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1:15 p.m.

Lana feelsThe current mood of xengirl at www.imood.com

I. hate. physicals. I absolutely positively detest them. I have a really nice doctor. A family practitioner lady, who treats me like an adult or at least somebody most of the way there, and who is just generally very cool. She wears too much mascara, but that's neither here, there, nor anywhere relevant. So yes. Cool lady doctor, who tries very hard to make me feel comfortable. But even without my mother standing there looking disapproving and poking her nose into everything, I'm still terrified of them. There's just something about sitting on a paper-covered table wearing a paper dress that's shorter than anything I would ever wear in real life and that doesn't even close properly behind me that makes me very, very nervous. Then there's the actual exam. Now, to start with, I don't like being touched, and especially not by strangers. So all this poking and prodding doesn't help my state of mind. To the point where she looked worried because my heartbeat was going so fast. Then we come to the inevitable sexual activity question. I never know what to say. Well, that's not quite true. I know what I should say. I should say "Yes" but I never do. This time I meant to ask her what defined being sexually active. Because I've had intercourse. Just, not since last february. So technically, while I have been active, I'm not. But then, I've done all sorts of interesting things since then with a certain girl. That stopped in December this year. Then just a week or so ago, there was one extremely enjoyable afternoon with Adam. But just the one, and no actual intercourse involved. So I just shook my head and hoped the gods that govern doctor-patient relationships wouldn't smite me. To the best of my knowledge, they have not done so, so I'm good. So she gave me the whole rigamarole about how I'll need to start having gyno exams when I do become sexually active or turn 18, whichever comes first, and if I need to talk about sex or relationships or need birth control or whatever I can call her even from Locorado and to stay active and eat healthy and have fun. To which I nodded, though I will never call her, and she patted me on the head and left. I put my clothes back on with much relief to be out of that paper gown and I left. Went to starbucks, got a large double-shot espresso thingy to calm my nerves (yes, I'm a coffee addict, leave me be) and went home. The good news from said physical? I'm not in any mortal danger that can be determined by poking me, prodding me, or shining bright lights in my eyes, down my throat, or in my ears. And I've lost weight, which is always a good thing. Not as much as I might like, but some, over a year in which most of my school friends gained it, so this is good. The bad news? They've stopped measuring me. You know how every time you get a physical when you're a kid they measure you to see how much you've grown? They've stopped. I mean, I know I've stopped growing. I'm completely and totally aware of this saddening fact. I will be 5' tall for the rest of my life. Or 5'1" if you ask Lila. It's just kind of symbolic that they think so too. "I'm a grown-up now," she says in her best little kid voice. I can have all the sex I want and she won't tell my mother, but I don't get to grow anymore. I don't want to think about this anymore.

Ooh! Everybody look at my new layout. It's pitry. Thanks to the Bri. Isn't she cool? Sign my guestbook. And that's all.

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