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             My nerves mount as I near the end of the line. I check my reflection in the shining white tiles beneath my feet; if I want to fit the mold, then I must look my best. As the line shuffles forward, images of loved ones jump into my head, all of whom were too fat, skinny, short, or tall; the ones who didn’t fit. They were all dragged away, never to be seen again.

              Finally, it is my turn. I walk through the door, and I see it.

              A giant steel mold is sitting in a corner, manned by a single grim-faced scientist. I step into the machine wordlessly. The doctor, whose nametag reads, “Dr. S. Ociety”, presses a button, and I feel a pressure on all sides. Finally, the light flashes red, and the pressure releases.

              Panic floods through my body- what does a red light mean? - and two somber adults dressed in long white coats enter the room and take me by my arms and begin to drag me away.

              I must be too short, or too tall, or too fat, because I don’t fit. Dr. S. Ociety says so.

              I don’t fit the mold.


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