My life is measured in calories, grams of sugar, pounds of fat. I poke my arms, grab my thighs and stomach, trying to find less of me than yesterday. I count the times I step onto the scale, do the math down to the decimal point, hate myself for gaining, hate myself for losing. I want to see hip bones, collar bones, every bone jutting out of my body. I want to be tiny and breakable, like a little procealin doll, pale and painted and perfect. I want the number on that electronic screen to drop to double digits, so there's nothing blocking the view of my feet on the scale.