You know her. She’s a waifish ballerina like the one in Black Swan with collarbones sharp enough to julienne a carrot. She pushes peas around a plate, faints in rehearsal, and stares into the bathroom mirror with haunted eyes before a swelling orchestral score reminds us that she’s very, very sick. Then, 90 minutes later, she eats half a sandwich, cries in therapy, hugs her mother, and the credits roll.
The problem isn’t that these stories exist. It’s that they’ve become the story. The only story.
