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September 9, 2007
My best good friend had idiopathic thrombocytic purpura, and got her spleen taken out through her bellybutton, but not after blowing up from a strenuous round of steroids. She was always puffy in those days, and the demons from my envious childhood roared their heads. I had reoccurring visions of her snap, crackling, and popping in a bowl of milk. The taut, cheerleading midriff had morphed into a muffin-top, and her skin was slicked with a thin film of what I likened to PAM no-stick cooking spray; just some of my observations as we conversed over her breakfast hospital tray.