I want to cry. Sitting in this stall, I feel like that new student who eats away their fears in the bathroom. The room smells of rotting fish or recently hurled leftovers of a pink meat patty. An overly self conscious bulimic or just bad processed mush, we will never know. I need to get away. I need to not exist any more. But most of all, I need to not cry right now, everyone will see. Can anyone hear me?

Girls enter the room sounding like a pack of hyenas, with heir high-pitched laughs that pierce my ears and leave a ringing echo. They stick their artificial faces up to the mirror and add yet another clumpy layer of mascara to their fake eyelashes. They are the queens of the school, powdering their cheeks of red and adjusting their push-up bras.

I can't breath. Looking down, my hands are swimming like a pair of fish in my water-logged vision. Not now. Why now? Blurry, blurry, choking, choking, don't cry, don't cry. Can they hear me?

The material girl don't leave until the completion of their ritual: "I look fat." "No you don't" "My hair is ugly" "I think it looks cute." I hear the shuffling of new shoes on the gum spattered floor, and then a heavy groan of an opening door. Light peeks in the bathroom, bringing sounds of the outside world- it's a shock from my damp, dark, den. I hear the howling of the natives. They're adapted to the environment, needing unreal destructive abilities and a strong stomach for complete bullshit to survive. The medal door swings shut, and along with it, the sounds of hell that it is protecting me from.

Then it starts. The up-heaving of sharp breaths and a downfall of tears. They glisten on my cheek like shinny gems on the bottom of a fresh stream. I taste the salty essence on the corner of my quivering lip. Stop. Just stop. I'm falling, falling, falling down the rabbit whole and I can't stop this on-going spiral into insanity. Now my face tingles with fire. There are ten thousand heart beats pounding inside my head. Boom, boom goes the throbbing pain. Knees buckle; I spin. Gaining my balance, I sheepishly open my cell door with a creek. The absence of humanity welcomes me from my consignment. I blankly stare into a broken mirror. The shameful evidence of my breakdown is written all over my face. People will notice. I splash and splash away the redness of my skin, rub my eyes, and open them wide. Will they be able to tell? No. Better, much better. Here comes the moment of truth; Get ready. I grab onto the scuffed door handle for dear life. There's flash of glaring light that burns my raw eyes. Heat from the angry sun raps around me like an electric blanket. I look around- the natives don't attack. If they look at me, just smile. No one knows I just cried myself sick. They're too busy worshipping their gods: Ken and Barbie. Yes, them and their fake, plastic laughs. I don't belong. I don't belong here.