I looked into the cold, harsh, reflective surface. The mirror. All I see are the things I hate. I can't pick a single thing I like. That's bad, isn't it? I look at my half naked form. Disgusted by the sight. My hair, it's limp, lifeless and too long, you can see the lighter coloured roots where I've dyed it. My stomach, I look like I'm five months pregnant, my stomach hangs out, its supposed to be flat. My thighs, they touch, some days I'm disgusted by the feeling of them rubbing together. My face is too round, my skin is a different tone to the rest of my body and ugly red blemished swarm my chin and forehead... My eyes, too small. My nose, too big. My lips, dry. You name it, I'll think of something wrong with it. Myself never has been and never will be enough for me. I'm sick of being me. I wish I was anyone, but me.