of all. What I wouldn�t give to be able to leave Billy Bob and the pain he has brought to me behind. What I wouldn�t give to be able to wear even a size 18 again. The last time I wore a size 18, I was in eighth grade. One can only imagine such freedom that would give me from my current size 28. Oh the choices I would have. Oh the freedom, the happiness, the joy.

But what would it be like to be inside of me, overall? Imagine a profound sadness, a deep, lingering sense of pain. Through the eyes the world just seems to be one black and white movie, moving along without you. The body is just a shell, a prison if you will. Much like the work camps of Nazi Germany. You wonder why you�re being brought there, why you�re forced to stay there, and most of all, you wonder what you have ever done. You wonder what you have ever done to deserve this, you wonder why it�s you. But there are no answers. All you can do is simply grin and bear it and hope that the next day will be better than the last. But you know it won�t be. It just never seems to get any better. It just never seems to end.

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.