To avoid reproach, I learned how to pose as a Good Girl, but even that persona couldn’t completely shield me. It seemed that, for girls, there was no such thing as “good” enough.

And those women were sneaky. They understood that including fantastical elements in their tales- golden eggs, signing harps, talking frogs- worked to mask a deeper purpose... it made the stories look on the surface like ‘a mere bubble of nonsense’ within which it was possible to ‘utter harsh truths, to say what you dare’ about the state of women’s lives. Because they were just stories, right? Harmless little fantasies?

Once there was a girl who longed to be brave enough to stick her finger down her throat, to measure herself by the teaspoon, to shrink to the size of a serving. Once.

The Anorexic Eats a Salad Mountains rise, fall, rise again. Stars complete their slow trek into oblivion. A snail tours the length of China’s Great Wall twice. All those pesky cancers – cured. Somewhere in Lower Manhattan, a barista finally smiles. Roundworms evolve into ovals. Flatworms get chesty. Molasses, a tortoise, and sedimentation run the fifty-yard dash. Results pending. Temps plunge in hell. The devil waxes his skis. She has almost made it through her first bite.

But here’s a great thing about stories: they can be retold.

If you find the dividing line between fairy tales and reality, let me know. In my mind, the two run together, even though the intersections aren’t always obvious. The girl sitting quietly in class or waiting for the bus or roaming the mall doesn’t want anyone to know, or doesn’t know how to tell anyone, that she is locked in a tower. Maybe she’s a prisoner of a story she’s heard all her life- that fairest means best, or that bruises prove she is worthy of love.

But here's a great thing about stories: they can be retold.

You can lose your way anywhere.

If you find the dividing line between fairy tales and reality, let me know. In my mind, the two run together, even though the intersections aren't always obvious. The girl sitting quietly in class or waiting for the bus or roaming the mall doesn't want anyone to know, or doesn't know how to tell anyone, that she is locked in a tower. Maybe she's a prisoner of a story she's heard all her life- that fairest means best, or that bruises prove she is worthy of love.

How stupid that all I have to dois grow two squishy lumps and suddenlyI'm man's best friend