I waited at the counter, reciting my standard order: 16 oz. Chunky Strawberry with no peanut butter. The girl looks back at me with pity in her eyes; oblivious to the job she is being paid to do. She interrupts to ask if I "had a good day." I pause, caught off guard. I meet her gaze for a brief moment; lying is futile, and so instead I just simply shrug. She recognizes the weight trapped in our silence, and quietly completes my order. I retreat to the washroom for solace. My hands don't needs cleansing anymore than my stomach requires a $5 smoothie. However, it gives me an easy escape from the awkward moment that is my life. Under the harsh florescent lighting I am faced with reality. My hair is untamed; curls left to frizz and fester after a day spent in bed. Dark circles rim my eyes, swollen and bloodshot after endless nights of sleep induced nightmares. Blotchy streaks tear down my cheeks; the minimal make-up I had attempted ruined, after the requisite tears had fallen, once again. Poorly fitted clothing hangs from my emaciated body, a byproduct of recent weight loss. There I stood, tan and tattooed; a hollow shell of a girl that once was.
