I pack my bags , sad my weekend in Tampa is coming to an end .

''I’m sorry for getting so drunk ,'' he says .  '' I wish I could’ve spent more time with you . Next time you come down we should do something fun . Maybe go to Disney .''

''I thought you hated Disney ,'' I say .

''I never said I hate it . I just didn’t enjoy it the only time I’ve been . But I’m sure  I’d have a good time if I was there with you .''

I glance down at my things , trying to hide my nervous laughter I know he can see through . Just because he’s been one of my best friends for years doesn’t change the fact that getting sappy makes me uncomfortable . But I know exactly what he’s talking about . The reason he’d be happy going to Disney is the same reason I’m happy taking care of his drunk ass . Well , I wouldn’t call myself  '' happy ''  while cleaning up puke ,  but I don’t need anything extravagant from him like Disney.

''Do you mean that? ''  I ask .

''Of course I do .''

I smile up at him , imagining standing in front of Cinderella’s castle . It could be home as much as this hotel room is home , although I have to admit a castle does sound a lot better .

I see now . A new world within an old .

Home’s not about the city you were born in , the familiar streets and buildings . Home is wherever you’re loved , as cliché as that is . That’s what these visits are teaching me . It’s what  he’s teaching me .

''Then Disney it is , ''  I say , dragging my suitcase to the door .

''We should get dinner. Fatten you up,'' he says, for once leaving out the nickname he knows I despise.

You’d think after four years he’d eventually stop calling me Twiggy. Or describing me to his friends as ''90 pounds soaking wet with weights in her pockets.'' He likes to ignore the fact that I’ve already broken 100. At least he hasn’t threatened to put me in a tub of lard recently.

I’m reading Walter Benjamin’s ''The Work of Art in the Mechanical Age of Reproduction'' for class, trying to focus on it so I don’t explode about the weight issue.  Just a few more lines to be sure I won’t say anything I know I shouldn’t. ''The feeling of strangeness that overcomes the actor before the camera, as Pirandello describes it, is basically of the same kind as the estrangement felt before one’s own image in the mirror,'' (Benjamin 230).

http://www.inneraltitude.com/blog/?tag=change-thoughts. Nov. 1, 2013.

''I don’t know why you act like I don’t eat. Food is my favorite thing.''

''Yeah, but you must not be eating the right food. Or enough of it.''

''Can we please not talk about my weight again?'' I want to scream. Sometimes I think he’s concerned for my health; other times, it’s like he knows I’m insecure and just wants to poke fun at me. I regret ever telling him about the time my mom called me anorexic. She seemed to think ''anorexic'' and ''underweight'' were synonymous, completely ignoring the fact that I had eaten two plates of dinner in front of her the night before.

''We’ve been over this a thousand times. It’s my metabolism,'' I say instead.

But what I’m thinking is ''Wouldn’t it be nice to be an animal; not a care in the world; no worries about being ‘the right’ size or having ‘the right’ look .''