When my PCP first sent me to the hospital for abdominal X-rays four years ago, the radiologist wanted to know what kinds of symptoms I’d been experiencing. “I don’t have an appetite,” I told her. “I wish I had that problem,” she responded.
I took to writing stories about vengeance, about stabbing my friends with whatever was near to hand; pencils in the classroom, sporks in the cafeteria, a ruler in the hallway while classes were changing. I walked around with vivid images in my head of tearing those girls' faces off.