That year was a downhill sleigh ride without bells. The snow was dirty and I didn’t know I was sliding because I was going so slow. Each morning when I opened my eyes the sun broke over me like a raw egg I couldn’t swallow. I spit each day out undigested. Egg yolks covered my dressing table, casting an eerie yellow glow across the room. Walking across eggshells, I forced my blubbery body onto the bathroom scale. I didn’t need to see the numbers—they saw me. Three of them glared up and gave me the Finger. Nowhere for me to go except to the refrigerator-- I knew the way.