In the office, a loud voice yells at me rudely, "Hey! Fatty! Hurry up and get us some coffee! Remember, we want two Americanos and two lattes. Don't spill them or I'll give you a taste of my fist!" It's my co-worker, Philip.

Do you think I'll fight back?

No, I don't. I'm used to it.

I'm used to being bossed around and bullied. Ever since I hit puberty, abuse has followed me with unwavering persistence.

I'm a 23-year-old newcomer in the workforce who just graduated two years ago.

I remember the day I graduated from college like it was yesterday. The sun was blinding and the wind was strong, but it couldn't stop me from being happy. Yes, I was very happy that day, because I thought that I was finally escaping from the horror that was school. I thought I would no longer have to endure the scowls and verbal abuse. Never again would I be trapped in the toilets and beaten up.

Oh, was I wrong. I'm working now, but I still suffer from abuse and bullying, just as I did in school. All because of my ugly appearance.

Yes, in the traditional sense, I am an ugly woman.

I have a fat, round body like a balloon. My eyes are big, colored light blue like ice crystals. They don't look at all like those of my parents'. Their eyes are green, as are my younger brother's. I think this is the reason why they don't like me.

I love my button nose, my pink lips, and my snowy white skin. If only my face wasn't covered in these d*mn, virus-like red pimples, I'd be a beauty!

These pimples have ruined me! They have ruined my entire life!

My face looks like the pitted surface of the moon. Everyone who sees me can't help but look disgusted.

I'm pretty sure I didn't have these pimples as a kid. Things changed when I was fourteen.

I entered puberty that year, and countless pimples began to pop up on my beautiful face, like a heat rash. They ruined my beauty. The girls who used to be jealous of me began to make fun of me, they ganged up against me and bullied me. The boys who once said they liked me started to avoid me and made disgusted faces when they saw me.

Their actions hurt me deeply, and I slowly lost confidence. From then on, each day I kept my head down and tried to cover my increasingly ugly face with my long brown curly hair, but to no avail.

There were always nasty girls who would run up to me and deliberately lift my hair. They would follow me around like a pack of vile hyenas, cursing me and making me well-known throughout the school.

As time went on, almost everyone at the school knew of my existence. They gave me a terrible nickname: Moon Girl. When they saw me, they laughed and said, "Here comes Moon Girl! Look at her face, it's even bumpier than the moon! Hahaha!"

Waves of mocking laughter would reach my ears. All I wanted to do was run away! But they wouldn't leave me alone. They'd stop me, grab my hair and rip it from my head, slap me hard, and spit on me.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I resisted at first, but every time I did, the beating would only get worse. I learned to stay silent, because doing so meant that they would soon get bored and leave me be.

Then I learned eating could ease my pain. But that really only made it worse. My otherwise slim waist swelled up like a ball, my butt got fat and my face became flabby...

What could be worse than that?

Well, that's enough about memories. I have to go get coffee now.

I stride into the elevator with my plump thighs and see my face in the mirror.

Okay, I have to admit I've gotten fatter.

Think about it, Meita. At least you're not getting beaten up now, right? I think to myself.

I try my best to smile so that I look somewhat alive, instead of like a walking corpse.

The owner of the coffee shop obviously knows me well, as he smiles in a friendly manner as soon as he sees me. I know he does this with every single one of his customers, of course, but I love seeing his smile because it is one of the few acts of kindness I can experience.

"Hello, ma'am. What would you like to drink?" the owner asks with a smile.

"Two Americanos and three lattes, please. To go," I say as I take out my purse.

Paying for five cups of coffee isn't cheap, but I know my co-workers won't give me the money - they're used to taking advantage of me.

I would love to throw the coffee in every one of their faces if I could, but I can't do that because I need this job. It pays well, well enough to ensure that I can live in this city.